#For Why Does My Skin Itch After I Shower It

[sleepymarimo]

toji x reader // sfw!

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 doesn’t remember the last time he was gifted something.

“you got me what?” he asks again, kicking his sandals off at your front door for what seems like the millionth time.

you rise from your couch, the wood creaking slightly as you do so. “just some stuff for you to keep here so you stop using mine,” you reply, the shrug of your shoulders indicating how little of a deal it is.

in the kitchen, you rinse out the glass you’d been using. toji’s footsteps are barely audible over the sound of running water.

“there’s a few pairs of sweats in the hall closet,” you tell him, setting the glass down to dry. “and some other stuff in the bathroom. shampoo, body wash, toothbrush…”

the assassin lets out a small huff, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorway. “you tellin’ me i reek or something?” he accuses, more so to brush off the odd feeling building in his gut.

“maybe.” comes your playful quip, your head tilting as you rest your weight on the counter and look at him. “but seriously, you just come around so often,”- his nose wrinkles at that, as he knows he crashes here much more than he should- “that i figured i’d just get you your own things. it’s not like it cost me an arm and a leg.”

with a yawn you stroll toward your room, lightly poking his chest as you pass him. “plus, you use up all of my stuff, dummy.”

he grunts, his eyes following you until you’re out of sight. “i don’t need fancy clothes or any of that crap,” he murmurs to himself, taking a few steps toward the hall closet.

his large hands wrap around the handles, sliding the doors open until he sees a pile of clothes resting on one of the shelves. three black tees stacked atop three pairs of sweats, some boxers and socks in a little box, all for him.

he picks up a shirt without hesitation, the fabric smooth against his calloused fingers. his brows furrow in concentration, maybe unease. this is for him, it’s his, and maybe that’s why this shirt is the softest one he’s ever felt.

with a gruff exhale, he snatches a pair of sweats and a clean pair of boxers, his steps unhurried as he heads for the bathroom.

the fan hums above him as the lock clicks into place, his eyes immediately darting to the shelves to see the new toiletries. his stuff.

inside the shower, toji’s shoulders sag.

it’s as if the water is washing away his defenses, the rugged, nonchalant exterior he wears now melting away in the comfort of your shower.

toji pops open one of the new shampoo bottles, taking in the scent and pouring it onto his palm. he wonders if this smell reminds you of him, if you put some thought into each item.

while he rubs it into his hair, he thinks about if he should pay you back. it’s not like he asked you to get him all this stuff, but still.

even when you’d first started letting him crash on your couch, you hadn’t demanded much in return.

“just don’t make a big mess and be decent, alright?” he remembers you saying.

and he was just fine with that. free room and board just for something so simple? he’d be a moron to decline.

it was only after around a week that he felt a familiar itch. he wouldn’t be in your debt, wouldn’t wait for the day when you’d inevitably ask for something.

so, he offered what he always did- himself. that’s what women usually wanted from him, anyway.

his idea didn’t exactly go as planned. if anything, it made him feel more conflicted, made him wonder why the hell you kept him around.

were you just lonely? did you enjoy his company?

“oh, no… i don’t do that,” you’d said, holding your hands up, flustered but adamant. “you don’t have to sell yourself to me or anything. who does that? like, what?”

the water patters on the tile floor, his body and mind feeling more clear and clean than they’ve been in a long time.

when the faucet squeaks shut, he steps out and snorts as he sees a new, fluffy black towel hanging beside yours behind the bathroom door. he grabs it, rubbing his scarred skin dry and running it through the damp strands of his hair.

the new clothes feel like heaven, truly.

in your room, engrossed by your phone, you barely hear the sound of the bathroom door opening. toji’s steps are almost silent, his arms crossing over his chest as he watches you beneath the covers.

he’s amused as you snicker at some post, the dim screen lighting up your face in the otherwise dark room.

“let me crash here, yeah?” he suggests, though it’s more of an order.

you’re startled, rightfully so, hiding your phone against your chest while you sit up straighter. “oh, you scared me! new clothes and you think you’re all that, huh? too good for the couch?”

yet, even as you chide him, you’re peeling back the covers for him, grabbing the extra pillows and moving them out of the way.

a satisfied grunt leaves him as he spreads out on the mattress, careless of the space he takes up. he tugs the blankets over his person, settling in like a big cat.

he curls into you. you don’t mind.

while you scroll along with one hand, the other supports his head and absentmindedly strokes the skin of his cheek.

his eyes watch you, his breaths becoming more steady and even. he’d never admit how much it means to him that you’d gotten him new clothes, new toiletries, practically a new home.

it’s more than he deserves, but he finds himself wanting to take as much as he can get.

he’s yours, even if he doesn’t know it. and, as the days go by, he wonders if you can be his, too.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Long Snake Moan 9

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Loki

Summary: your boss gives you a task you’re not prepared for.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤���

It’s a blur. Lust-addled, desire-driven, madness-inducing. You can’t stop yourself from clawing, nipping, licking, and rutting. You’re mindless with the need to stop that plucking. Yet each time you scratch it, the itch gets worse. Until you’re delirious, until there is only a dazed dim all around you. 

You come to slowly. It’s not an awakening. You don’t think you’ve slept. You’re just finally still. 

You smell of sweat and feel grimy. You remember the scald of a shower but little good that did you. You shiver as a coldness seeps into your skin. You touch the icy weight across your stomach and follow the arm up to its owner. Him. Loki. Villain and... 

Your husband? 

You try to push him away. He grumbles and opens his eyes. You nearly scream at the red orbs. He blinks and they clear to green irises and dark pupils. You frown and sputter. 

“What the heck?” 

“Mmm,” he grumbles, “are you not done with me, pet?” 

“No, no more,” you continue to push on his arm. “Please, off.” 

“What is the hurry?” 

“What time is it?” You ignore his protest and glance around. 

“Our time. Husband and wife--” 

“Ah, let’s just hold on that,” your teeth chatter. “Why are you so... cold?” 

“Hm, perhaps us gods run a bit cooler,” he smirks. “How shall you have me then, darling?” He rolls onto his back and stretches, displaying his naked form shamelessly. “Would you like to be astride or shall I take the reins?” 

“Please,” you hold your hand up to block out his nakedness. “I need to--” You sit up and your head pulses, “think.” 

You turn your legs over the edge of the bed with all your effort. You bend over your lap and hold your head as you try to gather your senses. You groan and push yourself up. You stand but only for a second before you’re hurtling forward. 

You don’t hit the floor as Loki catches you and just as swiftly scoops you into his arms, “now, precious wife, don’t be so careless. You will hurt yourself. You must rest. Especially after three nights of consummation--” 

“Three-- Three nights!?” You cry out. “You’re lying.” 

“I am a trickster but in this I am honest. As I have vowed to be in our marriage--” 

“Where’s my phone?” You wriggle but don’t have the strength to break free. 

He rolls his eyes and carries you around. You’re nothing in his arms. That feeling makes jars you even more. He’s upended your whole life. You almost forgot about the damn green curtains. 

“Put me down,” you demand as he carries you into the front room. 

“Darling--” 

“Down,” he demands. 

“As you wish.” 

He sets you on your feet and lets you go. You lean and stagger. Oh god. Your insides hurt. You feel so hollow like you could fold in on yourself. You babble and grab onto his arm. 

“Christ, what did you do?” 

“Oof, keep your mortal gods’ names off my person,” he derides, “I did as a good husband does.” 

You frown and squeeze him, leaning even though you can barely stand to touch him. 

“Can you put some clothes on?” You hiss. 

“Speak for yourself.” 

You look down and squeak. Shoot. He sighs and flicks his hand. In an instant, you’re draped in green silk and sleek satin robes swathes around his lithe figure.  

“Happy, dear wife?” He taunts. 

“Not really,” you grit as you walk forward, keeping hold of him as your legs wobble. 

“Please, darling, sit,” he guides you to the chair. “As I said, you will need to recover. You mortals are rather adorably weak.” 

He sits you down and turns with a cluck. He strides across the room and scoops up your phone, “ah, here it is. I did have to silence it. Rather pesky devices.” 

He hands it over and you take it. You croak at the date below the time. He’s really not lying. Three days. Of fucking? With him?! 

“Oh gosh,” you slump over as you bend your arm on the chair and lean on it. 

“Gosh indeed,” he snickers. 

“Stop,” you beg. 

“Stop? As worn out as you may be, darling, I must commend you. It was... delicious. I do enjoy it rather much.” He comes to perch on the other side of the chair and pets your shoulder. “Most unexpected, I must add. To say, when I first laid eyes upon you, I didn’t think you had it in you though I could see myself in you.” 

Without thinking, you hit his knee. You sit up and scowl, “do you have to be so gross?” 

“Gross? Where I’m from, sex is not so shameful. It is a past time. We enjoy it, a lot. Myself especially. And if I must stay on this cursed planet, I may as well have some delight.” 

“Why did you do it?” 

“Hm, from all the research I’ve done of your people, I was led to believe you would be ecstatic to be married.” 

“Ehhhh, never really was a goal of mine personally. Too much... work. And weddings are a lot.” 

“Oh, I agree. My last wedding was awful,” he agrees. 

“You’re last--” 

“Annulled, mind you. She slept with someone else...” his lip curls. “It is an acceptable reason to void if your bride lays with your brother, you see?” 

You look up at him, “Thor?” 

“Mm, yes,” he flicks his eyes up. “Eons ago. Suppose it should be forgotten.” 

“Wow, I’m... sorry.” 

“Sorry? It wasn’t you. How peculiar. You midgardians apologise for things beyond your realm.” 

“Well, I’m sorry it happened. Isn’t very nice to be cheated on,” you say. “And even if it was a long time ago, it still happened.” 

“You sound wise in these matters,” he says. 

You shrug, “not really.” 

You try to stand again and he stops you with a gentle pat, “darling, whatever you need, I will fetch it. I insist that you let your body rest.” 

You huff and fall back. You don’t have much choice. Just like every other step of your acquaintance, you are helpless. 

“Nothing, I’m just... thinking.” 

“I can make tea. Without extra sweetener this time,” he offers. You consider him warily. He shows his palms. “I’ll make it in front of you, should you wish. I do prefer a living wife over a dead one though and another dose...” 

“Another dose what?” You exclaim. 

“Well, I don’t really know how much a Midgardian can handle of that specific leaf--” 

“Just go,” you shoo him with your finger and close your eyes. “I can’t handle any more.” 

[doki-doki-imagines]

author note: @kenruu told me this idea couldn't stay in the dms and I wrote it. I'm really sad thanks to uni so I can't really say if this is good or not. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy it.

Sae is a man with a precise objective, being the best midfielder in the world. “It’s simple” Sae thinks, he has the talent, works hard, it’s obvious he’ll be able to do it, and his mind never wavers. Football is his whole world, his only thought.

Then Sae met you, and it’s not like his world changed, he kept training and winning, just, this time, in a little chink of his brain you started to grow, filling that little space with info of you.

“They would like this” “If they saw this their reaction would be so cute” it doesn’t happen often to be thinking of you, but when it does a dumb smile plaster on his face.

Until it’s not a seldom thought, but it becomes relentless, a thrum he can’t brush away, and honestly? Sae wants to vomit.

Sae hates it, every time he imagines your face his chest roar, and he can hear the blood rushing to his face, every time he thinks he’s gonna pass out like a fool on the ground.

At first, it was something happening only inside the closed door of his mansion, maybe you sent him a cute video or just told him about your day and Sae was fine with this; he can look like a dumbass fool in his own house, but not on the field.

Sae can’t stop thinking of you, football isn’t his main objective anymore and for the first time he feels weak, football is his entire life, he is nothing without that; damn chink and damn your smile, your cute face your fucking entire being.

And it doesn’t matter how many times the red hair hits his head against the cement wall of the stadium, hits it hard enough to break skin and leave blood, he can’t get you out of his mind.

“Sae, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but if you want to play the next match you need to pull your shit together.” His coach told him after the umpteenth missed cross.

Breath gets stuck in his throat, Sae feels like he just got stabbed in the heart; he must put a stop to this situation.

“Get out!”

“I’m coming Sae, did something happen?”

This is why he is now in front of your house, 3 hours before the match starts with blood in his eyes, and fists tight on his sides.

“Tell me you hate me.” Your eyes widened, this looks serious.

“Sae you know it isn’t-“

“I’m in love with you and- Shut up! Don’t you dare open your mouth, let me finish-“ He has his teeth bared, index finger up pointing at you “And you have to reject me, I can’t go on like this.”

It’s like a cold shower, for sure not what you expected to hear on a normal Thursday afternoon.

You keep your lips sealed, you can see in his irises a little quiver, but he keeps looking at you straight in the eyes, his index now down, hand moving like he wants to throw something on the ground, maybe a thought he preferred to scrap instead of voicing it.

“Please, I need you to reject me” He shuts his eyes, and curl his nose in his typical disgusted expression, you notice small tears hanging on his reddish lashes now rolling down his cheeks, bottom lip wounded, red by the incessant bit of his canine.

You never saw him so desperate, so vulnerable, if you listened closely you could hear cracks every time he tried to speak up.

“Are you even listening to me” Sae's voice is harsh, as always, but there is no bite in his words. You take a step closer and constrain every muscle of your body to stay there, don’t move.

Crack.

“I need to concentrate on football, there is my entire life at risk here-“ A sigh breaks his phrase, and you feel your heart cracking “I-I don’t want to like you anymore” he brushes his little fringe back, arms moving around and feet moving back and forth without making a real step; he looks so nervous.

Crack.

Your breath itch, you feel your heart in your throat, not because of his words, but for how desperate he sounded; you don’t want to hear him like this ever again.

You get closer.

“Fuck, say something! Don’t just look at me with those dumb puppy-” You sprint, your hands reach his jaw, your fingertips are so soft and Sae's lips change into an ugly, wobbly grimace, eyebrows furrowed.

Your lips press on his, it’s fast and delicate, if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t have seen it. You pull away, but don’t put space between your bodies, lips a whisper away from each other.

“I’ll be the one-“ one of your hand leave his jaw to brush away some red hair that sticks on his cheek “to bring you to victory, let me work my magic” He is looking at you dumbfound, his irises wobbly.

You kiss him again, but this time you grip the back of his hair to push him into a more forceful kiss.

Crack. He feels like something in his heart break, everything hurt and his hands tingle so much they hurt. Something must have been broken.

Sae this time reciprocates with equal, if not even more, passion, his hands finally find peace on your back, low on your back, pushing your body impossibly close to his.

You break the kiss, breath heavy a string of saliva still connects your mouths, you are fast at removing it.

“Go and win that match.”

Sae nods, a dumb smile plaster on his face, but you can barely see it as he laid his head on your shoulder. He kisses you again, just a simple press of lips, and runs back towards the stadium, new life on his legs reinvigorated more than ever.

“Maybe loving you and football can coexist in my head” He thinks.

For sure that night your magic did work.

[howdoesagrapewrites]

You should do one where reader just wants to spend time alone by themselves(whether it be the afternoon or morning) but hobie and pavitr won’t let them

𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙨

Cw: reader x lovesick!Hobie Brown x lovesick!Pavitr Prabhakar, overlooking toxic behavior, touching with dubious consent, oblivious reader, anxious attachment (Pavitr), suggestive, aged-up characters, reader's gender neutral but it is kinda fem aligned, reader knows about the multiverse but it's not clarified if they're a spider person, I already warned this but just want to say that just because the toxic behavior here isn't portrayed as negatively as my others fics doesn't mean I condone it.

Notes: while I was writing the first paragraph I was like "damn I should do this too" and started deep cleaning around my house. This triggered an episode and that's the reason I haven't been posting as much, I was cleaning. I'm actually on a break from cleaning /srs

You prepared everything to have some alone time this afternoon, you cooked your favorite meal, did an everything shower with your favorite products, you cleaned up everything yesterday so you didn't have to do anything today, and after putting on comfy pajamas, you sat on the couch with snacks and a face mask to watch a comfort show.

It was halfway through the fourth episode when you heard noise coming from your room, and see your boyfriends appearing into your living room, even though you told them you wanted to be alone today. You try and give them the benefit of the doubt, and imagine maybe the mission today was extra rough and they needed comfort, or they forgot about your petition, Pavitr had university, being spiderman, reporting to the spider society, Hobie was, well, trying to bash the president's head with a guitar plus the spider society stuff, so yeah, they had busy lives.

"Hello there, looking lovely" Hobie chuckled with his hands on his pockets, probably laughing at your face mask, Pavitr came in for a hug, you accepted, "ohh, self care day? Do you have any extra masks, I can buy us snacks? Wait- mumbattan currency doesn't work here, I forgot, anyways, is there any room left for us?" You moved quietly and smiled to let your boyfriends sit beside you.

It's not like you want them to go, but they do take too much space. Talking about the couch, of course... And maybe about your life a little bit, you loved them, but when you started your long distance relationship (between universes) you thought you'd have just a tad more time to yourself.

You can't concentrate in the show quite as well, thinking about what could make them forget about your you-day and still want to come, why did they always forget? They both seem to have pretty good memory, the zone off for a minutes, fortunately for you, it's the fifth time you watch this episode. Your phone rings and before you can grab it, Hobie picks it up, notices is not a call and hands it to you, it's the timer for your face mask, how kind of him to even set off the alarm to you since it's your day off.

You take the sticky sheet off your face and massage the serum into your skin as you start to walk to the living room, wanting to scratch the itch and address the subject you've had in your mind, you decide to soft launch it.

"Did any of you, read the chat yesterday?"

"Yes, I always do, Hobie does too, why?" Pavitr lies on Hobie's chest and mindlessly scroll through his phone while he answers you

"Then maybe you forgot that today I kinda wanted to be alone, you know, me-time? You also forgot last week, and the week before that..."

Hobie spoke "Sorry 'bout that, 'have bad memory, a flaw of mine, we can leave if we're a bother" it saddened you he saw himself as a bother, he just forgot, we all make mistakes

"Oh, I didn't forget, I just don't want to leave you alone" Pavitr responded with normality, he didn't like having Hobie speak for him, he regularly contradicted him in stuff like this. Hobie laughs and pata his shoulder, he laughed like a joke, so then it was probably a joke, even though you three were dating, they had their own things, so this must be one of them.

You sat down, you were on the right arm of the couch, and Hobie was in the left one, Pavitr was between you both, he didn't seem at all displeased.

You laughed at the show a few times, and a couple minutes in, you feel Pav's hair ticking you, he's sniffing around your neck.

"You smell good, like your regular scent but better, did you tried the body wash I gave you?" You nod and smile at his sweet antics "And your skin, you look radiant, jaanu" he kisses you cheek, then makes a face, scrunching up his nose at the taste, you giggle. "It's supposed to be good for my skin, not be tasty" you say in airy laugh, he pouts, "But I wanted to kiss you", "my lips have no serum" he looks like a kid on Christmas morning and puts dives right into your lips, you expect a quick kiss before going back to your binge-watching (that you'd been looking forward to all week) but he crashes his lips into yours with need, you try to pull away two times before patting his shoulder, Hobie sees this, and now manspreading on the coffee table instead of the couch, he grabs Pavitr's hair and lightly pulls, "give 'em a break, sweetheart" he obediently looks at him, dilated pupils and breath hitched, Hobie's hands traveled to Pavitr's cheek and he nuzzled on it like a cat, "We don't want them to pass out, now, do we?" Hobie's tone is firm, but still has that certain rogueness he always speaks with. Even though Pavitr's mouth isn't on you, he's still mostly on top of you, and his hands don't stop wandering in your sides, pinching playfully at the fat, kneading on your waist, you really wishes you could keep watching your show and then read the book you always say you should read, or organize that messy shelf that keeps stressing you out, but hey, is not like you dislike this, right? "You won't-?" Pavitr asks in a whisper, when Hobie takes his fingers off his mouth "I'll watch for now" his smile makes you bite your lip in excitement, it seems to have a similar effect on Pavitr, who grips your waist harder, and slowly goes to grab your hips, "Keep going?" Hobie asks, deep black eyes set on yours, it makes you flustered. He's asking for consent, he's very nice, and Pavitr did have your consent earlier, it's just he was a little... Excited, it's okay, because he's nice.

You have two very nice boyfriends, even though they're forgetful.

[whumperstorm]

Suppressing Fire - Part 1

Content: Vampire whumper, human whumpee, defiant whumpee, kidnapping, bad blood drinking etiquette

Hi!!! I've finally edited the first few chapters of @whumpsday and I's RP!! It features Kane with a different, more spicy victim instead of Jim. My OC Keegan!

Next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Keegan jogs her way down the dimly lit street of her neighborhood. It’s her third time around the block tonight and her restlessness is still not abating. Running used to be one of her favorite hobbies, but ever since she became Lohitha’s guardian, anything other than work feels like a waste of time. Unfortunately, her coworkers practically forced her out the door to take the night off.

She already tried calling her hunting partner twice. The first time she talked Keegan down by saying how important it is to ‘rest your body and mind’. The second time she basically told Keegan to fuck off, as this was also her night off, though she said it in a much kinder way. So now Keegan is stuck here, finishing another lap and trying desperately to relax.

After another ten minutes or so, Keegan comes to a halt at an empty bus stop. Her hands itch for her missing hunting gear. She pulls out a cigarette instead. ‘I’ll have to take a shower when I get home,’ she thinks as she lights it. Otherwise her sister, Lohitha, will yell at her again when she smells the smoke clinging to her skin. Keegan leans back against the rain cover and takes a long drag, watching the moths fluttering around the lamp post.

---

That one.

She looks young enough to last a long time, but still fully-grown, full of all the blood an adult human should have. She smells absolutely delicious. And she's just standing there, all alone.

Kane crinkles his nose at the smell of that thing emitting smoke at her mouth. He'd heard of humans doing that, but he'd never seen it in person. But it won't be a concern once she's his. Running fast enough to catch her off guard in lieu of his missing persuasion, Kane snatches the human girl, holding her tight in his arms as he dashes back to where he parked his car.

---

It happens so fast that for a moment Keegan doesn't even register what is going on. The world is a disorienting blur around her. Then, she recognizes the speed, and the strength of the arms that have grabbed her.

Fuck. Now of all times?

She lets out a shout of surprise and rage and kicks wildly against the monster's hold on her. This fucker chose the wrong human.

The human's kicks are weak, as expected. Kane is definitely glad he took the car, though: dealing with this the whole way back would be incredibly annoying.

"Stop fussing," he snaps as he tosses her into his backseat, quickly grabbing the rope he brought with him.

Keegan whirls around instantly when she hits the seat and aims a kick to his face. 

"Fucking leech!" She snarls.

She won't win a wrestling match with a vampire, not even close, but anything to make him flinch will give her the chance to grab her weapon. A small stake, hidden away in her boots. She may be off duty, but no way in hell does she ever leave the house without one. For this reason exactly.

Kane isn't really hurt, but he is stunned for a moment, long enough for the human to get out the stake she was apparently hiding.

"Shit," he hisses under his breath. He grabs her wrist as fast as he can, holding it tight. "Drop it," he orders.

Keegan is surprised that no persuasion follows the order. It's a blessing that she's been able to fight back at all so far. She doesn't have time to wonder why. She yanks her arm with a growl, but the vampire has an iron grip on her wrist. He grabbed her before she could even attempt a strike. Still, she does not drop the stake.

Kane snatches the stake with his other hand and tosses it from the car, then holds her down with a knee to the abdomen so he can use his hands to tie her up.

"Stop struggling!" he orders, frustrated. It's supposed to be easier than this.

Keegan watches helplessly as the vampire tosses away her only weapon. 

"Fuck you!" She spits, fighting with all her might against the knee on her stomach. 

Her struggles are practically useless. She sees him reach for a coil of rope and her stomach sinks as she begins to realize how fucked she is. She's trapped and alone with no backup. Where are her fellow hunters??

Any moment now this thing is going to get sick of tussling and hypnotize her. She freezes, staring into the vampires angry, red eyes. She's not going to win this fight. Her only hope now is to stall him until someone takes notice. So, she grits her teeth, swallows her pride, and shouts for help.

"HELP! VAMPIRE! HELP ME!"

"Shut up! Shut up!" Kane drops the rope and grabs the duct tape instead, hastily plastering some over the human's mouth. He then gets set, tying her up for the car ride home, looking around frantically as he does so, even though he feels a little pathetic for it. They're just humans.

When he has the human all tied up, he slams the door and gets in the front seat, beginning the drive home.

The vampire silences her with the tape and Keegan screams in rage, which morphs into fear as she's restrained and the door shuts on her. She kicks at the door but can't get a good angle the way she's been tied. She feels the engine rev to life under her and the car starts to move. Her heart beats a mile a minute and she swirls her head around hoping to find something, anything that can help her. But there's nothing.

It all happened so fast that it didn't matter if people were nearby. No one came in time. She's restrained and she's lost her stake. There's nothing she can do. She's being taken. Frustrated, fearful tears well up in her eyes. She stares at the back of the Vampire's head as he drives. Where is he taking her? The blood farms? Why didn't he hypnotize her? Does he want her lucid?

……Is he going to drain her like the one who took her mother?

---

Kane’s irritation fades into giddiness as he drives away. He's done it, he's caught a human of his very own!

It's about an hour's drive back home. He plays classical piano on the car radio, a wonderful invention.

He parks in his driveway, opening the car door to retrieve his prize. "No more struggling," he orders, hefting the human up and taking her inside.

Keegan's panicked thoughts turn to Lohitha as she's stolen away from home. Who knows what's in store for her, but her sister? She'll be all alone. She's only 12… Too young to fend for herself. God, what if she goes back to their dad? anything would be better than that. She prays that her friends will help her out. Her hunting partner always liked Lohitha, maybe she'll take her in?

Her worries are interrupted when the Vampire stops the car and returns to grab her. If looks could kill, he would have dropped dead the moment the door opened. She glares daggers into him but remains still as ordered. She's not getting anywhere tied up like this. Her best bet is to save her strength. Still, she can't stop shaking.

‘Perfect,’ Kane thinks. She was probably just lashing out because it was so sudden, and now that she's had some time to calm down, she'll behave.

Kane carries her into the house and immediately into the human quarters, setting her down on the bed. “I am Kane de Sang, seventh-born of Aldrich de Sang. From this day forth, you will serve as my source of human blood.” He rips the duct tape off. “I presume you have questions.”

Keegan is relieved at least, to arrive at a house. Being a personal bloodbag is probably the better option… Of a terrible selection of outcomes. She immediately takes note of the path from the front door as she's taken deeper into the building.

The vampire's name is apparently Kane. Good for him. She'd much rather call him Dickhead.

Keegan has many questions. The smart thing to do would be to lay low; feel out her situation and start planning an escape accordingly.

Instead, she spits in his face the moment the tape is removed.

"Ugh!" Kane wipes his eye, immediately pissed, and grabs her tightly by the chin. "You little shit! You are going to learn some respect, or you will regret it," he warns. "Do you understand me?"

Oh, Keegan does not Like him touching her face. He could snap her neck easily with just a flick of his wrist. Her only solace is that he'd probably have done that already if that was his plan. If she's to be his food source, then he'll want to keep her alive. She glowers at him. 

"You kidnapped the wrong person if you're looking for respect." She growls. "Why haven't you hypnotized me?"

Kane barely restrains himself from violence. It's her first day. He's better than her juvenile retorts.

“I do not require such rudimentary tricks in order to keep one measly human in line," he huffs instead, not looking her in the eye. "You will behave, human."

He lets go of her, pointing to the two other doors as he speaks. "Kitchen, bathroom. There's a notepad in the kitchen where you can write down anything you need. Your sustenance is my sustenance." He starts to untie her. "I will come in here to feed from you once per night."

Keegan picks up on the defensiveness immediately. She decides that she's probably pushed her luck enough for now and doesn't comment, instead filing the information away for later.

She remains still as Kane unties her. Bolting for the door immediately will get her nowhere. "That's all?" She asks, unable to hide her nervousness. "Just the feeding?" 

She's dealt with plenty of vampires before and has her fair share of scars. She can handle a little bite. As long as this vampire isn't some kind of sadist, she'll be fine.

"Yes. That is your purpose," Kane confirms matter-of-factly. "You will provide me with blood, and you will behave while doing so. No more spitting. I won't hesitate to discipline you if I have to."

discipline. Like a misbehaving child. Keegan scowls at the phrasing.

Kane gathers the rope. "Do you have any actual questions?"

"No. You eat and I waste away in a windowless room for the rest of my life. Seems self-explanatory." Keegan says sarcastically. Doesn't matter, she won't be here for long.

"Very well. I'll see you tomorrow evening." And with that, Kane leaves her to her devices.

The moment the vampire is out the door, Keegan is up and searching the rooms for anything that could be used as a weapon. The kitchen is stocked with quality knives, not fatal to a vampire, but they'll hurt just the same. She also checks for anything that she could possibly whittle down into a stake. Wooden cooking spoons, a broom handle, even a table leg would do.

She grows increasingly more frustrated as her search turns up nothing. It makes logical sense, but it pisses her off anyway. She kicks the wall next to her in anger. The knives are much more risky, but if she can slice up his ankles or knees then he'll be incapacitated. Hell, cutting up his throat would choke him out, though this all depends on if she can avoid his iron grip.

Keegan flops back down on the bed and holds her head in her hands. She roughly wipes away a few tears that have gathered in her eyes. She is not gonna cry. She needs to be strong. Stay focused and get out.

For now though, she needs to try and get some rest. She’s exhausted. She lies down on top of the covers, not bothering to change her clothes.

----

Kane comes back the next night, full of excitement. He finally has his own human, just like he's supposed to! Sure, she's a bit feisty, but he's sure she'll mellow out with time, once she learns her place. He feels a little bitter that he can't just make her behave with persuasion, but he'll show that he doesn't need it. He'll show them all.

"Good evening, human," he greets as he enters the human quarters the next night.

"My name is Keegan." Keegan says from her place on the bed. She sits up with a huff. She didn't get a wink of sleep. Her head feels foggy. No escape attempts tonight.

“You presume too highly of your status if you believe we are on a first-name basis,” He condescends. This isn't something vampires with persuasion need to deal with. He'd be mortified if his family ever saw his human conversing with him in this way. “Speaking of which, you will refer to me as either Master or Sir.”

‘Oh, absolutely not.’ The idea alone sours her stomach. "You presume too highly of yourself," She mocks, "to think I'll be doing that, vampire."

Kane rolls his eyes and lets it go for now. There will be plenty of time for minor details like that: it's time for the actual important part. "Whatever. I'm hungry." He approaches his human. "Move your head to the side," he orders.

Keegan sighs and strips off her outer shirt, not wanting to risk it getting bloody. Her scars are now on full display. She has a few more than is usual for a hunter, as she tends to take more... active approach to hunting. Her coworkers might call it reckless, she calls it efficient. 

There's a handful of scratches down her arms and a bite around her wrist, but the most prominent one is a trio of deep gouges into her left shoulder. That one needed a lot of stitches.

"Does it really have to be the neck?" She asks. "The arm would work just as well." She holds her right one out.

Kane lowers her arm back down for her. "Yes," he insists.

He suddenly realizes he's not quite sure how to approach this. He never received lessons, like most nobles would. He tests out a few different angles before giving up on trying to figure it out and just biting down on his human's neck.

Keegan watches warily as the vampire scrutinizes her neck. She would much rather he bite her arm, the throat is so... vulnerable.  She focuses on keeping her breathing steady and tenses up when Kane seems to find what he's looking for. She cries out in pain at the bite. It’s so much worse than she expected.

He's not doing it correctly. He's not quite sucking blood so much as catching the blood that's coming out of her neck and into his mouth, too fast for him to swallow it all. Some blood spills down onto her collarbone.

Keegan’s eyes widen in alarm when she feels hot blood pouring down her neck. Fuck, he's going to kill her! She shoves against his shoulders in a panic, trying to pry him off. "Stop- Fuck, STOP!"

The shoving is bad, it's making everything worse. Kane rips his fangs out to speak. "Stay still!"

Normal vampires don't have to deal with this, a human who screams and fights back. It only sours his mood more. But- “That wasn’t right. It’s not supposed to go like that,” he mutters to himself.

Keegan scrambles back as soon as he lets go, covering her gushing wound. Kane's face is stained red and for a moment, all Keegan sees is the monster... It looms menacingly over her, eyes glowing. It's maw glistening with the blood of her mother who lies motionless behind it-

It takes significant effort to push past the memory. She blinks hard, focusing on the pain to keep her grounded in the present. "N-no shit!' She sputters.

Kane grimaces, frustrated with himself and his human alike. "Respect," he snaps, reminding her.

He dashes over and removes her hand from her neck, leaning in again.

The vampire has already torn open her throat, and now he's coming back for more. Keegan screams and tries to block him with her arms. "No! Don't touch me, you're going to kill me!"

"You idiot." Kane yanks her arms out of the way, then swipes his tongue across her wound. The blood quickly clots, stopping the bleeding. "Stop being so prone to panic. We're done for tonight." 

Keegan relaxes somewhat when Kane only closes the wound. She feels woozy from blood loss but at least she won't lose anymore. She slumps back against the wall.

" You tore a damn hole in my throat!" She says. "Haven't you done this before??"

“I… have not,” Kane admits begrudgingly, frustrated. "So you're simply going to have to be patient while I figure it out."

Keegan stares at him incredulously. "Wh- seriously? I'm the first?" Maybe that’s a good thing. If he's an amateur then he won't be expecting any serious resistance. But only if he doesn't kill her by accident.

"Well, here's a tip. Maybe avoid the artery next time." She says sarcastically.

Kane glares at her. "Watch the tone. We'll try again tomorrow." He sighs, shaking his head, agitated. "Do you have a list?"

One aspect of having a human with no persuasion that's actually good is that they can pick out their own food. A human would know best what a human eats, and if they eat well, so will he.

Right, the grocery list. Keegan was so caught up in her search for a weapon and general distress that she completely forgot that little detail. She remembers seeing a strange assortment of foods in the cupboards during her search. Keegan doesn't think she can make much out of just those ingredients, this isn't an episode of Chopped. She grimaces. "Right, uh. Give it here and I'll write some shit down real fast."

Kane's glare deepens. "Tone. This is your final warning. You do not give me orders, human. I give the orders, and you listen." He points to the kitchen. "Your notepad is in there. Write down your list and don't keep me waiting."

Keegan rolls her eyes. "Was less of an order and more of a suggestion. You just spilled my blood everywhere and now I'm lightheaded. But fine, since it's such an inconvenience for you.”

She snatches up the notepad and writes a short list of the first things that come to mind. Milk, cheese, rice, some vegetables, etc. After a moment of thought she adds hard cider, mostly out of curiosity to see if he'll get it. She tears off the paper, fold it in half, and hands it to Kane as she walks back into the bedroom.

Kane takes the note without looking at it, surely full of human foods he won't recognize anyway.

He doesn't like the way his human talks to him. "You will come to understand that you are the prey and I am the predator. You will do as I say and you will treat me with respect while you do it. Do not test me."

He leaves her, for now.

‘I've killed more of your kind than you have fingers on your hands,’ Keegan thinks. He'll realize who he's dealing with soon enough.

She takes a quick shower to rinse herself of blood and changes into one of the plain outfits provided for her. The pants are too small and don’t cover her ankles. She sighs in irritation. Then she rummages around in the kitchen to actually eat something, as that is probably a significant reason for her dizziness. She didn't exactly have an appetite yesterday after being kidnapped. Her neck aches fiercely all throughout.

After getting herself settled and fed, she lays out all her potential weapons on the counter. Time to make a plan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @whumpsday @not-a-space-alien @anomalys-taxonomy

Lmk if u wanna be tagged!

[twig-gy]

walk until your feet blister. for miles and miles and miles until the air catches in your throat. this is necessary, and you know that. it still feels a little like repenting for something that no one could forgive you for. like your host. every motion is deliberate - if you fall, you’re not sure if you can get back up. you should be sure you can get back up. right? you have practice. so much practice. yet your body is a badly taped together glass on the verge of spilling its pieces. your hands are shaking. hunger. mistaken hunger, because you shouldn’t need to eat, but it still seeps into your legs and mocks you. your body is always mocking you. you were always the weakest, after all. you need heart’s help too often. he does it, sure. most of the time without commenting on it, sure. but you still hate it. you don’t like needing heart. your head pounds in time with the clock you fixed to your face all those days ago - one two three one two three all the numbers are blurring together with the rest of the pain. why does your body betray you so? you should have finished the job. heart was right. you’re a coward. you reach up and still the hands. it’s eerily silent without the ticking. without noticing, you kneel. once again you are reminded of your host. praying to something that doesn’t exist. praying - and for what? surely he knows that no one is coming to save him. surely he knows. surely he knows you’re the closest thing he has to a savior, and clearly even you, even you are faulty. if you are faulty, then everything else is faulty. if you are faulty everything else is fucking breaking apart. surely he knows how silly it is to scorn the two of you, to bat your hand away, and then come crawling back. please save me. soul’s adept at begging without words. practice does not make perfect, but it certainly does help. surely he knows how stupid all of this is.

you lie down, the usual ‘i’m getting my body dirty, i can feel the grass on my skin, i’m going to have to take a shower, it’s getting into my hair-‘ somehow not stopping you, you’re just that exhausted. it’s dirty. it’s dirty and your skin itches because of it.

you close your eyes.

[shuxiii]

Everyday

Hanni Pham x reader pt1, pt2, pt3, pt4, pt5, pt6, pt7, pt8, pt9, pt10, pt11, pt12, pt13, pt14, pt15, pt16, pt17, pt18

A/n this is based on the novel book "every day" by David Levithan saur credits to him I tots recommend reading the novel itself it's so damn goodies bro like gosh golly lawrd.

synopsis: You, someone who wakes up in a different body every day to live a different life. You spend your days inhabiting a new body and pretending to be the person without changing their personality or life. 

TW: profanities

Day 5994

I wake up.

Immediately I have to figure out who I am. It’s not just

the body—opening my eyes and discovering whether the skin on my arm is light or dark, whether my hair is long or short, whether I’m fat or thin, boy or girl, scarred or smooth. The body is the easiest thing to adjust to if you’re used to waking up in a new one each morning. It’s the life, the context of the body, that can be hard to grasp. Every day I am someone else. I am myself—I know I am myself—but I am also someone else.

It has always been like this. The information is there. I wake up, open my eyes, and understand that it is a new morning, a new place. The biography kicks in, a welcome gift from the not‑me part of the mind. Today I am Kim Minji. Somehow I know this—my name is Minji—and at the same time I know that I’m not really Minji, I’m only borrowing her life for a day. I look around and know that this is her room.

This is her home. The alarm will go off in seven minutes.

I’m never the same person twice, but I’ve certainly been

this type before. Clothes everywhere. Far more video games

than books. Sleeps in her shorts. From the taste of her mouth, a smoker. But not so addicted that she needs one as soon as she wakes up.

“Good morning, Minji,” I say. Checking out her voice. Low. The voice in my head is always different.

Minji doesn’t take care of herself. Her scalp itches. Her eyes don’t want to open. She hasn’t gotten much sleep. Already I know I’m not going to like today. It’s hard being in the body of someone you don’t like, because you still have to respect it. I’ve harmed people’s lives in the past, and I’ve found that every time I slip up, it haunts me.

So I try to be careful. From what I can tell, every person I inhabit is the same age as me. I don’t hop from being nineteen to being ninety. Right now, it’s only nineteen. I don’t know how this works. Or why. I stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago. I’m never going to figure it out, any more than a normal person will figure out his or her own existence. After a while, you have to be at peace with the fact that you simply are. There is no way to know why. You can have theories, but there will never be proof.

I can access facts, not feelings. I know this is Minji’s room, but I have no idea if she likes it or not. Does she want to kill her parents in the next room? Or would she be lost without her mother coming in to make sure she’s awake? It’s impossible to tell. It’s as if that part of me replaces the same part of whatever person I’m in. And while I’m glad to be thinking like myself, a hint every now and then of how the other person thinks would be helpful.

We all contain mysteries, especially when Seen from the inside. The alarm goes off. I reach for a shirt and some jeans, but something lets me see that it’s the same shirt she wore yesterday. I pick a different shirt. I take the clothes with me to the bathroom and dress after showering. Her parents are in the kitchen now. They have no idea that anything is different.

Nineteen years is a lot of time to practice. I don’t usually make mistakes. Not anymore. I read her parents easily: Minji doesn’t talk to them much in the morning, so I don’t have to talk to them. I have grown accustomed to sensing expectations in others, or the lack of them. I shovel down some cereal, leave the bowl in the sink without washing it, grab Minji’s keys, and go.

Yesterday I was a girl in a town I’d guess to be two hours away. The day before, I was a boy in a town three hours farther than that. I am already forgetting their details. I have to, or else I will never remember who I really am.

Minji listens to loud and obnoxious music on a loud and obnoxious station where loud and obnoxious DJs make loud and obnoxious jokes as a way of getting through the morning. This is all I need to know about Minji, really. I access her memory to show me the way to school, which parking space to take, and which locker to go to. The combination. The names of the people she knows in the halls.

Sometimes I can’t go through these motions. I can’t bring myself to go to school and maneuver through the day. I’ll say I’m sick, stay in bed, and read a few books. But even that gets tiresome after a while, and I find myself up for the challenge of a new school, and new friends. For a day.

As I take Minji’s books out of her locker, I can feel someone

hovering on the periphery. I turn, and the girl standing there Is transparent in her emotions—tentative and expectant, nervous and adoring. I don’t have to access Minji to know that this is her girlfriend. No one else would have this reaction to her, so unsteady in her presence. She’s pretty, but she doesn’t see it. She’s hiding behind her hair, happy to see me and unhappy to see me at the same time.

Her name is Hanni. And for a moment—just the slightest beat—I think that, yes, this is the right name for her. I don’t know why. I don’t know her. But it feels right.

This is not Minji’s thought. It’s mine. I try to ignore it. I’m not the person she wants to talk to.

“Hey,” I say, keeping it casual.

“Hey,” she murmurs back.

She’s looking at the floor, at her inked‑in Converse. She’s drawn cities there, skylines around the soles. Something’s happened between her and Minji, and I don’t know what it is. It’s probably not something that Minji even recognized at the time.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

I see the surprise on her face, even as she tries to cover it. This is not something that Minji normally asks. And the strange thing is: I want to know the answer. The fact that she wouldn’t care makes me want it more.

“Sure,” she says, not sounding sure at all.

I find it hard to look at her. I know from experience that beneath every peripheral girl is a central truth. She’s hiding hers away, but at the same time, she wants me to see it. That is, she wants Minji to see it. And it’s there, just out of my reach. A sound waiting to be a word.

She is so lost in her sadness that she has no idea how visible it is. I think I understand her—for a moment, I presume to understand her—but then, from within this sadness, she surprises me with a brief flash of determination. Bravery, even. Shifting her gaze away from the floor, her eyes matching mine,

she asks, “Are you mad at me?”

I can’t think of any reason to be mad at her. If anything, I am mad at Minji, for making her feel so diminished. It’s there in her body language. When she is around her, she makes herself small.

“No,” I say. “I’m not mad at you at all.”

I tell her what she wants to hear, but she doesn’t trust it. I feed her the right words, but she suspects they’re threaded with hooks.

This is not my problem; I know that. I am here for one day. I cannot solve anyone’s girlfriend problems. I should not change anyone’s life.

I turn away from her, get my books out, and close the locker.

She stays in the same spot, anchored by the profound, desperate loneliness of a bad relationship.

“Do you still want to get lunch today?” she asks.

The easy thing would be to say no. I often do this: sense the other person’s life drawing me in and run in the other direction. But there’s something about her—the cities on her shoes, the flash of bravery, the unnecessary sadness—that makes me want to know what the word will be when it stops being a sound.

I have spent years meeting people without ever knowing them, and on this morning, in this place, with this girl, I feel the faintest pull of wanting to know. And in a moment of either weakness or bravery on my own part, I decide to follow it. I decided to find out more.

“Absolutely,” I say. “Lunch would be great.”

Again, I read her: What I’ve said is too enthusiastic. Minji is never enthusiastic.

“No big deal,” I add.

She’s relieved. Or, at least, as relieved as she’ll allow herself to be, which is a very guarded form of relief. By accessing, I know she and Minji have been together for over a year.

That’s as specific as it gets. Minji doesn’t remember the exact date.

She reaches out and takes my hand. I am surprised by how good this feels.

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me,” she says. “I just want everything to be okay.”

I nod. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: We all want everything to be okay. We don’t even wish so much for fantastic or marvelous or outstanding. We will happily settle for okay, because most of the time, okay is enough.

The first bell rings.

“I’ll see you later,” I say. Such a basic promise. But to Hanni, it means the world.

...

At first, it was hard to go through each day without making any lasting connections, leaving any life-​­changing effects. When I was younger, I craved friendship and closeness. I would make bonds without acknowledging how quickly and permanently they would break. I took other people’s lives personally. I felt their friends could be my friends, and their parents could be my parents. But after a while, I had to stop. It was too heartbreaking to live with so many separations.

I am a drifter, and as lonely as that can be, it is also remarkably freeing. I will never define myself in terms of anyone else. I will never feel the pressure of peers or the burden of parental expectations. I can view everyone as pieces of a whole, and focus on the whole, not the pieces. I have learned how to observe, far better than most people observe. I am not blinded by the past or motivated by the future. I focus on the present because that is where I am destined to live.

I learn. Sometimes I am taught something I have already been taught in dozens of other classrooms. Sometimes I am taught something completely new. I have to access the body, access the mind and see what information it’s retained. And when I do, I learn. Knowledge is the only thing I take with me when I go.

I know so many things that Minji doesn’t know, that she will never know. I sit there in her math class, open her notebook, and write down phrases she has never heard. Shakespeare and Kerouac and Dickinson. Tomorrow, or someday after tomorrow, or never, she will see these words in her own handwriting and she won’t have any idea where they came from, or even what they are.

That is as much interference as I allow myself. Everything else must be done cleanly. Hanni stays with me. Her details. Flickers from Minji’s memories. Small things, like the way her hair falls, the way she bites her fingernails, the determination and resignation in her voice. Random things. I see her dancing with Minji’s grandfather, because he’s said he wants a dance with a pretty girl. I see her covering her eyes during a scary movie, peering between her fingers, and enjoying her fright. These are the good memories. I don’t look at any others.

I only see her once in the morning, a brief passing in the halls between first and second period. I find myself smiling when she comes near, and she smiles back. It’s as simple as that. Simple and complicated, as most true things are. I find myself looking for her after second period, and then again after third and fourth. I don’t even feel in control of this. I want to see her. Simple. Complicated.

By the time we get to lunch, I am exhausted. Minji’s body is worn down from too little sleep and I, inside of it, am worn down from restlessness and too much thought.

I wait for her at Minji’s locker. The first bell rings. The second bell rings. No Hanni. Maybe I was supposed to meet her somewhere else. Maybe Minji’s forgotten where they always meet.

If that’s the case, she’s used to Minji forgetting. She finds me right when I’m about to give up. The halls are nearly empty, the cattle call has passed. She comes closer than she did before.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says.

She is looking to me. Minji is the one who makes the first move. Minji is the one who figures things out. Minji is the one who says what they’re going to do.

It depresses me. I have seen this too many times before. The unwarranted devotion. Putting up with the fear of being with the wrong person because you can’t deal with the fear of being alone. The hope tinged with doubt, and the doubt tinged with hope. Every time I see these feelings in someone else’s face, it weighs me down. And there’s something in Hanni’s face that’s more than just the disappointments. There is a gentleness there. A gentleness that Minji will never, ever appreciate. I see it right away, but nobody else does.

I take all my books and put them in the locker. I walk over to her and put my hand lightly on her arm. I have no idea what I’m doing. I only know that I’m doing it.

“Let’s go somewhere,” I say. “Where do you want to go?” I am close enough now to see that her eyes are brown. I am close enough now to see that nobody ever gets close enough to see how brown her eyes are.

“I don’t know,” she replies.

I take her hand.

“Come on,” I tell her.

This is no longer restlessness—it’s recklessness. At first, we’re walking hand in hand. Then we’re running hand in hand. That giddy rush of keeping up with one another, of zooming through the school, reducing everything that’s not us into an inconsequential blur. We are laughing, we are playful.

We leave her books in her locker and move out of the building, into the air, the real air, the sunshine and the trees and the less burdensome world. I am breaking the rules as I leave the school. I am breaking the rules as we get into Minji’s car. I am breaking the rules as I turn the key in the ignition.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask again. “Tell me, truly, where you’d love to go.”

I don’t initially realize how much hinges on her answer. If she says, Let’s go to the mall, I will disconnect. If she says, Take me back to your house, I will disconnect. If she says, Actually, I don’t want to miss sixth period, I will disconnect. And I should disconnect. I should not be doing this.

But she says, “I want to go to the ocean. I want you to take me to the ocean.”

And I feel myself connecting.

It takes us an hour to get there. It’s late September in Maryland. The leaves haven’t begun to change, but you can tell they’re starting to think about it. The greens are muted, and faded. Color is right around the corner.

I give Hanni control of the radio. She’s surprised by this, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough of the loud and the obnoxious, and I sense that she’s had enough of it, too. She brings melody to the car. A song comes on that I know, and I sing along.

And if I only could, I’d make a deal with God...Now Hanni goes from surprised to suspicious. Minji never sings along.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks.

“Music,” I tell her.

“Ha.”

“No, really.”

She looks at me for a long time. Then smiles.

“In that case,” she says, flipping the dial to find the next song.

Soon we are singing at the top of our lungs. A pop song that’s as substantial as a balloon, but lifts us in the same way when we sing it.

It’s as if time itself relaxes around us. She stops thinking about how unusual it is. She lets herself be a part of it.

I want to give her a good day. Just one good day. I have wandered for so long without any sense of purpose, and now this ephemeral purpose has been given to me—it feels like it has been given to me. I only have a day to give—so why can’t it be a good one? Why can’t it be a shared one? Why can’t I take the music of the moment and see how long it can last?

The rules are erasable. I can take this. I can give this.

When the song is over, she rolls down her window and trails her hand in the air, introducing a new music into the car.

I roll down all the other windows and drive faster, so the wind takes over, blows our hair all around, and makes it seem like the car has disappeared and we are the velocity, we are the speed.

Then another good song comes on and I enclose us again, this time taking her hand. I drive like that for miles, and ask her questions. Like how her parents are doing. What it’s like now that her sister’s off at college. If she thinks school is different at all this year.

It’s hard for her. Every single answer starts with the phrase I don’t know. But most of the time she does know, if I give her the time and the space in which to answer. Her mother means well; her father less so. Her sister isn’t calling home, but Hanni can understand that. School is school—she wants it to be over, but she’s afraid of it being over, because then she’ll have to figure out what comes next.

She asks me what I think, and I tell her, “Honestly, I’m just trying to live day to day.”

It isn’t enough, but it’s something. We watch the trees, the sky, the signs, the road. We sense each other. The world, right now, is only us. We continue to sing along. And we sing with the same abandon, not worrying too much if our voices hit the right notes or the right words. We look at each other while we’re singing; these aren’t two solos, this is a duet that isn’t taking itself at all seriously.

It is its own form of conversation—you can learn a lot about people from the stories they tell, but you can also know them from the way they sing along, whether they like the windows up or down, if they live by the map or by the world, if they feel the pull of the ocean.

She tells me where to drive. Off the highway. The empty back roads. This isn’t summer; this isn’t a weekend. It’s the middle of a Monday, and nobody but us is going to the beach.

“I should be in English class,” Hanni says.

“I should be in bio,” I say, accessing Minji’s schedule.

We keep going. When I first saw her, she seemed to be balancing on edges and points. Now the ground is more even, welcoming.

I know this is dangerous. Minji is not good to her. I recognize that. If I access the bad memories, I see tears, fights, and remnants of passable togetherness. She is always there for her, and she must like that. Her friends like her, and she must like that, too.

But that’s not the same as love. She has been hanging on to the hope of her for so long that she doesn’t realize there isn’t anything left to hope for. They don’t have silence together; they have noise.

Mostly her. If I tried, I could go deep into their arguments. I could track down whatever shards she’s collected from all the times she’s destroyed her. If I were really Minji, I would find something wrong with her. Right now. Tell her. Yell. Bring her down. Put her in her place. But I can’t. I’m not Minji. Even if she doesn’t know it.

“Let’s just enjoy ourselves,” I say.

“Okay,” she replies. “I like that. I spend so much time thinking about running away—it’s nice to actually do it. For a day. It’s good to be on the other side of the window. I don’t do this enough.”

There are so many things inside of her that I want to know. And at the same time, with every word we speak, I feel there may be something inside of her that I already know. When I get there, we will recognize each other. We will have that.

I park the car and we head to the ocean. We take off our shoes and leave them under our seats. When we get to the sand, I lean over to roll up my jeans. While I do, Hanni runs ahead. When I look back up, she is spinning around the beach, kicking up sand, calling my name. Everything, at that moment, is lightness. She is so joyful, I can’t help but stop for a second and watch. Witness. Tell myself to remember.

“C’mon!” she cries. “Get over here!”

I’m not who you think I am, I want to tell her. But there’s no way. Of course, there’s no way.

We have the beach to ourselves, the ocean to ourselves. I have her to myself. She has me to herself.

There is a part of childhood that is childish, and a part that is sacred. Suddenly we are touching the sacred part—running to the shoreline, feeling the first cold burst of water on our ankles, reaching into the tide to catch at shells before they ebb away from our fingers.

We have returned to a world that is capable of glistening, and we are wading deeper within it. We stretch our arms wide as if we are embracing the wind. She splashes me mischievously and I mount a counterattack. Our pants, our shirts get wet, but we don’t care.

She asks me to help her build a sand castle, and as I do, she tells me about how she and her sister would never work on sand castles together—it was always a competition, with her sister going for the highest possible mountains while Hanni paid attention to detail, wanting each castle to be the dollhouse she was never allowed to have. I see echoes of this detail now as she makes turrets bloom from her cupped hands.

I myself have no memories of sand castles, but there must be some sense memory attached, because I feel I know how to do this, how to shape this.

When we are done, we walk back down to the water to wash off our hands. I look back and see the way our footsteps intermingle to form a single path.

“What is it?” she asks, seeing me glance backward, seeing something in my expression.

How can I explain this? The only way I know is to say

“Thank you.”

She looks at me as if she’s never heard the phrase before.

“For what?” she asks.

“For this,” I say. “For all of it.”

This escape. The water. The waves. Her. It feels like we’ve stepped outside of time. Even though there is no such place.

There’s still a part of her that’s waiting for the twist, the moment when all of this pleasure will jackknife into pain.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay to be happy.”

The tears come to her eyes. I take her in my arms. It’s the wrong thing to do. But it’s the right thing to do. I have to listen to my own words. Happiness is so rarely a part of my vocabulary, because for me it’s so fleeting.

“I’m happy,” she says. “Really, I am.”

Minji would be laughing at her. Minji would be pushing her down into the sand, to do whatever she wanted to do. Minji would never have come here.

I am tired of not feeling. I am tired of not connecting. I want to be here with her. I want to be the one who lives up to her hopes, if only for the time I’m given.

The ocean makes its music; the wind does its dance. We hold on. At first we hold on to one another, but then it starts to feel like we are holding on to something even bigger than that. Greater.

“What’s happening?” Hanni asks.

“Shhh,” I say. “Don’t question it.”

She kisses me. I have not kissed anyone in years. I have not allowed myself to kiss anyone for years. Her lips are soft as flower petals, but with an intensity behind them. I take it slow, let each moment pour into the next. Feel her skin, her breath.

Taste the condensation of our contact, linger in the heat of it.

Her eyes are closed and mine are open. I want to remember this as more than a single sensation. I want to remember this whole.

We do nothing more than kiss. We do nothing less than kiss. At times, she moves to take it further, but I don’t need that. I trace her shoulders as she traces my back. I kiss her neck. She kisses beneath my ear. The times we stop, we smile at each other. Giddy disbelief, giddy belief. She should be in English class. I should be in bio. We weren’t supposed to come anywhere near the ocean today. We have defied the day as it was set out for us.

We walk hand in hand down the beach as the sun dips in the sky. I am not thinking about the past. I am not thinking about the future. I am full of such gratitude for the sun, the water, the way my feet sink into the sand, the way my hand feels holding hers.

“We should do this every Monday,” she says. “And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday.”

“We’d only get tired of it,” I tell her. “It’s best to have it just once.”

“Never again?” She doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Well, never say never.”

“I’d never say never,” she tells me.

There are a few more people on the beach now, mostly older men and women taking an afternoon walk. They nod to us as we pass, and sometimes they say hello. We nod back, return their hellos. Nobody questions why we’re here. Nobody questions anything. We’re just a part of the moment, like everything else.

The sun falls farther. The temperature drops alongside it.

Hanni shivers, so I stop holding her hand and put my arm around her. She suggests we go back to the car and get the “make-​­out blanket” from the trunk. We find it there, buried under empty beer bottles, twisted jumper cables, and other crap. I wonder how often Hanni and Minji have used the make-​­out blanket for that purpose, but I don’t try to access the memories.

Instead, I bring the blanket back out onto the beach and put it down for both of us. I lie down and face the sky, and Hanni lies down next to me and does the same.

We stare at the clouds, breathing distance from one another, taking it all in.

“This has to be one of the best days ever,” Hanni says. Without turning my head, I find her hand with my hand.

“Tell me about some of the other days like this,” I ask.

“I don’t know...”

“Just one. The first one that comes to mind.”

Hanni thinks about it for a second. Then she shakes her head. “It’s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

She turns to me and moves her hand to my chest. Makes lazy circles there. “For some reason, the first thing that comes to mind is this mother-​­daughter fashion show. Do you promise you won’t laugh?”

I promise.

She studies me. Makes sure I’m sincere. Continues.

“It was in fourth grade or something. Eric’s was doing a fundraiser for hurricane victims, and they asked for volunteers from our class. I didn’t ask my mother or anything—I just signed up. And when I brought the information home—well, you know how my mom is. She was terrified. It’s hard enough to get her out to the supermarket. But a fashion show? In front of strangers? I might as well have asked her to pose for Playboy. God, now there’s a scary thought.”

Her hand is now resting on my chest. She’s looking off to the sky.

“But here’s the thing: she didn’t say no. I guess it’s only now that I realize what I put her through. She didn’t make me go to the teacher and take it back. No, when the day came, we drove over to Eric’s and went where they told us to go. I had thought they would put us in matching outfits, but it wasn’t like that. Instead, they basically told us we could wear whatever we wanted from the store. So there we were, trying all these things on. I went for the gowns, of course—I was so much more of a girl then. I ended up with this light blue dress with ruffles all over the place. I thought it was so sophisticated.”

“I’m sure it was classy,” I say.

She hits me. “Shut up. Let me tell my story.”

I hold her hand on my chest. Lean over and kiss her quickly.

“Go ahead,” I say. I am loving this. I never have people tell me their stories. I usually have to figure them out myself.

Because I know that if people tell me stories, they will expect them to be remembered. And I cannot guarantee that. There is no way to know if the stories stay after I’m gone. And how

devastating would it be to confide in someone and have the confidence disappear? I don’t want to be responsible for that.

But with Hanni I can’t resist.

She continues. “So I had my wanna-be prom dress. And then it was Mom’s turn. She surprised me, because she went for the dresses, too. I’d never really seen her all dressed up before. And I think that was the most amazing thing to me: It wasn’t me who was Cinderella. It was her. “After we picked out our clothes, they put makeup on us and everything. I thought Mom was going to flip, but she was actually enjoying it. They didn’t really do much with her—just a little more color. And that was all it took. She was pretty. I know it’s hard to believe, knowing her now. But that day, she was like a movie star. All the other moms were complimenting her. And when it was time for the actual show, we paraded out there and people applauded. Mom and I were both smiling, and it was real, you know?

“We didn’t get to keep the dresses or anything. But I remember on the ride home, Mom kept saying how great I was. When we got back to our house, Dad looked at us like we were aliens, but the cool thing is, he decided to play along. Instead of getting all weird, he kept calling us his supermodels, and asked us to do the show for him in our living room, which we did. We were laughing so much. And that was it. The day ended. I’m not sure Mom’s worn makeup since. And it’s not like I turned out to be a supermodel. But that day reminds me of this one. Because it was a break from everything, wasn’t it?”

“It sounds like it,” I tell her.

“I can’t believe I just told you that.”

“Why?”

“Because. I don’t know. It just sounds so silly.”

“No, it sounds like a good day.

“How about you?” she asks.

“I was never in a mother-​­daughter fashion show,” I joke.

Even though, as a matter of fact, I’ve been in a few.

She hits me lightly on the shoulder. “No. Tell me about another day like this one.”

I access Hanni and find out she moved to town when he was twelve. So anything before that is fair game, because Hanni won’t have been there. I could try to find one of Minji’s memories to share, but I don’t want to do that. I want to give Hanni something of my own.

“There was this one day when I was eleven.” I try to remember the name of the boy whose body I was in, but it’s lost to me. “I was playing hide-​­and-​­seek with my friends. I mean, the brutal, tackle kind of hide-​­and-​­seek. We were in the woods, and for some reason I decided that what I had to do was climb a tree. I don’t think I’d ever climbed a tree before. But I found one with some low branches and just started moving. Up and up. It was as natural as walking. In my memory, that tree was hundreds of feet tall. Thousands. At some point, I crossed the tree line. I was still climbing, but there weren’t any other trees around. I was all by myself, clinging to the trunk of this tree, a long way from the ground.”

I can see shimmers of it now. The height. The town below me.

“It was magical,” I say. “There’s no other word to describe it. I could hear my friends yelling as they were caught, as the game played out. But I was in a completely different place.

I was seeing the world from above, which is an extraordinary thing when it happens for the first time. I’d never flown in a plane. I’m not even sure I’d been in a tall building. So there I was, hovering above everything I knew. I had made it somewhere special, and I’d gotten there all on my own. Nobody had given it to me. Nobody had told me to do it. I’d climbed and climbed and climbed, and this was my reward. To watch over the world, and to be alone with myself. That, I found, was what I needed.”

Hanni leans into me. “That’s amazing,” she whispers.

“Yeah, it was.”

“And it was in Minnesota?”

In truth, it was in North Carolina. But I access Minji and find that, yes, for her it would’ve been Minnesota. So I nod.

“You want to know another day like this one?” Hanni asks, curling closer. I adjust my arm, making us both comfortable. “Sure.”

“Our second date.”

But this is only our first, I think. Ridiculously.

“Really?” I ask.

“Remember?”

I check to see if Minji remembers their second date. She doesn’t.

“Dack’s party?” she prompts.

Still nothing.

“Yeah...,” I hedge.

“I don’t know—maybe it doesn’t count as a date. But it was the second time we hooked up. And, I don’t know, you were just so . . . sweet about it. Don’t get mad, alright?”

I wonder where this is going.

“I promise, nothing could make me mad right now,” I tell her. I even cross my heart to prove it.

She smiles. “Okay. Well, lately—it’s like you’re always in a rush. Like, we have make-outs but we’re not really...intimate. And I don’t mind. I mean, it’s fun. But every now and then, it’s good to have it be like this. And at Dack’s party—it was like this. Like you had all the time in the world, and you wanted us to have it together. I loved that. It was back when you were really looking at me. It was like—well, it was like you’d climbed up that tree and found me there at the top. And we had that together. Even though we were in someone’s backyard. At one point—do you remember?—you made me move over a little so I’d be in the moonlight. ‘It makes your skin glow,’ you said. And I felt like that. Glowing. Because you were watching me, along with the moon.”

Does she realize that right now she’s lit by the warm orange spreading from the horizon, as not-​­quite-​­day becomes not-​­quite-​­night? I lean over and become that shadow. I kiss her once, then we drift into each other, close our eyes, drift into sleep. And as we drift into sleep, I feel something I’ve never felt before. A closeness that isn’t merely physical. A connection that defies the fact that we’ve only just met. A sensation that can only come from the most euphoric of feelings: belonging.

What is it about the moment you fall in love? How can such a small measure of time contain such enormity? I suddenly realize why people believe in déjà vu, why people believe they’ve lived past lives, because there is no way the years I’ve spent

on this earth could possibly encapsulate what I’m feeling. The moment you fall in love feels like it has centuries behind it, generations—all of them rearranging themselves so that this precise, remarkable intersection could happen. In your heart, in your bones, no matter how silly you know it is, you feel that everything has been leading to this, all the secret arrows were pointing here, the universe and time itself crafted this long ago, and you are just now realizing it, you are just now arriving at the place you were always meant to be.

We woke an hour later to the sound of her phone. I keep my eyes closed. Hear her groan. Hear her tell her mother she’ll be home soon.

The water has gone deep black and the sky has gone ink blue. The chill in the air presses harder against us as we pick up the blanket, providing a new set of footprints. She navigates, I drive. She talks, I listen. We sing some more. Then she leans into my shoulder and I let her stay there and sleep for a little longer, dream for a little longer.

I am trying not to think of what will happen next.

I am trying not to think of endings.

I never get to see people while they’re asleep. Not like this.

She is the opposite of when I first met her. Her vulnerability is open, but she’s safe within it. I watch the rise and fall of her, the stir and rest of her. I only wake her when I need her to tell me where to go.

The last ten minutes, she talks about what we’re going to do tomorrow. I find it hard to respond.

“Even if we can’t do this, I’ll see you at lunch?” she asks.

I nod.

“And maybe we can do something after school?”

“I think so. I mean, I’m not sure what else is going on. My mind isn’t really there right now.”

This makes sense to her. “Fair enough. Tomorrow is tomorrow. Let’s end today on a nice note.”

Once we get to town, I can access the directions to her house without having to ask her. But I want to get lost anyway.

To prolong this. To escape this.

“Here we are,” Hanni says as we approach her driveway. I pull the car to a stop. I unlock the doors. She leans over and kisses me. My senses are alive with the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, the sound of her breathing, and the sight of her as she pulls her body away from mine.

“That’s the nice note,” she says. And before I can say anything else, she’s out the door and gone.

I don’t get a chance to say goodbye.

I guess, correctly, that Hanni’s parents are used to her being out of touch and missing dinner. They try to yell at her, but you can tell that everyone’s going through the motions, and when Minji storms off to her room, it’s just the latest rerun of an old show.

I should be doing Minji’s homework—I’m always pretty conscientious about that kind of thing, if I’m able to do it—but my mind keeps drifting to Hanni. Imagining her at home. Imagining her floating from the grace of the day. Imagining her believing that things are different, that Minji has somehow changed.

I shouldn’t have done it. I know I shouldn’t have done it. Even if it felt like the universe was telling me to do it. I agonize over it for hours. I can’t take it back. I can’t make it go away.

I fell in love once, or at least until today, I thought I had. Her name was Danielle, and it felt so real, even if it was mostly words. Intense, heartfelt words. I stupidly let myself think of a possible future with her. But there was no future. I tried to navigate it, but I couldn’t.

That was easy compared to this. It’s one thing to fall in love. It’s another to feel someone else falling in love with you, and to feel a responsibility toward that love.

There is no way for me to stay in this body. If I don’t go to sleep, the shift will happen anyway. I used to think that if I stayed up all night, I’d get to remain where I was. But instead, I was ripped from the body I was in. And the ripping felt exactly like what you would imagine being ripped from a body would feel like, with every single nerve experiencing the pain of the break, and then the pain of being fused into someone new.

From then on, I went to sleep every night. There was no use fighting it. I realize I have to call her. Her number’s right there in her phone. I can’t let her think tomorrow is going to be like today.

“Hey!” she answers.

“Hey,” I say.

“Thank you again for today.”

“Yeah.”

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to ruin it. But I have to, don’t I?

I continue, “But about today?”

“Are you going to tell me that we can’t cut class every day? That’s not like you.”

Not like me.

“Yeah,” I say, “but, you know, I don’t want you to think every day is going to be like today. Because they’re not going to be, alright? They can’t be.”

There’s a silence. She knows something’s wrong.

“I know that,” she says carefully. “But maybe things can still be better. I know they can be.”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “That’s all I wanted to say. I don’t know. Today was something, but it’s not, like, everything.”

“I know that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

I sigh. There’s always a chance that, in some way, I will have brushed off on Minji. There’s always a chance that her life will in fact change—that she will change. But I have no way of knowing. It’s rare that I get to see a body after I’ve left it. And even then, it’s usually months or years later. If I recognize it at all. I want Minji to be better to her. But I can’t have her expecting it.

“That’s all,” I tell her. It feels like a Minji thing to say

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you will.”

“Thanks again for today. No matter what trouble we get into tomorrow for it, it was worth it.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you,” she says.

And I want to say it. I want to say I love you, too. Right now, right at this moment, every part of me would mean it. But that will only last for a couple more hours.

“Sleep well,” I tell her. Then I hang up.

There’s a notebook on her desk.

Remember that you love Hanni, I write in her handwriting. I doubt she’ll remember writing it. I go onto her computer. I open up my own email account, then type out her name, her phone number, her email address, as well as Mniji’s email and password. I write about the day. And I send it to myself.

As soon as I’m through, I clear Minji’s history. This is hard for me. I have gotten so used to what I am, and how my life works. I never want to stay. I’m always ready to leave.

But not tonight. Tonight I’m haunted by the fact that tomorrow she’ll be here and I won’t be. I want to stay. I pray to stay. I close my eyes and wish to stay.

[dancingonmoonbeams]

odesta week: free space wednesday

Summary: Finally free from the Capitol, Finnick thinks about his appearance. This is a scene from a longer fic I’ve had on the back burner for a while, so you may see it again once I finally finish that fic, but I love it and really wanted to share it.

Finnick’s hair was always a star of its own in the Capitol. For his first appearance in the Tribute Parade his prep team had put some kind of spray in it to make it stick up in artful waves, looking sun-kissed and windswept even though he felt as far from District Four as he could possibly get. They told him after that people were already making appointments with stylists to get hair like his, something that made him itch under his skin in a way he didn’t quite understand. 

They always kept it artfully messy, waves of bronze that fell in his eyes and made people’s heads turn. Later, when he found out what being a victor really meant, the people he met would touch it, dragging their fingers through it and leaving ice everywhere they touched. Sometimes they’d pull it, would move his head where they wanted it with a sharp grasp of the roots. Those were the moments when Finnick hated his hair the most.

People talked about it constantly. Entire television segments were devoted to how Finnick Odair’s hair would be styled, the commentators breathlessly reporting about this product or that brush they claimed his stylists used. He never knew how to respond to it, never understood why this part of him he’d never thought twice about could raise such a fervor in the Capitol. When District Thirteen had him doing propos, they tried to do the same thing–using their limited means to get his hair sticking up just right, to make him the picture of what the Capitol would expect to see from Finnick Odair. He hated it then too. Even knowing it was for the cause, that people would listen to him more if he looked the way they expected, he wished he could just let it go and not care about how he looked at all.

Now, he’s left the Capitol behind. He hasn’t seen a stylist in months and never plans to. When he and Annie got home he’d cleared all the products they’d made him keep from the shelves, tossing them in the garbage without a second thought. There are no more cameras on him, no need to make himself fit the Capitol’s expectations. 

He looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is a bit longer than they usually let it get, still shining bronze even without all the Capitol shampoos and products. It’s damp from the shower, curling up at the ends, and he twitches when it brushes against the back of his neck, a flash of phantom hands scratching at his skin crossing his mind before he forces them away. He tears his eyes from his reflection and rummages in the drawer for the scissors they keep there, feeling their cool weight in his palm as he takes a deep breath and stares down his reflection.

As he grasps a piece of hair between his fingers, willing himself to bring the scissors up to meet it, Annie appears behind him, her eyes wide as she meets his gaze in the mirror. Finnick feels himself relax at the sight of her, her presence enough to push the last memories of the Capitol aside. 

“I want to cut my hair.”

If Annie is surprised by his decisiveness, she doesn’t show it, her expression achingly tender as she steps closer behind him, one hand on her barely visible bump and the other coming to rest on his shoulder. “Do you want help?”

He nods, not trusting his voice to speak, and hands her the scissors. Her fingers brush his as she takes them and he feels himself settle under her touch. Annie’s hands have never been anything but loving, nothing like the greedy hands in the Capitol that would pull and scratch and take piece after piece of him until he was left with nothing. She gently nudges him to sit in front of her and runs her hands through his damp locks, setting the scissors down as she does. 

“How short do you want it?”

Finnick bites his lip, his eyes cast down at the chipped tile on the floor. “As short as you can get it.”

There’s a brief silence as Annie’s hands slip from his scalp to his shoulders and he feels her lips brush against the top of his head in a gentle kiss. “Okay,” she says softly, then reaches for the scissors. 

He closes his eyes at the first snip, breathing in slowly through his nostrils the way Mags taught him when he first came out of the arena and struggled to take a full breath. He feels Annie’s fingers halt, one hand coming down to his shoulder in a reassuring touch.

“You can keep going,” he tells her. She hesitates for a moment before she moves her hand back to his head. 

After a few snips, he opens his eyes, breathing slowly at the sight of bronze curls tumbling to the floor around him, splayed against the tile like seaweed washed up on shore. There’s something about it that makes him feel lighter, a weight lifting from his shoulders as Annie continues her careful movements. She murmurs instructions a few times, asking him to tilt his head to give her a better angle, but other than that the only sound is the metallic snip of the scissors, the whisper of hair falling to the floor.

Annie’s movements slow, the cuts further apart, then she stops and sets the scissors down on the countertop. “There,” she says quietly, her hands moving to brush a few stray pieces of hair off his shoulders and then resting there, her touch settling his racing heart. “Do you want to look?”

Finnick nods, blinking in surprise at the unfamiliar sensation of cool air moving across his scalp. He stands slowly and turns to face the mirror, unsure if he’ll recognize the face he sees looking back at him. 

When he finally looks, he’s surprised at how unremarkable his reflection is. His hair is mostly gone, the bronze waves scattered on the tile at his feet, his scalp more pale than he expected from years of not being exposed to the sun. And beneath it is his face, the puckered scars that travel up one side of his body, moving from his shoulder to his neck and across his cheek, angry red lines that he was told would fade with time. There are his freckles from his time in the sun, his same green eyes, the nose that’s just like his father’s. He’s still himself, just with shorter hair, lovingly clipped not by his prep team in the Capitol but by his wife in their home here in this new world.

He meets Annie’s gaze in the mirror. “That’s as short as I could go without clippers,” she says, wringing her hands. “We can borrow some if you want.”

Finnick turns and wraps his arms around her, letting out a slow breath as she returns the embrace. “I love you,” he breathes close to her ear, feeling her arms tighten around him in response. “Thank you.” 

Annie pulls back just enough to look at him, her hands coming up to his cheeks as she gazes at him with such love in her eyes that he feels like he might as well be gazing into the sun. She presses a gentle kiss to his lips and leans back in to rest her head on her chest, her arms slipping around his back with gentle weight.

[iamthecomet]

Hey hi I've been thinking about the ghouls (Rain most likely, and either Dew or Mountain) and sharing a shower just for platonic intimacy and taking care of each other 🥺

Here's everyone's daily dose of extra soft Dew/Rain. Because I love them.

It's become an after-show ritual. Rain refuses to shower at the venues. Citing a myriad of reasons starting with the water smells bad and ending with it makes my skin feel weird. And Dew does the same, only his reasons are more the water pressure sucks and why would I want to shower with all of you? Rain presses himself to Dew as soon as they're back on the bus. He smells like sweat and the venue, rubbery, plasticine in a way that makes Dew's nose twitch. Dew can't be much better. He can feel the film of sweat drying on his body, stiff and sticky. He can smell the cigarette and stale beer scene clinging to his jacket. Rain doesn't seem to care though, he just nuzzles closer, resting his head on Dew's boney shoulder, nuzzling his nose into Dew's hair and neck. "Clingy," Dew whispers as he tips his head to the side to rest his cheek against Rain's temple. Rain only hums in response.

Dew feels his exhaustion in his bones. The adrenaline of the show trickles from his body with every minute that passes. He's spent the last six weeks exhausted, it's nothing new. Touring is not conducive to being rested. He's surviving on too much caffeine and nicotine and a few hours of sleep in whatever lumpy hotel bed he's shoved toward. Dew wishes he was like Swiss, able to fall asleep anywhere. Even now, Swiss is curled up into the side of his seat, his head smushed up against the window, pillowed by the hood of his sweatshirt--asleep, mouth open, drool gathering in the corner. They've only been on the road for five minutes. Instead, Dew has trouble sleeping through the night in his own bed. Never mind hotel beds that are somehow always wrong. Too hard. Too soft. They all feel like they've been crafted out of rocks and feathers. He laces his fingers with Rain, pulls their joined hands onto his thigh, rubbing his calloused thumb over the space between Rain's thumb and forefinger. It's a short drive to the hotel. Dew untangles himself from Rain as soon as the bus stops moving, he shoulders his overnight bag and is the first one off of the bus. It's a sticky, humid, summer night. It makes his skin itch. He leads the way into the hotel and waits, impatiently by the elevator for Copia to get their keys. Copia has a system for how he rooms the ghouls together. Dew imagines that it's the product of some behavioral spreadsheet that Sister crafted up. It doesn't matter. It's rare that they actually follow it, hopping between rooms like musical chairs--treating their floor of the hotel the same way they do the Abbey. Doors open half of the night to the chagrin of any other unlucky hotel guests. Dew is always paired with Aether. Rain's always with Mountain. Swiss gets paired up with Cumulus. Sunshine with Cirrus. Each agent of chaos paired with someone who Sister thinks is supposed to keep them in line. It rarely works. Mountain and Dew trade keycards as soon as Copia hands them out. Rain seals himself back to Dew's side as soon as they get back in the elevator. Dew slides his hand up into the sweat-damp curls on the back of Rain's head. He scratches his nails against his scalp. "You smell," Dew says. "Better than you." Rain counters, digging his nose into the juncture between Dew's neck and shoulder and inhaling sharply. By the time they reach their floor, Dew's holding onto his human glamor with white knuckles. His skin feels too tight, his joints ache. He drops the glamor as soon as the door snicks shut behind them. Sighing bodily as the weight of it lifts off of him. Rain's already making a b-line for the shower, his own glamor fading. Tail uncoiling as he strips his jeans off. Dew follows him, pulling his shirt over his head, trying, and failing, to keep it from catching on his horns. Rain's already in the shower when Dew gets there. Steam filling the comedically small bathroom. Dew strips down the rest of the way and slips into the shower with Rain.

They're lucky they're both small. Mountain and Aether are definitely not going to fit in one of these showers together. As it is, when Dew turns to let the water spray on his back, he rubs up against Rain. Rain's already purring, back pressed against the cool tile, eyes closed as water that isn't quite hot enough for Dew rains down on them. Dew taps the knob up a few notches and Rain hisses at he temperature spike but doesn't complain. His tail curls around Dew's leg, the broad spade of it resting against the side of his knee. "Can I wash your hair?" Rain asks, hands already trailing up Dew's back. Dew nods. The hotel shampoo smells like chemicals. Whatever flowers it's meant to smell like don't actually exist in nature. Dew wrinkles his nose at it, but still groans when Rain sinks his fingers into the hair at the crown of Dew's head. Scratching, rubbing. Dew tips his head back just enough to keep soap from running into his eyes. He closes them. He feels every muscle in his body relax one by one as Rain shuffles him a little to rinse his hair. Rain works conditioner into the ends methodically. Dew doesn't let many people do this--they never get it right. But Rain has mastered the technique, and Dew is all too happy to let him. When it's Rain's turn, he has to crouch a little so Dew can reach. Digging his fingers into Rain's scalp until the water ghoul gasps and sighs and his knees go a little soft. Dew runs his fingers through Rain's curls as he rinses his hair, untangling small knots and rubbing slow circles over the base of his skull until Rain is knocking his hands away. "You're going to put me to sleep if you don't stop." "Good." "You really want to drag me to the bed?" Rain turns his head, raising a dark eyebrow at Dew. Dew shakes his head. "Who said anything about that? If you fall asleep here, you're staying here. I'm not going to complain about having the bed to myself." "Liar," Rain says, shifting them again so he can pull Dew's back flush to his front, pressing his face against Dew's hair. He kisses the side of one of his horns fondly. Dew doesn't argue. There's no point. Rain grabs the bar of soap and smoothes it over Dew's back, pressing his thumbs into Dew's constantly tense shoulder blades as he does. "You'd miss me," Rain presses. "Yeah," Dew agrees, "I would."

[urfavnegronerd]

all right u obscene fucks some of you don't have a skincare-obsessed sister and it shows

alright so anyone who shaves their no no square is going to know what im talking about so just bare with me. some of us are too broke to afford a wax (i have eight dollars in my spending account rn), so here's what ur gonna do. everyone whos shaved that area has most definitely experienced irritation, ingrowns, bumps, and itchiness. this is not good, especially for those of us with a history of sh. that alone has triggered multiple relapses for me, cus why does my body itch? and then my brain spirals from there

if its been a while since u've shaved? no worries stink i didn't use to be regular either. if its been a while and you have a bit more hair, make sure to trim the area carefully, with a sanitized pair of scissors.

dry brush the area, you can get a dry brush at target, i got mine for five dollars

gently exfoliate the area, i use a home made one w sugar, oil, and dr bronners unscented soap. i use unscented because i have keratosis pilaris, eczema, and sensitive skin. use unscented soap, not no Japanese cherry blossom ass shit from bath and body works. do you want a yeast infection? unscented is the way to go.

get clean razor, i switch mine out every month or so. i use harrys because they're marketed towards men so a closer shave w more blades. before u do anything w the razor, run it under warm water, if the pressure in your showerhead changes switch it to the highest pressure and rinse the blade to get any gunk out of there

drop the shaving cream, the conditioner, whatever u use. drop it. switch for coconut oil instead, unscented as to not irritate the area.

at first go with the direction of hair growth, stopping to rinse the razor and the area every few strokes. then go side to side, and up and down.

as soon as ur finished rinse the area with freezing water as to close/tighten the pores!!

when ur out of the shower use either after shave, or witch hazel. i like to use aqua velva after shave, it smells nice, and also marketed towards a male audience so it actually fucking works. pour a little bit on a cotton round, wash rag, or toilet paper and apply it to the area. it'll sting a little bit, but that's the tightening and toning of the area, don't worry. for those of my afab friends do not put it in there. only on the skin outside of it!! no one wants a yeast infection, or a uti, we don't do that here. (however if you do get a uti or yeast infection, boric acid suppositories at target, azo cranberry tablets and apple cider vinegar tablets. do what you will with that. miasaurus on youtube has great videos on these topics, an ex-stripper and also incredibly funny) tend skin is also a great option but really expensive, when my parents were together my mom got my bald-headed ass daddy a big thing of tend skin for his birthday.

moisturize with unscented lotion, i use cetaphil on that area and coco butter everywhere else

in the showers following ur shave down there, use a salicylic acid face wash on that area. i use cerave because i got it cheap with ulta points, i would recommend cerave because it's formulated with ceramides to keep your skin barrier healthy as well as being unscented. salicylic acid is an acne medication that also helps prevent ingrown hair and itchiness.

moisturize moisturize moisturize!

repeat as necessary friends! go fuck that person bald down there. or don't, whatever floats ur boat. if you wanna be smooth down there (cus its fucking comforting), go be smooth if you wanna!

my mom or my older sister did not teach me this, so i had to figure out what works too embarrassed to ask for help.

[pleathewrites]

bellow the fire into my deadened lungs

chapter 1 excerpt — shigadabi heart to heart + dabi's final move read full story here

December

For the past two weeks, Shigaraki hasn’t said anything about the League’s newest recruit. It makes Dabi's skin itch. 

Shigaraki doesn’t trust Keigo. Dabi can tell by the way red bloodshot eyes constantly observe the — undercover — hero. He wonders if Shigaraki knows. 

Even though Shigaraki thinks so, he and Dabi are not cut from the same cloth — his leader was raised, practically groomed, by the biggest villain of all time. He was told what to do and how to do it. Dabi was rarely raised, especially not after his mother was sent away. His life has been on the line his entire life, demanding him to learn when to trust his gut and how to keep himself alive. 

Still, they both haven’t gotten this far by being naive. 

When Keigo left for the night, “I should get going, have patrol tomorrow. Do you wanna… come over?” and Dabi shook his head no, Shigaraki had beckoned his lieutenant to his room with a silent tilt of his chin.

He hasn’t really let himself be alone with Keigo after introducing the hero to the League, to Shigaraki. Dabi doesn’t quite know what to do with Keigo’s newly found possessive attitude. It was so easy, in the privacy of Dabi’s apartment, away from both their realities and other people, tucked in his little cocoon of dreams and heat. Outside that, though, Dabi realizes how fucking complicated he’s made things by letting Keigo kiss him that first night. By continuing to kiss him all those following nights. 

Which leads him here. In this great big mess. 

They’re in Shigaraki’s new room. It’s big, bigger than any of the hideouts the League previously would hole up in, and it’s spacious, decorated with quality furniture — a king-sized bed and a black-and-gold-trimmed divan sofa. 

Shigaraki had sat on his bed, and Dabi had a guilty suspicion that he wanted Dabi to sit next to him, so the patchwork man made sure to sit on the divan across from him, just to avoid any potential situations.

Shigaraki looks tired, more so than usual under these dim overhead lights. His eye bags are puffier than usual, the area surrounded by irritatedly-red scratch marks. Dabi knows his leader had recently taken a shower because his shaggy white hair is frizzier than usual, wild without a few days worth of oil and stress. His mouth looks ashen, lips probably dry from soap and forgetting to use the chapstick Compress had bought for him. Dabi can’t help but remember how they felt pressed against his own. 

Being conventionally hideous himself, Dabi learned how to find beauty in destroyed things.

He thinks Shigaraki is beautiful. He thinks it’s a form of the kind of ‘beautiful’ that reflects in Keigo’s eyes when they lie in Dabi’s bed and the bird won’t stop staring.  

Shigaraki’s voice is grating, though Dabi thinks it could be classified as having its own charm, “How do you know you can trust Hawks?”

‘Shit,’ Dabi forgot why he was here. He never really prepared an answer to this question. Very poor planning on his part, he knows. 

He overlooks the truth of Keigo’s intentions and thinks about what he’s often thought about since Keigo started frequenting his apartment. About the kind of stories Keigo shares, his frustrations and his hurt, about the things Keigo has said that makes something in Dabi want to try and persuade the hero to join the League’s side for real.

He’s honest when he answers, “Just like he’s told the other members, he thinks this society’s shit. Corrupt. Seems like he has a bone to pick.” Shigaraki’s eyes roll and, ‘yeah,’ Dabi knows his answer was pretty bad. While trying to maintain his facade of nonchalance, Dabi hastily adds, “He did kill that hero. Best Jeanist,” He shrugs his stiff shoulders and hopes it looks normal, “That counts for something in my books.”

Shigaraki, of course, still thinks it's all a crock of shit. 

“Are you serious, Dabi?” He sneers, “What does the Number Two Hero understand at all about us? About the way this society has treated us when he looks like that?”

Dabi gets it. He still gaslights, “Hey, now, Shiggy. Don’t judge a book by its cover, ‘n all that.”

Shigaraki starts to itch his neck, and Dabi feels so fucking guilty.

“You never take anything seriously. This is fuckin’ dangerous, and so fuckin’ stupid, and you’re just making jokes!” 

Shigaraki is itching so hard that Dabi can hear it, the gritty scritch scritch scritch, from where he sits, two meters away.

Usually, the members know it’s best to just let their leader scratch whatever stresses out — but the pained grimace, and the actual fall of skin flakes, and the o verwhelming fucking guilt of basically helping the Number Two Hero infiltrate their sacred space makes Dabi move. 

He grabs the small hotel lotion from Shigaraki’s dresser and sits next to the man, grabbing his wrist with a soft, “Stop.”

He thinks the shock of his actions is what causes Shigaraki to obey. 

He squirts a small amount of lotion on his fingers, “D’you mind?”

Red eyes open in vulnerability, and Shigaraki looks mildly scared. Dabi mentally curses and is about to hand over the bottle of lotion to the leader, ‘probably more comfortable with doing it himself, what was I thinkin’, just touching him like that,’ before Shigaraki’s eyes soften back to their trademark squint, and he tilts his neck in offering.  

Silently, Dabi uses the lotion-less hand to move Shigaraki’s curtain of hair out of the way to apply the cream to cracked skin. 

Shigaraki lets out a soft hiss, and Dabi murmurs an apology. As he works the lotion into the skin, he says, “I know this is your thing, Handjob, but itchin’ yourself to death isn’t gonna win us the war.”

Shigaraki grumbles, “Fuck off. Letting in a traitor won’t help us win, either.” 

Dabi chuckles lightly, “Don’t worry about the pigeon. I’ll keep him in check,” which is, at least, half a lie. A white lie, if Dabi wants to go as far as to lie to himself. 

“What if he ruins us?” and the softness in Shigaraki's voice is not at all what Dabi expected. It’s almost a whisper, and it feels like there’s a double meaning weaved in there, and Dabi feels so fucking guilty. 

Because if Keigo goes through with it, if he betrays Dabi, it won’t be the Number Two Hero that leads the League to their ruin, it will be Dabi. 

The lotion is fully absorbed — has been for some time now. Dabi may have heated his fingers a bit to distract Shigaraki from any itching sensations, and he thinks it worked. The leader seems calm, so Dabi pulls his hand away. 

“Take precautions,” Dabi finds himself saying, “Compress is dependable and doesn’t like to talk shop much anyways. Lunatic’s halfway in her own world, but she knows how to keep secrets. I don’t think she trusts new people that much, no matter how much she likes them. Same with the Lizard. He’s almost stupidly loyal to you. Two-Face, though, he likes to talk, so don’t tell him the really important stuff ahead of time. And don’t tell me.”

Shigaraki’s eyes narrow, “Really? The leader of my Vanguard Squad can’t keep his mouth shut?”

“Precautions, man,” Dabi shrugs honestly, “Who knows, maybe the Bird has a friend with a truth quirk and they jump me.”

Shigaraki nods, and Dabi hands out the bottle of lotion to him. He takes it, “This stuff smells like shitty flowers.”

“Better than itching all your skin off. Take it from me, y’wanna keep as much of it as you can.”

He winks, and Shigaraki crinkles his nose in disgust. 

When Dabi thinks about it, Shigaraki makes sense for him, they make sense for each other. ‘What on Earth am I doing with Keigo?’ Keigo knows Dabi’s story, sure, and has a few horror stories of his own, but does he feel Dabi’s conviction with the same burning passion Shigaraki does?

Shigaraki looks at Dabi like he’s waiting for Dabi, like he wants to burn the world down with Dabi and be his partner in crime. Keigo looks at Dabi like he’s savoring Dabi, like he wants to take Dabi away from the world and be the hero that Touya spent countless nights waiting for.  

It’s so confusing. What does Dabi want? 

‘The death of one man,’ he tells himself, over and over again, until it erases every other thought.

*

The guilt makes him lose his mind a little, in the end. 

So, Dabi let himself have one last Christmas. He lets himself go out with the memory of Toga’s attempt at caroling and Twice’s excitement at finally having a ‘family photo’ where he can reveal his face. Gives himself the mercy of seeing Shigaraki’s cheeks flush at the anonymous present of a soft grey-fleece pajama-set, and hearing Spinner’s cackles grow louder with each sip of eggnog. 

At the last second of his death, Dabi will summon the soft memory of Keigo’s smile pressed against his lips when a mischievous red feather floated above their heads carrying mistletoe, the way his lined eyes lidded to the point Dabi could see all three of his eyelids and his warm taloned hand made a home at the scarless curve of Dabi’s waist, wishing him a, “Very Merry Christmas, Hot Stuff.”    

He doesn’t say goodbye, only leaves with a soft, “Goodnight.”

It takes about a week to get his affairs in order. He doesn’t have much, but the little he does is spread evenly amongst the League and Keigo — his first-ever switchblade to Toga, all of his favorite movies to Twice, his Stain-inspired works and poems to Spinner, his favorite medical-grade all-natural moisturizers to Shigaraki, and the secret stash of his most cherished childhood photos to Keigo. He likes to think the Bird would want to remember him in this way, too — not only a rotten and damaged man, but once a smiling and loving brother with fat cheeks and pinked skin. 

He writes up a makeshift will to arrive at Giran’s doorstep after the announcement of his death, along with the tapes he pre-recorded revealing his identity and outlining all of Todoroki Enji’s crimes, with the inclusion of all the dirt he’s managed to scrape up on top heroes over the last decade and recently, with the oddly-eager bits of much-too-important information Keigo has been slipping into his hands since the hero found out his real name.

Dabi breathes slowly. 

Today is the day. 

“Todoroki Enji!” He calls out.

Dabi memorized the patrol schedule Keigo had given him a few months ago, and knows exactly which city Endeavor is going to be lurking around. 

“Come ‘n face me, you fuckin’ coward!” 

Blue fire surrounds the streets, and it’s enough warning to make every single citizen in the area run away, as far as they can. Terrified screams fill the area and it’s still not enough to draw the Number One Hero out. 

The heat is already so suffocating. 

Anger rips through him, and he uses it to make his location known, clapping his hand above him and shooting a giant line of blue fire towards the sky, a swirling vortex that would have made his father’s eyes gleam with pride a lifetime ago.   

Red fire glints in the sky above him like a comet.

‘Finally.’

That red fire races down to swirl around the pillar Dabi has created, and he almost thinks it looks glorious. 

A second later, the fire is gone and the ground rumbles under Dabi’s feet. He lets go of his own fire, and stares down his father. 

“Have you come with another Nomu?” Enji asks, his flaming face practically radiating with familiar fury.

Dabi’s laugh is so manic, he feels at least three staples pop, “It’s just you ‘n me, old man.”

The skin of his hands scream in agony, but for the first time in his life, Dabi welcomes the pain, embraces the consequences his body sets upon him as he will be damned if he dies in self-hatred. 

“I do not understand your goal here, Villain, but you will not succeed.”

Dabi hears the faint sounds of others approaching, and knows he cannot waste anymore time. 

“Oh really?” Dabi moves forward, slowly, with the grace of a cat circling its prey, and Endeavor’s stance begins to shift, “Is the great Todoroki Enji going to kill me…” His grin stretches wider and blood starts to streak down his chin and drip from his neck, “Again?” 

From the corner of his eye, two smaller bodies have joined Endeavor, slightly behind him, as if waiting for the hero’s que. 

Endeavor’s expression minutely shifts, “Again?” and his tone becomes indignant, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but who are you to use my name so freely!”

Blue fire begins to lick up his arms, and Dabi registers his body start to shake, “Really… Even up this close — you can’t even recognize me? You did this to me!” 

He’s in the air before he knows it, blue fire propelling his feet to push towards the hero at infinite speed, hands out and aiming for his father’s face. 

His father catches his burning hands with his own, an obviously pained wince that gives Dabi a sick amount of joy. His fire has always been hotter than his father’s, and unlike Dabi, Enji has never had the training to handle it. 

For the first time, it is Enji who cries out in pain. 

 A heinous laughter rips through Dabi’s throat, and he’s nose-to-nose with his father, his eyes so wide that the staples strain and blood trails his cheeks, “Aren’t you so proud of me, Daddy? Look how strong I’ve become!” 

Dabi sees the exact moment Enji recognizes him. The horror across his face is both immensely euphoric and horribly painful. 

“To...uya…?” 

The smell of burning flesh fills his nose. His skin feels like it’s bubbling, blisters forming, and his seams are melting apart. 

Blue eyes much like his own frantically move across Dabi’s face, desperately flicking from his eyes to his eyebrows to his forehead.

Dabi never got around to dying his white roots.

There is no red fire anymore, yet the large hands that grasp his own tighten. 

“Touya.”

All of Dabi’s self control snaps, and blue fire erupts everywhere, completely engulfing father and son. Dabi is going to burn them to ash and send them straight to Hell.

read full story here

my other works

[heartbreakgrill]

kol mikaelson- best friend’s brother, pt. 7- the great war.

“always remember; we’re burned for better. i vowed i would always be yours, cause we survived the great war.”

a/n: why did it take so long for me to write this? why does it suck? anyways this series is over sadly :( imma write smth else just u wait friends :)))

recap: kol went cray cray and nearly killed reader. rebekah still has zero humanity. klaus and elijah are big brother core. slay.

i didn't do well with the brink of death and being covered in my own blood.

my hands were covered in the slick color, pants and shirt drenched, too. i found myself staring down at my hands, eyes distant, mind lost in wonder. i felt a little nauseous, even if i had a magic cure-all in my system.

kol brushed a stray hair from my cheek. it was stuck there by more blood. he rubbed his finger against a stain on my skin. i didn't pay attention to his touches anymore.

i just stared at my blood.

"there's so much," i murmured. i pressed my hands against my shirt, rubbing my palms clean. i drew them back under my gaze, but they were still crimson. i kept rubbing.

"i know, darling," his voice whispered past my ear, winding my hair. "can we stand up? get you cleaned up?"

i shuddered, "i don't think i can stand."

kol must've nodded or hummed in agreement. i can't remember very well.

i bunched my sleeve around my hand and used it as a rag against my other plan. he stood, warm arms dropping from my skin. i felt myself lift off the floor as kol wrapped an arm around my back, under my thighs.

i focused on the wrinkles in my skin, digging out caked blood with my hoodie sleeve. it didn't do much. just stained my already-ruined shirt. i'd probably have to throw it out anyways.

kol ascended the stairs with me in his arms. klaus and elijah were left in our dust. i didn't know what they were doing- what do you do after somebody almost dies? i guess they were used to it. i wasn't. i don't think i'd ever be.

the bedroom door fell shut behind us. kol flipped the toilet lid shut and propped my lucid body down there. he turned towards the shower and let the water begin to steam up.

"darling?"

i finally looked up to him. i'm sure i looked terrible. "wha-what?"

kol squatted before me. he drew my hands away from one another, palms squeezed in his embrace. he bore into my eyes, searching for life, maybe forgiveness. "i'm sorry-" he cut himself off.

tears welled up in his vision.

i couldn't get my body to move. i couldn't get words to come out. i couldn't get myself to comfort him or forgive him or tell him it'll be okay.

because that was kinda fucked up. and i was having a normal human reaction- shock. fear. my heart was still racing. my absence of fight or flight was like a come-down off of drugs. rash. my skin itched. my stomach ached. i guess the blood couldn't fix that.

i remained stoic. kol quickly sniffled, pulling his gaze from mine with a chin tilted towards the floor. he seemed to square his shoulders. diverting his attention again, he untied my shoes, tugged them off my feet.

then, he stood back up. he cupped his hands around my hips. pulled me to my feet. i braced my hands on his shoulders. kol brought my towards the running shower.

his fingers took to the hem of my hoodie. he met my blank stare, "may i?"

i barely nodded.

kol undressed me, slowly, carefully, piling my clothes atop the bathroom sink. he helped me step under the water. i winced as it boiled against my skin. he quickly turned the knob left, heat down.

as the water soaked through my hair, through my scalp, the blood on my body began to run down. i stared at my feet, at the watery red liquid swirling down the drain.

"okay, darling," kol spoke in a low tone, afraid. nervous. "just...call me if you need me."

a slight nod, again. kol pulled the curtain shut. the door clicked behind him.

as the peace and quiet overcame me, the shower a gentle lullaby, i was able to ground my body. my shoulders fell, my neck straightened up. i lifted my chin, i shook my hair down over my back. i washed my body, scrubbed it clean of blood like it was my duty. like it was normal.

my brain ran wild with thoughts. i couldn't pin one down. what was one supposed to think about what had just happened?

on one hand, i was anxious. i wanted to lay down in bed and hide under the covers as if there were a monster in the closet.

on the other, i saddened. the way kol looked- the expression on his face when he threw the fire poker. it was pure fury. it was like he was that monster in the closet.

i was angry, too. he wasn't the only pissed off.

i was angry for myself, for my vulnerability. i was angry for the girl who he left behind. for the girl who risked her friendships, her life, for him.

i was angry that he betrayed my trust. that i'd let him break down my walls with his sappy roadside tears. they meant nothing, apparently. because he promised me he'd try, and he'd completely shit on that idea.

i knew healing- growing- wasn't linear. but, he never even hit the slope. he was on a downward spiral the second that promise left his tongue.

and i deserved better than that.

my head hurt.

i wrapped myself up in a robe and combed through my damp hair. the bathroom light flicked off, and the door fell shut behind me. as the knob clicked into place, lol looked up at me from the bed. he was on the edge, palms pressed against his knees. there were wet streaks running down his face.

and the anger dissolved.

i sat beside him, and leant my head against his strong shoulder. he tilted his head against mine. i slid my hand over his.

"i'm sorry," his voice was quiet, solemn. he sniffled.

i moved his hand around, to entwine my fingers with his. my thoughts were scrambled, and i didn't know what to say.

i shouldn't forgive him.

i should be afraid of him.

i should've never trusted him in the first place.

a mirage of moments flashed through my head as i focused my memory. in the car, opening the door for me. dancing at rebekah's party, spinning in my brand new dress, the world flashing by, his smile peeking in my vision. his favorite color- purple flowers after a winning football game.

i released my breath, my chest relaxing, my shoulders resting. "i forgive you."

we sat there like that for probably an hour. just sinking in one another's presence. the window, open, pushed the breeze through our hair. the music of the night below wafted in like a peaceful reminder of life. i brushed my thumb over the back of kol's hands. his fingers were white as he clutched onto me, hoping to never let me go.

and he wouldn't have to.

kol nudged my head with his own, tilting mine until he could see my face. a gentle smile filled my face. it felt good to do that.

he lifted a hand to my face, pushed hair behind my shoulder. his hold paused at the side of my face, fingers slotted around my ear. i watched his eyes, watched the sadness slowly dissipate into worry, into want, into need.

i let my eyes fall shut and filled the space between us. he kissed me back, sweetly, carefully, delicately.

i brought my touch up to his face, holding him steady against mine. my left hand found the nape of his neck, elbow skin across his shoulder, fingers entwining in his curls.

he moved, crouched, in front of me, to push my back down against my bed. as i fell back, kol's knees on either side of my thighs, i caught my breath. my eyes peeled open to see the sweetest grin on his face.

i smiled, but the feeling of an absent resolution ached in my chest."kol, we should talk-"

he interrupted me with his lips. my eyes fell shut as i leaned into it, back arched off of the mattress. he cradled my face, and his breath puffed in and out against my check from his nose.

i sunk before catching myself. i pressed my hands against his chest. he opened his eyes, drew his lips back for a moment. "we need to talk about- everything," i whispered.

kol frowned. he held my hands, against his chest, before bringing them to his lips. he kissed them, "darling," another kiss on my palms, "i have been a lost ship on the ocean. for forever now. i've finally found my shore- please let me rest."

i gripped the front of his shirt, pulled him back into me. his fingers drug down my sides, around my hips, to the front of my robe. before he could tug it open, i pulled his shirt over his head. his hair ruffled from the maneuver, and i grinned giddily at the sight. kol crinkled his nose at my laughter, before covering me with his body.

his chest was warm, whole, his hands a soft place to land. they slipped the robe from my shoulders, held me against him as he removed from beneath me. i was naked before him, vulnerable, cold. he didn't even take a moment to admire my body. he didn't feel the need to. he just wanted me.

under the covers, we found what we'd lost. i realized no words could fix this- only we could. and that's exactly what we tried to do.

fix. rebuild trust. connect again.

all it took was his hands on my body, his soul at the tips of my fingers.

–

the sun was shining.

that was the first thing i noticed when i woke up.

it stretched across the room, dancing through the sheets, bouncing off the hardwood flooring. glistening on kol's cheek.

he was on his stomach, one arm under the pillow, the other sprawled across my waist. i moved my fingers, to slide up and down his bicep, watching as i left goosebumps.

my eyes moved from the window, to his shut gaze. he looked peaceful. he always did when he slept. but, this was beyond any sleep i'd ever seen him in. he was like an animal that finally found a gentle place to rest it's head, vulnerable, open. snoring, slightly. i brushed my hand over his head, settling his messy hair. his skin and hair were warm beneath my touch.

i glanced around the room, again, appreciating the sunlight, the moment i was living through. but i had to pee.

i set his arm beside his body and slipped out of the bed. his t shirt fell down my thigh, the material soft on my barren body.

when i was done, i washed my hands, and the soap smelled sweet to my senses. it was like i was picking out every good part of the world, now, now that my world was slowly being pieced back together.

as i stepped out of the bathroom, kol looked to me. he was on his back now, sheets pooled at his waist, a sleepy smile on his face.

"g'morning, darling," he rubbed his eyes.

i moved to his side of the bed. as i settled on my feet, he reached out his hands. kol grabbed my waist and pulled me down over his body. i giggled at the sudden movement.

i didn't even wanna this bed. it was secret oasis, safe for the two of us. here, beneath the sheets, nothing else mattered. no deadly supernatural problems, no off-the-rails best friends. none of it.

just when i was sure our skin would attach itself to the sheets, sometime around 1pm, i grew hungry. kol, unwilling, let me out of his embrace.

i put on different clothing, something more appropriate for the kitchen. kol changed as well.

i went to open the door, but kol pushed it shut, arm stretched out before my vision. i sighed, turned back to him. he pressed me against the door and kissed me sweetly.

i nearly sunk into his advances, but i put my hand against his chest. "i'm hungry, kol."

he groaned and planted his forehead into my shoulder. my fingers unconsciously glued themselves to his skin, up his arm. 

"you wouldn't have this issue if you'd let me turn you." his tone was humorous, light. but, my hand froze against his skin, eyes boring into the space my fingers occupied.

kol lifted his head, smiling, but noticed the frown i held. his face dropped. we stood in a momentary silence, unsure of what either of us should say or do.

afraid he would berate me about the decision, i quickly tried to cover the issue with a laugh at his attempted joke. "ha. right, remind me again how awesome you guys are?"

kol searched my face, unable to find any signs. so he smiled, unwittingly. he shook his head and pulled me from the door. "let's get my girl something to eat."

the moment stayed on my chest the whole way down the stairs, lingering in the kitchen. i never gave much thought to it, being a vampire. i always tried to stay out of the way, to stay normal, to stay human.

but, i guess, there was no longer anywhere for me to run. i was knee deep in vampirism. and i was no longer fighting the quick sand.

kol made me some lunch, just a sandwich and chips. then, he excused himself to get a glass of blood.

i watched his shoulders turn the corner from the kitchen, my own frame shrinking. the mask fell and the thoughts raced in.

did i want to be a vampire?

perks: eternal life and money, power...

downsides: being dead, being numb...being a killer.

there had to be more to it. there had to be deeper meaning to vampirism. i searched for poetic justice in everything- i always had. i was hopelessly romantic about every aspect of life. so, what was the stanza here?

elijah appeared a moment after kol left. the door shutting drew my eyes from the kitchen counter. i realized i had stopped chewing my sandwich and quickly swallowed my full mouth.

elijah found my eyes and smiled kindly, "good...afternoon, dear. i would ask if you slept well, but knowing my brother..."

i cringed at the sarcasm. elijah really was the embarrassing older brother i never had. "uh...i don't know how i'm supposed to answer that."

"then the joke landed," he proudly spoke. he rummaged through the cupboards before pulling down a tub of coffee.

as he began to move around the kitchen, making a pot, i fell back into silence. elijah looked back at me, curious.

"everything alright?" he questioned.

i took another bite of my sandwich, "uh...yeah. i guess. why do you ask?"

he turned towards me, leaning back against the counter. "pheromones."

"fuck me," i cursed. i'd forgotten all about that stupid, dead giveaway. i set my food down and took long swig of my water. my mouth was dry.

elijah tilted his head, "you can talk to me. you know that. you always can."

i shook my head with a shrug, "i know. my issues are usually pretty shallow. but..."

"this one isn't."

"do you like being a vampire?" i blurted out.

elijah flicked his brows up in slight surprise. then, he crossed his arms over his chest, thinking, "well, if i had a choice...i think i wouldn't choose."

i sat up in my chair, "what?"

"with me, with my family...nature took its course. it did what it felt was right. i don't believe in a higher power, but i know there is something guiding each of our destinies. my family's destiny has been carved out for thousands of years. you can't fight what is meant to be."

elijah watched my face, waiting for a response. i adjusted in my seat, stunned. "well- what if i don't know what my destiny is?"

"we never know our destinies. they tell us, show us, when we're ready. you simply have to let go, let it happen to you."

the coffee machine clicked, the pot full of a dark brown liquid. it pierced the intense silence. elijah's face twitched. he turned back to the pot and poured a glass.

"as for your destiny, well," he continued, facing me as he walked sideways, towards the door, "i think you'll know when you know."

okay, elijah, please be more cryptic, won't you?

that helped, only an ounce. i kept the memory behind my eyes, in a cabinet somewhere. maybe it would be useful, but as of right now, that gave me nothing.

kol returned shortly after. i had finished my food and was sorting my dishes, clean, in the cupboards.

"you know we have a maid, right, darling?" kol leaned against the counter, watching as i put away my plate.

i shrugged, "i don't pay her, so it feels rude. plus, i'm fully capable of doing it myself."

kol simply smiled at me. his eyes lingered on mine, and his gaze became distant, "you're very...kind. i forgot- i missed how kind you are."

i blushed at the compliment. "oh, don't give me a big head-"

"seriously, darling," kol cupped my waist, pressed his forehead against mine. i felt small, shy under his close gaze and continued appreciations. "you are the purest soul i've ever met. through it all- through everything my family's put you through. i will never be able to show you how grateful i am. i have needed someone like you, you and your kindness, for a thousand years. i have been waiting for it. and i hope i never know another day without it."

there was some poetic justice- eternal love. deep, soul-binding admiration. forever, literally.

my world shifted a little.

i kissed kol sweetly, unable to find words. he was becoming a great man. and it made me happy i had some influence on that.

kol and i made our way to the living room, lazily. we had no plans, we had nowhere to go or be. it was peaceful. all we wanted to do was go back to bed, laze around for another day or five. 

but, then, klaus was there, sitting on the furthest couch, looking distant and solemn, as per usual. elijah sat across from him and he nursed his coffee. they both looked up as we entered.

klaus seemed to have something on his mind. i had learned how to read him and his different pouts.

"what's wrong?" i asked, dropping kol's hand.

klaus sighed and pulled his hand from beneath his chin, where it was leaning. "just...rebekah. i cant help but feel guilty."

"you should-" kol started. i held a hand up and he lowered his tensed shoulders.

"don't blame yourself. it's mainly our fault. but, it's okay. forgiveness is always possible," i assured klaus.

"im just worried she's getting worse.  everyday, more and more of her humanity slips away."

a wave of sadness crushed my rose colored glaze. i wrapped my arms around my stomach. it had been a few days since i'd seen her, but i didn't expect for it to get this bad. bad enough that even klaus was worried.

"should i see her?" i frowned.

elijah glanced up at me, "i don't think it would hurt anything. maybe today will be the day..."

"you say that everyday," klaus spoke, annoyed.

"no sense in not trying," elijah was calm, though his brother's tone was ferocious. "go

, y/n. i'll come with you. kol- stay here."

"what? that will not be happening. rebekah is strong-"

"if she sees you, she'll be pissed," i set a hand on his shoulder, "you'll risk my safety more if you come."

kol's face, hardened by elijah's dismissal, slowly relaxed at my touch. i flashed a reassuring smile. then, i followed the elder mikaelson into the dark, dank hallway leading to rebekah's prison cell.

outside of it, he gave me yet another vile of vampire blood. i cringed at the penny-like taste on my tongue, the thick liquid sliding down my throat like tar. the taste never got any better.

i wondered if it were different as a vampire...i know kol liked the taste, for whatever reason. maybe it became like a hot cup of coffee for them, like a cold glass of whiskey in the evening. maybe it didn't matter so much when you're able to live forever- human blood was just another a singular piece of sand in a thousand years' of deserts and beaches.

elijah took the vial from me, tossed it in a trash can in the corner. i watched it fall into the bin, a small droplet i had left behind splashing against the side of it. a stain against the white trash bag. my eyes lingered, head spacing out as the droplet slid down the side of the bag. elijah touched my arm. i looked at him, a little jolted.

he furrowed his brows, "are you alright? we do not have to do this now, if you're not up for it."

i pressed my hand to my forehead and felt some sweat on my brow. "no, it-its okay. i'm just-" i huffed as the words wouldn't form.

elijah squeezed my arm, "dont fight it, y/n. the answers lie within you- but you can't push them away by running around the problem in your mind. let go."

i took a deep breath. i didn't know- at least, not consciously. and it killed me. i needed to know. i needed to understand and comprehend and come up with a million anecdotes. but, as he instructed, as the breath released my lungs, i let the worries peel away. right now, i was going to devote my thoughts, my heart, to rebekah.

elijah opened the door, held it open for me as i shuffled in. as i lifted my gaze from the ground, i skidded to a stop, my back crashing against elijah's. he set another comforting hand on my arm, steadying me. but, i could not have been more horrified by the sight before me. nothing could comfort me from the way rebekah looked.

she was desiccating. she had been refusing to drink human blood so much that her body was starting to shut down. all over her skin, blackened veins stuck out like sore thumbs- lifeless, still against her body. her blonde hair was beyond matted, with clumps of it strewn across the room. the tip of her forehead, where her hairline began, was bloodied, scabbing. she must've been ripping out her hair, day after day. her body was caked with dirt, too, making her already grey skin look like she had been drug through the mud. and, the worst of it- her eyes.

they were- they weren't eyes. they were just orbs of meaningless space. they stared, straight ahead, though i don't think they were really looking at anything. the usual blue of her beautiful gaze was dark red, bleeding, slowly draining of any life.

rebekah sat against the wall, legs strewn out before her. i pressed into elijah, feeling vomit approaching my throat. but, as soon as the nausea hit me, it was gone. the vampire blood in me tore away any achilles heels i could've possibly my body i felt strong- but i was still upset. tears tickled the tops of my cheeks, my bottom lip wobbling.

elijah mode beside me, towering over my shaking frame with concern. "y/n?" he whispered, half-shielding me from her, "we can go back now. we don't have to-"

"i do," i pushed his arm away, gently, taking a hesitant step forward. rebekah continued staring, right past my shoulder. she was almost in a psychosis.

i approached her, and as i got closer, i noticed the deep cuts from the chains around her wrists and ankles. blood caked her skin in those areas, and her bone was nearly visible from her left wrist. i bit both of my lips, shuddering more. but, i rolled back my shoulders and continued. i crouched down until i was lowered onto my knees. the floor was cold against my leggings. it sent goosebumps across my skin.

i was barely a foot away from rebekah. but she was still was not looking at me. "bekah?" i spoke, carefully, "its me- i-its y/n. i don't know if you can hear me- i'm sorry if i'm bothering you, again. i know how much you like your space," i laughed, tearfully. "i just wanted to say- well, i actually don't know what i want to say. i don't know what to say anymore. but i- i want to give up. thats what i want to do. i want to give up. i want to forget about you and go live my life. i have wasted- no, that sounds rude. you're not a waste- but, no. you know what? you are, just a little bit. i have wasted my entire summer, the summer after i graduated high school, on you. wasted it on pointless conversations, where i continuously beg for your forgiveness. and you insult me, or ignore me, or attack me, try to drink my blood, try to behead me. well guess what? anything i did to you is nothing compared to this. this is unfair. this is- this is cruelty! kol asked me today if i wanted him to turn me. and, you know what? i do. i want to spend forever with him. but i also want to spend it with you. but, this- this is not what i want. i don’t want to be like you. i’m going to be better! i will be better!"

i was growing angrier by the second. i stood up from my knees, began pacing the room. spit flew from my mouth, foul words from my lips. "you dont even feel guilt, or-or pain, for god's sake. you're just sitting there, like a fucking doll, while everyone else is on their hands and knees, breaking their fucking backs for you! you make me want to hate you, you make me want to hate vampires! i never, ever want to become you. i never want to become this! not if this is what i will be! a cold-hearted, emotionless bitch who doesn't even care that her best friend is wasting her life away on you."

i ran out of words to say. my chest heaved up and down with pure rage. i was sucked in air like i was being depraved of life. with a shaking hand, i pushed the hair from my face. from the corner of my eye, i noticed rebekah's head had turned. she was looking directly at me. her eyes met mine. i sucked in a breath and turned around to face her completely, hands still atop my head. they slowly fell to my sides.

there, somewhere deep in her expression, folded in her gaze, was the slightest, tiniest fragment of that deep blue ocean. and, as the water drowned her eyes, a singular tear slipped from it's duct, rolling down her cheek. elijah suddenly stepped forward and i looked to him with concern. 

"rebekah?" he questioned, pulling his hands from his pockets.  she flicked her eyes towards him. "rebekah, are you in there?"

another tear fell.

elijah rushed to his knees before her, wrapping his arms around her back so he could steady her position. i stayed still, standing over them, unsure of what to do. "rebekah, rebekah, its alright. stay still were going to get you healed in no time. y/n, hurry, go retrieve blood bags from the upstairs closet. ask kol, he'll show you where they are!"

i hesitated, my head emptied of reason or conscious decisions. elijah looked up at me, urgency in his eyes, in his tone, "hurry! go! she's in massive amounts of pain!"

he looked back to his sister and quickly unlocked her cuffs. she slumped further into his embrace, head lolling against his shoulder. her gaze was still distant, but tears freely rolled from her eyes. i breathed, deep, and centered my thoughts. i crouched before them, onto my knees again. i rolled up the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

"elijah," i spoke, calm, finally, "here."

he met my eyes, glanced down at my wrist, blue veins pulsing at the tip of my skin. he shook his head, "nonsense! she'll kill you!"

"no, she wont," i shook my head, "shed never kill me. i want to do this for her. please let me," i pushed closer, shoving my arm towards them.

elijah huffed, but hesitantly came to the conclusion i wanted. he lifted rebekah's head towards my wrist. stiffly, she pressed her lips against my skin. they were freezing cold. i shivered. she met my eyes, just as her fangs protruded from her teeth, just as her eyes turned red and her expression went dark.

i winced as she pierced my wrist, and squirmed as i felt the blood being sucked from my veins. elijah held onto her tightly, even as the color slowly moved back through her skin. her hair fell around her shoulders in it's full, blonde waves. the torture on her wrists and ankles covered itself with fresh skin, cold and pale.

elijah grew nervous as she kept feeding. "rebekah, thats enough."

she kept going, for a second longer, and just as he went to reprimand her again, she drew her head back. she closed her eyes, face to the ceiling, as blood trickled from the corners of her mouth. she wiped away with a strong hand. elijah touched her back worriedly. she slowly, surely, let her head fall straight, lids peeling themselves open. she met my gaze first.

her eyes were blue. so blue, so oceanic, so full of fierce waves. i gasped as our gaze clashed, as the slowest, goofiest grin split across her face. poor elijah couldn't get out of the way fast enough before rebekah leaped across the space between us and tackled me into a hug.

-

a month later.

“are you ready?”

kol towered above me, that devious smirk beholding his sharp features. he held out that steady hand, an enticingly sweet offer at his fingertips. i eyed his palm as if i were weighing my options and drug my gaze up to his eyes.

“as i’ll ever be.” i lay my hand gently in his. he tugged me to my feet.

and we began the transformation.

the past month i had spent mourning my life as a human.

i’d visited home, where i bid farewell to my parents. kol compelled them to forget me unless i ever came to visit. as far as they knew, i never existed.

i remember feeling only an ounce of sadness when we cleaned out my room. but, when my bed was carried away, to the truck downstairs, one of kol’s old hoodies peeked out from its hiding spot. the happiness i felt from my new life replaced any remorse i had for my old one.

i even visited jeremy. i knew he would be beyond angry if i told him what was really happening. so, i just told him i was moving to europe. he seemed happy for me.

caroline was. she helped us move my things and was staying in new orleans for the transformation. she was the one person i knew who was an expert at gaining control and keeping it. i wanted her there for every step of this journey.

when we settled back with my things in the compound, my newfound family spent every waking moment ensuring my mortal life felt fulfilled. there wasn’t much you could do as a human that you couldn’t as a vampire- but they tried their best. we celebrated my final mortal birthday party in paris. i basked in the sun each and every moment, tanned my skin peacefully before i’d know a life of paled existence.

but i was more than excited for all i could do once i transformed.

elijah had already been lecturing me, day after day, of what was to come. rebekah, more than once, expressed her doubts, her regrets. but, overall, i knew they wanted me to transform. always and forever didn’t mean anything if i died before them.

besides, kol owed me forever to make up for what i’d waited through. and i knew he intended to fill every second with fulfilled apologies and secure promises.

that’s why i took his hand.

that’s why i drank his blood.

i was nervous, of course.

my hands were shaking, and my heart raced, as he kept his eyes on mine. he softly wrapped his fingers around my throat, holding my neck as loosely as he could.

his eyes were soft, unsure. “darling, you have a choice-“

“i choose you,” i cut him off with a soft shake of my head. i grinned again.

kol sniffled, “how lovely it is to hear that from your lips.”

he snapped my neck.

and i woke up in forever.

[keepsdeathhiscourt]

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature (18+ Only)

Story Summary: It's been ten years since Lucie LeMarche last set foot in New Orleans. But when she's forced to return to bury the woman who raised her, she finds herself pulled into the midst of rising supernatural tensions in the city. Entangled in a web of intrigue and seeking answers, Lucie must learn to navigate a powder keg of warring factions, family secrets, and old wounds if she hopes to survive.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Language, Death, Mourning, Mental Health Issues, Family Drama, Gore, Depictions of Violence, Death

Series Masterlist

Read on AO3

Chapter 20: To Sow, To Reap (Part 1)

Davina sits motionless on the back porch, much as she has for the last hour since dawn broke over the withered garden. Her shoulders hunch the knit blanket still wrapped around her—Lucie’s only concession to her early morning vigil. Her blue eyes fall on her as soon as Lucie steps out, closing the door gently behind her, but she can tell she doesn’t really see her. Sometime in the middle of the sleepless night, the sobbing had abated and been replaced by a cold despondency. It brings with it a helplessness that Lucie isn’t sure how to deal with.

So she does the only thing she knows to do; she stands by and offers her a mug of tea. Pressing the ceramic into Davina’s hands, she doesn’t dare let go until her pale fingers grip the handle. Davina doesn’t drink, doesn’t do anything but stare at it like it’s a foreign object. Not that Lucie expected anything else. At least maybe the warmth will keep the chill at bay.

Lucie turns from the girl to rifle through a nearby storage bin, triumphantly fishing out some worn work gloves and a trowel after some difficulty. She spares Davina one more assessing look and, satisfied that she’s done all she can for her for the time being; she moves to a patch of dead vines, settles on the flagstones, and gets to work. 

Overgrown thistles prick at her fingers through the fabric of her gloves. The crabgrass makes her skin itch, and the effort of bending over the dead foliage makes her backaches. It’s exactly why she’d resigned herself to the endeavor. The effort keeps her body busy and her mind occupied, diverted from any thoughts of last night’s disaster.

She isn’t sure how long she works, mostly in silence, with the odd comment to Davina that gets no response, only that the sun is just starting to light the garden in earnest when she hears a faint rustling behind her. Lucie brushes the sweat from her brow and glances over her shoulder to find Davina slowly making her way towards her, the blanket still enveloping her like a shield. Her steps are hesitant, an almost automatic quality to them, like her body is responding to something her mind isn’t yet aware of. 

Lucie scoots, patting a stack of bricks beside her. Compliant as a little doll, Davina sinks down onto the makeshift. As Lucie retrieves the trowel and returns to her task, she feels her eyes on her, watching with detached curiosity as she works. Casually, she leaves a spare spade beside her, within arm’s reach.

“I never knew so many weeds could exist,” Davina huffs an hour later, rubbing the back of a gloved hand across her brow. Dirt streaks her flushed cheeks, and she leans back on her heels to survey the growing pile of dead thistles beside her. Slowly, as they’ve worked side by side, Lucie’s watched some life return to her and it brings a faint smile to her lips.

“No kidding,” she replies through clenched teeth, giving a victorious snort when the root she’s been struggling with finally comes free in a shower of dirt. 

“This place is a mess. Why are we bothering again?” Davina asks, curiosity belying her exasperation.

“Because dirt and sunshine are good for you,” Lucie says simply, brushing her palms against her pants. “At least that’s what my aunt used to tell us when she woke us up at the ass crack of dawn to help out here.”

“Sounds like she just wanted free labor,” Davina mutters, unimpressed. The signs of grief still hang heavy around her frame, but she’s more alert than she’s been since Rebekah brought her here. 

Lucie thanks whatever power is listening for small victories and chuckles, leaning back onto her wrists. “You have no idea.”

For a while, they fall into a companionable silence, the only sounds are the rustling of leaves and the occasional bird chirping from the nearby trees. Lucie had nearly forgotten how peaceful the garden can be, the subtle, comforting energy that thrums from every corner.

“I like it here,” Davina eventually declares, mirroring Lucie’s own thoughts. Her voice is soft, a small, sad smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “This place is full of good magic. I can feel it—it feel warm…safe.”

Lucie turns to look at her, masking the sudden swirl of emotions springing up from within. 

Safe.

When was the last time Davina had felt safe? Was it hidden away in the attic at St. Ann’s? Before the Harvest? 

She bites the inside of her lip, swallowing down the familiar fury that surges whenever she thinks about the Elders and their warped sense of justice. Davina should be out with friends, worrying about missed curfews, not hiding away in some dead witch’s garden, mourning a friend. 

With no one left to hold to account, Lucie channels the impotent rage into ripping out a stubborn patch of crabgrass with renewed fervor, the roots giving way under her merciless onslaught.

“Hey, Lucie,” Davina says quietly. Something in her voice draws Lucie’s attention, halts her ministrations. There’s a softness there, uncharacteristic uncertainty that makes her inexplicably nervous.

“What is it?” she asks carefully, setting down her trowel and turning to face Davina fully. Then, in a half-hearted attempt to defray the tension, she adds with a weak smile, “I can hear you thinking from here.”

“It’s…well…it’s about your magic,” Davina begins, and Lucie immediately freezes. “When you were helping me in the attic, I felt something…off.”

“You know I’m cut off from the Ancestral Well,” Lucie says levelly and a little guarded. “Strange how?”

“I don’t really know how to describe it,” she admits, her brow furrowing in thought. “At first, I thought maybe it was just me, but it was there again the other night when you helped me with Cami. And I was thinking…maybe I could try something if you let me?”

Unbidden, Lucie’s heart skips a beat. She isn’t sure why the offer sets her mind racing. She knows what she’ll find—the severed link and the atrophied, withered pieces of the magic that’s still left to her. It feels vulnerable, accompanied by a reluctance to be so exposed. But there’s a determination in Davina’s eyes, a fire that she hasn’t seen since Tim gasped his last breath.

And so she asks, resigned, “What do you want to try?”

Davina hesitates, clearly sensing Lucie’s apprehension. “I want to see if there’s something more to your magic, to feel out the severed tied to the Ancestors. Call it an experiment.”

“Okay,” Lucie finally says, her voice steady despite her growing anxiety. “Let’s try it.”

They rise to their feet, Davina leading her to a quieter part of the garden assuming a spot on the stones before the empty fountain. Lucie sits across from her as she takes her hands in her own. The touch is warm and the skin of her palms is soft. 

There’s a shift in the air as Davina’s eyes drift closed and Lucie shuts her own eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin, the chill of the autumn breeze, the earth beneath them. 

For a moment, she feels nothing else. Then, slowly, she notices a strange sensation beneath her, a humming, gentle energy pulsing below the surface, growing like a building fire in a hearth. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but there.

“Do you feel that?” Davina asks, somewhat breathless. There’s an exhilarated quality to her tone and she delves deeper.

The sound of distant knocking cuts through the stupor, shattering the fragile intensity of the moment as the wards make Lucie’s skin tingle.

Eyes snapping open, they lock on Davina’s alarmed stare. 

“Who could that be?” Davina whispers, apprehensive.

Lucie shakes her head, pushing herself up from the ground. “I don’t know. Stay here, I’ll check it out.”

Lucie wrenches the door open just after the thunderous knocking picks up again only to find an unwelcome sight standing amongst the chipped columns of the front porch.

“Hello,” Klaus Mikaelson says, lips curving into an amused smirk as he peers down at her.

Immediately, she moves to close the door, but he catches the edge before she can slam it in his face.

“Don’t worry, love. I’m not here for you,” he says casually, wedging a foot as close as he can to the threshold without crossing the barrier. “I thought Davina and I could have a little chat. Is she in?”

Here to force her onto your side with more murder?” Lucie replies, “That worked so well for you last time.”

Some of the amusement fades from his eyes and Lucie takes a step back, careful to stay on the safe side of the entrance.

“Call me old fashioned.” He steps closer, hand resting on the door frame. “ but I recall it’s impolite to leave a guest standing out in the cold. Now, be a dear and invite me in.”

“Guest implies that you’re welcome—which you’re not.”

Any trace of his grin vanishes, replaced by something far colder, and his eyes narrow.

The sound of a car door slamming breaks their standoff. Lucie peers around Klaus to find Elijah crossing the lawn with Hayley on his heels.

“Good morning, Lucretia,” he says, ascending the porch steps. “Niklaus.”

“What are you doing here, Elijah?” Klaus snaps, pushing away from the door to glare at his brother, then noticing Hayley, “And you, you’re not supposed to leave the compound.”

Hayley bristles, shooting him a look that can only be described as derisive. Elijah steps between the pair. “It happens I have a matter of some importance to discuss with Lucretia and Miss Clare, if you don’t mind.”

“Get in line, brother. I have my own business with the little witch. In fact,” his smile widens, “Maybe I’ll just pop round back and find her myself.”

“You try to set foot in the garden and the wards will melt the skin off your face before you can say ‘sorry, love,’” Lucie hisses, but the threat in undercut by the sound of a phone buzzing.

Niklaus doesn’t react, fishing the phone out of his pocket as the others watch on. The others watch on as his fingers tap away at the screen.

“I’m sorry,” Elijah says dryly, arching a brow. “Are we interrupting something?”

“That was Sophie Deveraux,” he says finally, putting the device away and looking at his brother. “You seem to forget, Elijah, that you’re not the only one with a witch in their pocket. And mine has just let me know that she’s taken care of the wards.”

As if on cue, an enraged scream cuts through the tension. Lucie, Hayley, and Elijah exchange glances. Meanwhile, Klaus watches them with satisfaction.

Then Lucie’s running for the backdoor, Elijah and Hayley on her heels. The hinges groan when she wrenches it open.

“Go. Away,” Davina cries.

Lucie skids to a stop on the front porch just in time to watch Marcel Girard sail through the air and crash against the back fence with bone-rattling force.

A chuckle to her left tells her Klaus has gone around the side and already beat her there. She would be amused if it were anyone else. But it’s Klaus and he’s still solidly on her shit list. All she feels is a flicker of annoyance, shooting him a look before turning back to the situation at hand.

“Davina,” Marcel pants, struggling to his feet in a cloud of dust. “Come on. You’ve gotta talk to me. I haven’t heard a word since—”

“Since your best friend killed my best friend?” Davina stands in the center of the garden, hands curled into claws and eyes blazing with fury.

Her arms raise, but before she can knock him back again, he raises a palm in surrender. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to this kid Tim—”

“I’m sorry you don’t hate Klaus for what he did,” she fires back, “and that you don’t want to make him pay.”

All Lucie can do is watch on, until, a pressure on her shoulder diverts her attention away from the scene. She looks up to find Elijah staring down at her.

“It seems Miss Clare has the situation well in hand. Can we speak inside?” he asks and then, “Perhaps Davina can join us when she’s less…occupied.”

She gives the unfolding scene on last, long look and, satisfied that Davina is alright—that she and Elijah are in earshot should something happen— she follows him inside.

“I must apologize for showing up unannounced,” he starts when they’re situated in the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter, Lucie fights a smile because it’s just…such an Elijah thing to say.

“You know you’re welcome here, Elijah,” She doesn’t mention that on her list of today’s annoying drop-ins, he doesn’t even rank.

He smiles softly, but it’s strained at the edges. “Not long ago, Hayley and I made an…unsettling discovery.”

He reaches inside his suit jacket, retrieving a folded stack of papers. With a jerk of his head, he ushers her towards the living room. She pads after him, pulling her cardigan tighter around herself as she watches him lay each one out on the coffee table with precision.

“Elijah, I don’t…,” she says and then stops because the arrangement clearly makes up a woman’s face. Once she’s seen before. Lucie shakes her head in disbelief. “Is that—”

“Celeste? Yes, a splitting image,” he says gravely, stepping back to inspect his work. His eyes dart to Lucie. “These were retrieved from amongst Miss Clare’s belongings. According to Marcel, she’s been drawing her for months. I had hoped to ask her about them in person.”

At the mention of Celeste’s name, Lucie hears movement nearby. Turning her head toward it, she finds Hayley hovering in the doorway, radiating discomfort.

She opens her mouth to speak when the back door swings wide. Davina spills into the kitchen, Marcel stuck at the door, with their argument playing out in the space between.

“Davina, come on! Can someone invite me in, dammit?” He calls through the open door, hand slamming against the frame hard enough that Lucie hears the wood splinter.

She winces, giving Elijah an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” she says, backing towards the noise. “I should step in before they level the house.” When he nods in understanding, she turns and races for the backdoor. “Hey—don’t break my fucking door.”

Elijah turns in the opposite direction, letting himself out into the shady recess of the front porch, scanning the sunlit world beyond with apprehension. A crash sounds from somewhere inside.

“Well, that’s going well,” Klaus says, appearing at his side.

Elijah hums in response. “If you were trying to win the girl’s trust, perhaps poisoning her one true love wasn’t the most splendid idea.”

“Oh, are there any more inopportune deaths you’d like to wave in my face?” Klaus asks mockingly, but Elijah knows him well enough to hear the uncertainty behind his tone. If he’s looking for absolution for all that’s passed between them in the past months, he’s not ready to give it.

He gives him a steely look, voice tinged with sarcasm as he replies, “Give me a month. I’ll get you a list.”

He had intended to come out here to clear his head, to make sense of the drawings and their implications while he waited for events to settle down enough to carry on the conversation with Lucie. Now, unwilling to spend another moment wallowing in brotherly discord, he steps back inside, leaving an uninvited Klaus to his thoughts.

Hayley, it would seem has been waiting for him.

“Hey, Elijah,” she says, at his elbow the second he enters. There’s something in her voice that gives him pause, an urgency that has him diverting all his attention to her at once. “There’s something I need to tell you—“

“Davina!” Marcel cries, echoed by Lucie, their voices full of such alarm that he and Hayley both turn to the sound.

Through the doorway from the living room, he spies the girl doubled over, Marcel and Lucie huddled around her. Elijah is with them in an instant, standing a few paces back as not to crowd Davina, but close enough to glimpse what has them so frantic.

Davina is slouched over, shoulders shuddering. She coughs, once and again, each more violent than the last. She groans, a little whimper and that’s when he sees it—the dirt escaping from her mouth and littering the tiles.

He has all of a second to step out of the way because Lucie is whispering something urgent to Marcel and then he has Davina in his arms, sweeping through the doorway and depositing her onto the couch in the living room. Elijah watches him crouch at her side, brushing the hair away from her damp forehead while Lucie makes quick work on her shoes.

“Easy, D,” he murmurs. “You’re going to be all right. Deep breaths, okay?”

“What’s all the racket?” Klaus demands from outside. “If someone doesn’t invite me in this bloody instant, I’m going to tear the place apart board by board.”

Lucie looks up from Davina to scowl at him through the screen. “Fine, come in, Klaus. But don’t forget there’s enough magic in this room to rip you apart if you step a toe out of line.”

He smirks in satisfaction, letting himself in. By the time he reaches the living room, his good mood is gone. His eyes flick to the pile of dirt at Davina’s feet, the remnants on her chin. “Bloody hell.”

“Lucie, what’s happening?” Hayley asks, keeping a safe distance.

Lucie shakes her head helplessly. “I have no idea.” She squeezes Davina’s leg, rising to her feet. “I’m going to get you some water.”

But she’s only taken a single step when the house begins to shake. Frames rattle on the walls, the floorboards groan. It’s as if the foundations themselves are quaking.

Lucie staggers to the side as the ground shifts beneath them. Elijah flashes across the room, catching her about the elbow and holding her steady.

It’s then that the last member of the Mikaelson family makes her appearance.

“What the hell is going on here?” Rebekah demands, appearing at the other side of the living room.

Her breath hitches when she sees the somber tableau; Davina stretched out on the couch, face contorted in pain, Marcel kneeling at her side while the rest watch on in trepidation.

Klaus steps forward, features grim. “Davina.”

No one dares speak. Not until Davina is situated in Lucie’s room, tucked soundly between the covers. The soft hum of voices floats down the hall, Rebekah keeping her company while the rest gather in the living room.

“This is madness,” Klaus hisses, assuming a place beside the fireplace. “How can a 16-year-old girl shake the entire Garden District?”

Marcel standing just inside the doorway, situated near the hall, presumably to reach Davina should she need him, shifts anxiously on his feet. “I’ve seen her rock the church, but I’ve never seen anything like this?”

“How did you control her when she was in the attic?” Klaus asks, earning him a pointed look from Marcel.

“I didn’t have to. But then, I never killed her boyfriend.”

“Yes, yes. We’ve been over this part already,” he waves him off, turning to address the room at large. “The point is, in her present state she’s useless as a tool against the witches.”

Lucie rounds on him with a huff of disbelief.

Marcel beats her to it. “She’s not a tool.”

“Something is wrong with her.”

Beside her, Elijah shifts. She watches him cross the room, retrieving his coat and moving for the door with a singular focus.

“Where are you going?”

“This business impacts us all,” he says simply. “I think we should bring in every resource at our disposal. I’d like a word with Sophie Deveraux.”

And with that, he lets himself out the front door. Lucie gives Hayley a questioning look when moves to follow him, but she only gets a little shake of her head in response before she joins him out on the porch, whispering to him in a tone too low for Lucie to understand.

Hayley reaches out for him, but he tugs his arm out of reach and murmurs something to her, jaw tight before marching off, leaving her alone on the porch.

“What was that?” Lucie whispers in a low tone when Hayley resumes a spot at her side.

Hayley swallows hard, eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I fucked up, Lucie. I really, really fucked up.”

Barely half an hour passes when Elijah returns with Sophie Deveraux in tow.

From her place against the far wall, Lucie watches with increasing dread as Sophie explains her plans for Celeste DuBois, grave robbing and all.

“So you’ve stolen the remains of the very person that Davina’s been drawing for months,” Elijah says when they’ve settled into the living room with the others and filled them in on both the drawings and the consecration attempts. “Would you care to explain this starling coincidence?”

Sophie’s eyes dark nervously about the room, into a sea of faces ranging from suspicious to overtly hostile. “I can’t. I didn’t even know who Celeste Dubois was until I—“

The windows rattle, glass threatening to shatter as another earthquake cuts their conversation short.

“Was that Davina?” she asks in a stunned whisper when the ground settles.

“Charming little habit she’s developed,” Klaus replies.

“And the earthquake I felt today?”

This time Rebekah answers, returning from the back bedroom, “Also Davina. And, she’s taken to vomiting dirt.”

Lucie watches Sophie closely, noting the way her eyes go round as saucers and her posture stiffens as she says, “Oh, we have a huge problem. I thought we had more time, but we need to complete the Harvest now.”

Klaus snorts. “Said the desperate witch, conveniently.”

“I’m serious!” Sophie insists, all the while anger roils in Lucie’s belly. “That earthquake you just felt is a preview of the disaster movie that is about to hit us.”

For once, Lucie is on Klaus’ side. And before another word can be said, she’s rounding on Sophie, tone loaded with vitriol. “You so much as lay a finger on Davina and I’ll make you regret it.”

“Give it a rest, Lucie,” she retorts coming to her feet. “You’ve met Davina, you know her story. For months now, she’s been holding all the power of the three girls sacrificed in the Harvest ritual. A force that was meant to flow through her and back into the earth. One person was never meant to hold that much power. It’s tearing her apart, and it will take us down with it.”

For a moment, no one says a word. Lucie stares down Sophie in barely concealed disdain. Marcel radiates malice from his spot near the window, and Klaus and Rebekah exchange a meaningful look.

Then, Elijah steps forward from the fringes of the living room, expression impassive though his eyes are cold.

“You may have convinced my siblings. But you have yet you convince us,” he says, gesturing towards Lucie and Marcel in turn.”

Sophie huffs in exasperation. “We don’t have time to waste. The first sign’s already come and gone—“

“So fix her!” Marcel snaps, voice razored by desperation.”

“I told you; she can’t be fixed.”

Moments later, the ground rumbles once more, violent as if an outside for plucked the Earth between its hands and shook it with maximum force.

“I’ll check on her,” Rebekah says with a sigh, excusing herself and disappearing down the hallway.

“Convinced now?” Sophie rounds on them, the moment everything stabilizes.

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” Klaus says, eyes following Elijah as he paces the length of the room. “Davina must be sacrificed. The sooner the better. There’s no need to let her blow the roof off our heads in the meantime.”

“No way.” In an instant, Marcel is in his face, teeth bared. “You’re not touching her!”

There’s a flurry of motion, a flash of color too quick to catch. The sound of bone colliding with bone erupts and Klaus reels back, eyes blazing and a spectacular red mark on his jaw.

He rubs at the spot gingerly, annoyed. “Given the circumstances, I’ll let you have that one.”

“Marcel,” Elijah begins, ceasing his vigil to face him. “No one wishes to see Davina come to harm less than I, but there is no scenario here in which we simply wait this out.” His expression softens, then, “She’s going to die.”

Lucie, who had been staring down at the wood grain, lost in the whirl of her thoughts, snaps up to look at him, incredulous.

Then Marcel challenges, “According to Sophie, the witch who screwed over everybody here.”

“The Harvest was working before it was stopped,” Elijah explains evenly. “If a nonbeliever like Sophie can come to have faith that these girls will be resurrected, then I, also am a believer.”

Lucie’s ears are ringing now and she doesn’t miss the pointed way in which he avoids her eyes.

“I saved Davina from the Harvest, and now you want me to just hand her over?”

“Do you think I’m happy about this?” Klaus cuts in. “If the witches complete the Harvest, not only do they regain their power, we lose our weapon against them. The earthquake I was willing to chalk up to hideous coincidence, but these winds? If Davina is not sacrificed, then every inch of earth that shook, everything blowing about now will soon be drenched in water and consumed by fire—“

“Oh, now you care about this city.” Marcel’s posture straightens, squaring up to the Mikaelson brothers.

The room spins, making Lucie dizzy as she watches them argue amongst themselves. Suddenly she’s a scared girl of eighteen, sitting in the vestibule of the Lycee as she waits for the Elders to decide how they’re going to get rid of her.

“We ought to,” Elijah counters. “We built it.”

All at once, Lucie pushes away from the wall, interjecting before she has to listen to another word of this. “I can’t believe we’re discussing this. I expected this from Klaus, but the rest of you?”

Marcel trembles with barely concealed rage, visibly restraining himself from attacking Klaus again. Rebekah shuffles uncomfortably from her spot on the couch, and Elijah—Elijah just stares at her with something pained in his eyes.

Sophie, visibly frustrated, is the first to respond. “We don’t have a choice. If we don’t complete the Harvest, Davina will die anyway, and she’ll take the rest of us with her.”

Lucie’s jaw tightens, swallowing the hot coal in an attempt to find her voice. “You talk about her like she’s a problem that needs fixing, Sophie. She’s not a threat to be neutralized—she’s sixteen, for fucks sake A child who’s been let down by the people who were supposed to protect her, over and over. And now, you’re all ready to do it again?”

Rebekah took a step forward, trying to soften the blow. “Lucie, this isn’t about convenience. It’s about survival—hers, ours, the entire city’s. If we don’t act, the power inside Davina will destroy her and everything around her.”

“You were there in the Garden,” she rounds on Rebekah. “She trusts you. Are you ready to look her in the eye and tell her she has to die because a witch from the coven that killed her friends in front of her decided she’s expendable?”

Her eyes land on each of them in turn, some hardened, others conflicted, but each filled with grim resolution. She doesn’t wait for a response, stealing from the room before anyone can say another word.

She hears the front door slam seconds later and knows Marcel has made his own exit.

Lucie doesn’t seek out the refuge of the garden nor the back bedroom where Davina now dozes, sleeping through the sedative coursing through her system. Instead, she makes for the first door on the right, shutting it behind her with finality—as if she might be able to shut out the problem at hand.

Even under a layer of dust, Violette’s room is familiar as an extension of herself. From the ancient headboard of the bed, carved with flowers, to the heavy curtains framing the windows, the space is like a balm to her aching chest. It’s no wonder she sought this space out, reaching out for the comfort of her aunt’s presence on instinct.

She closes her eyes, sinking down onto the patterned quilt stretched over the mattress, and marvels at the way the little bedroom still smells like her. Lucie remembers being a girl, and only recently come to live with Violette. She doesn’t recall the reason, but she can vividly picture burying her face in her aunt’s gray-streaked curls, the hair soft and red as a fox. The way it smelled of rosemary and wisteria—the way the room smells now.

The creak of the door opening pulls her from her thoughts. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Lucie doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

“Lucretia,” Elijah says softly. When a minute passes with no answer, he pleads, “Lucie, look at me.”

And, reluctantly, she does. He’s hovering near the door, carefully closed behind him. His posture is straight, his steps smooth as he draws near, but she doesn’t mix the conflict written plain across his face.

“Did they send you in here to convince me?” she says, eyes fixed on the worn quilt as she picks at a loose thread. “Last I knew, no one of you needed my permission.”

The bitterness in her voice is apparent, even to her. From the other side of the room, she hears him sigh.

“Is it so hard to believe that I came to check on you?”

When she doesn’t say anything, he crosses over to her and in an instant, drops down to crouch in front of her, making it impossible to do anything but meet his serious expression.

“Think of all you know of me, all we’ve been through,” he implores. “If there was any other way, don’t you think I would see it done?”

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. All the while, she feels his stare against her skin and does her best to ignore it. But when she finally looks up, his eyes are imploring and so earnest, she feels herself soften—if only a fraction.

“I can’t bury someone else in that cemetery,” she whispers fiercely, her hands balling up at her side. “I can’t. “

Despite her best efforts, a tear escapes, rolling down her cheek.

There’s a rustling of fabric and in an instant, she’s guided to her feet. His palms are warm as they cradle her face, urging it up to look at him. She feels the fan of his breath, can smell the spiced notes of his cologne. When another tear falls, following the trail of the last, Elijah interrupts its journey with a swipe of his thumb.

“I don’t begrudge you your convictions, Lucie,” he says, so softly it makes her chest ache and she fights the urge to look away. “In fact, they’re a part of why I… admire you so greatly.” His lips curve into the ghost smile, though his eyes are sad. “But right now, we’re backed into a corner with two impossible choices left to us. It’s our responsibility to make the one that spares the most innocent lives, no matter how reprehensible we may find it.”

She exhales, a shuddering, tremulous noise. Barely trusting her voice, she whispers, “Don’t ask me to be okay with this.”

“I’d ask nothing of you, Lucie, except that if you trust nothing else, trust me.”

---

Elijah parts with Lucie with reluctance sometime later. The house is quiet, though tension still lingers in the air, potent as a loaded gun. Usually unaffected by the moods of others, even he finds himself eager to create some distance from the turmoil.

“I was just on my way out,” Niklaus says by way of greeting, falling into step beside him on the way to the door. “Figured I ought to warn a couple of prominent faction members in case the weather gets out of hand. If you fancy yourself as a plus diplomatique, perhaps you’d like to come along?”

Elijah looks at his brother, even in his weariness, he recognizes the olive branch. He smiles softly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not this time. Soon Sophie Deveraux shall be consecrating Celeste’s remains, and though her actions are abominable, still I should pay me respects.”

Something like understanding flickers in Klaus’ eyes, and they part with a nod.

But before Elijah can make his own exit, Hayley catches his stare.

“Hey, do you have a minute?” she asks, a tremor in her voice.

He blinks at her, torn between anger and understanding until the former wins out. “Just on my way out.”

---

“You don’t have to be here for this,” Sabine says softly, coming to stand at Elijah’s side. All the while, he watches on as Sophie arranges the bones in preparation for the consecration—the bones of a woman he once loved. “It’s going to take Sophie some time to finish preparations.”

He breaks his silent vigil long enough to glance at her and then, with a resolute shake of his head, he replies, “I have time. I owe her this.”

His ears are keen enough to catch the little hitch in her breath and imagines the surprised look that must be on her face. “Care to explain why?”

Sophie is still hard at work and under Elijah’s watchful gaze, showing the utmost care and respect for her charge. Reluctantly, he turns away with a sigh and meets Sabine’s eyes. “Have you ever experienced something so profound and wonderful that when it was taken from you, your life felt unbearable?”

She considers a moment, wrapping her arms around her middle. “Yes, I’ve felt that. And I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

He scans her face, the planes and curves of her handsome features, perhaps surprised to find a kindred spirit—at least in this. Maybe that’s why he says, “I believe that when you love someone and that person loves you in return, you’re uniquely vulnerable. They have a power to hurt you that’s like nothing else.”

Unbidden, he thinks of the pain in Lucie’s eyes when he’d sided against her earlier today, the feel of her skin beneath his hands. Before he can examine the thought further, his phone rings.

He excuses himself with a nod of his head, stepping away from the witches. “Rebekah.”

“He’s taken the girl,” she says in a harried rush.

His brow furrows. “Who has?”

“Bloody, bloody Marcel!”

There’s another voice in the background, one he immediately identifies as belonging to Niklaus. “And you wanted to run off and start a life with this backstabber.”

“Says the man who was shacking up with him not two seconds before this all went down.” Elijah sighs, waiting for his siblings to finish their bickering so they can get back to the issue at hand. Finally, Rebekah says, “Okay. We need to divide and conquer if we’re going to stand a chance. He could have gone anywhere.”

“Well, I’m here with Sabine.” He feels her gaze on him at the mention of her name. “We could try a locator spell.”

“Lucie already tried one,” Rebekah says. “But I suppose another couldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll talk to the priest,” Klaus offers. “They might even be at the church. It’s the last place we’d think to look for them, right?”

“Okay, you check the church. I’ll check…everywhere else.” Rebekah sighs in annoyance and the two return to their squabbling as Elijah hangs up the phone.

When he returns, Sophie is done with her preparations and already engaged in the ritual. He watches with morbid curiosity as she picks up Celeste’s skull and holds it to the sky.

“I consecrate these bones to the earth,” she cries. “Ancestors hear me.”

The words stir a hazy sort of recollection within Elijah and when she repeats them, he recognizes them as the same one Lucie had told him about the night she’d accepted his deal. And though he struggles to understand why, a vague uneasiness washes over him.

With one last look at Sophie, he turns and heads for where he had seen Sabine disappear into the mausoleum. To his great relief, she’s gracious enough to accept his request for help without much convincing. And soon, he’s watching on anxiously as she scries over a map, deep in the concentration of a locator spell.

“This isn’t working,” she says finally, eyes fluttering open.

He arches a brow. “She’s nowhere to be found?”

“No, it’s more like she’s everywhere. She’s hemorrhaging magic. Which means we have less time than we thought.” Her voice wavers with frustration as she sets down the scrying crystal. “I have no clue where she is.”

He grasps her hand, imploring. “Please concentrate. Try again.”

The crypt descends into silence and Elijah isn’t sure how long he watches her focused features but after a time, she pulls out of it with a relieved smile.

“Okay. Okay. She’s somewhere near the river. I can’t be more specific.”

“It’s something,” he assures her. “It’s a start.”

But before he can leave to join the search, Sophie appears in the doorway, framed in the moonlight and looking panicked.

“It didn’t work,” she says without preamble. “I tried to consecrate her and absorb her magic, but there’s nothing there.”

“I don’t understand,” he replies with a shake of his head. “A witch’s magic is infused in her bones until consecrated.”

“Well, then someone’s already taken it because there’s nothing there.”

His thoughts turn again to Lucie, to the implications that are starting to press in on him from all sides, and he insists, “There has to be some other way.”

Sabine’s expression is calm, belied by a tick in her jaw. “There is no other way.”

Sophie rakes a hand through her hair, strands sticking up like she’s repeated the action a million times. “Unless you know of some super-powerful dead witch whose bones were never consecrated, it’s over.”

Elijah goes rigid, face a carefully guarded mask even as he says, “No. I’m sorry. I know of no one else.”

He turns his back and sweeps out of the mausoleum, missing the calculating look from Sabine as he goes.

“What do we do, Sabine?” Sophie groans, eyes pleading, when Elijah is long gone. “Do we try again?”

“No, I think I might know where we can find someone else,” she says slowly. “Sophie, do you still have those photocopies Hayley gave you from Elijah’s journal?”

---

Beyond the beating of the rain against the roof, the compound is utterly bereft of all life. Hayley lingers in the courtyard, her back turned to the stairs as she packs the last of the canned food on the table into a cardboard box.

The material is rough beneath her hands and they move mechanically, led by muscle memory and tactile sense. Meanwhile, her mind is far away. Her stomach has been doing sick little flip-flops under her ribcage since she and Klaus left Lucie’s—since Elijah brushed her off. She pictures the hurt on his face when she’d told him what she’d done, the betrayal written plain as day, and knows the rebuff was well deserved.

She bites down on her lower lips, trying to stifle the fresh wave of tears. Despite her best efforts, a sniffle escapes. Angry, she bats the droplet away with her sleeve just as footsteps echo behind her.

“What are you doing?” Klaus asks, coming to stand at her shoulder. His tone is soft and she knows he must have noticed her moment of weakness.

She stiffens, wiping away the last remnants of her tears and disguising it as clearing off some of the dust from beneath her nose. If Klaus picks up on it, he pretends not to notice. “I was gonna take these to the—“

“If you say, ‘Bayou,’ I will find a nice comfy dungeon and throw you in it,” he interrupts, irritation curbed by the underlying concern in his tone. “This is not the night to be out there—“

“—For anyone,” Hayley cuts in. Since the original outbreak of earthquakes, the situation in the city has only grown more dire. Sheets of rain crash over the buildings with the force of tidal waves while hurricane-force winds threaten to shatter windows and bring with it a miserable chill. All she’s been able to think about since is the werewolves —her people— left to the elements somewhere in the wilderness. It drives her to add, “Some people don’t have a choice.”

To her surprise, Klaus pauses, watching with a strange look that tells her he might actually be weighing her words. His expression softens and without another word, he bends down a plucks up the box she’d just folded closed.

“Right,” he sighed, resigned but resolute. “Grab that lot and come with me.”

Hayley can only balk, blinking at him in surprise. And then, she scrambles to grab the nearest box and follows him out of the courtyard.

It’s only a short while later that they make it through the gauntlet of soaked streets to the quiet corner where St. Ann’s rests. The dim lights inside cast long shadows over the crowded space, but it’s a blessing to be out of the rain. Hayley isn’t the only one to think so, judging by the people milled about. Some huddle together in pew, and others form lines to receive food. The atmosphere is full of energy, but one of relief.

They find Father Kieran near the pulpit, speaking to a refugee in soft tones. The conversation comes to an abrupt end when he spots Klaus and Hayley near the doorway, making his excuses and rushing to meet them.

“We still haven’t gone through all that you’ve already provided, Klaus,” Kieran says.

Klaus smiles, ignoring the baffled look from Hayley, save a fleeting glance. “Well, this newest bit isn’t from me.”

Father Kieran’s placid gaze rakes over her face, leaving Hayley feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Oh? That’s very kind of you…?”

“Hayley,” she supplies, hiding her shyness behind a polite smile and diverting her eyes to look around the church. “And these people are…?”

“I asked Father Kieran to give them shelter,” Klaus says with a hint of pride and a crooked smile. “He suffers from an incessant desire to do good. But now, I need you to be useful,” he turns to the priest, all business, “Marcel and Davina have disappeared. I assume from the stupefied look on your face they haven’t sought refuge in your attic.”

Kieran only shakes his head. “No. Those days are gone.”

“Elijah is seeking out a locator spell. But you must energize your resources,” Klaus orders, not missing a beat. “I don’t need to remind you how important it is they be found.”

The priest nods grimly, excusing himself to make some calls and leaving Hayley to turn her attention back to the people in the church. Finally, realization dawns.

“These people…they’re werewolves,” she whispers, unable to keep the confused awe out of her voice. Her eyes dart to Klaus. “And the priest, he said you donated the food. You’re helping them?”

Her head is spinning, disbelief a tangible thing. Yet Klaus only tilts his head, giving her a knowing smile. “They’re not your werewolves. They’re my clan. From very far back. They’ve fallen upon hard times, and their plight has brought out the philanthropist in me. What can I say? Must be Elijah’s influence.”

He shrugs, but Hayley swears she catches a glimmer of self-consciousness in his blue eyes. “What do you mean your clan?”

He shifts his weight, arms crossing over his chest. “The blood that runs in their veins runs in mine. And in our child’s.”

Hayley’s breath hitches, the enormity of what he’s saying crashing over her like the rain outside and she mutters, “This family gets more complicated by the second.”

Klaus draws closer and she can feel his eyes on her face. “Listen, Hayley. A word of advice when dealing with Elijah?” His voice was gentle, almost familial in its sincerity. “Don’t do as I do. Just apologize. He’s accomplished in many things, but he is a master of forgiveness.”

---

It’s a small miracle the glass hasn’t shattered yet. Beneath the fury of the mounting storm, the windows groan and the shutters slam against the side of the LeMarche home as if possessed. From her spot on the couch, Lucie watches sheets of rain explode against the pavement, threatening to wash away the world outside until nothing remains. The fire will come soon and then there will be little they can do.

Her eyes are heavy, puffy from crying, the salt leaving the skin on her cheeks raw. She hates the helpless, hollow feeling in her stomach, the gnawing dread that took hold from the second Sophie proposed completing the Harvest and has only grown tenfold in the tense hours since Marcel disappeared with Davina.

A fire crackles in the hearth. The warmth does little to ease the chill in her bones and the inviting orange glow seems wrong to her in the face of all that’s happened—all that still has to happen.

The floorboards creak and she knows the movements are exaggerated for her benefit, to avoid startling her. Seconds later, Rebekah appears at her side, face pale with worry and eyes resolute.

“Lucie,” she says with a sharpness that tells her that it’s not the first time Rebekah called her name. “Lucie, we have to go. Now.”

The intensity jolts something in her, like a crossing of wires that urges her back to the realm of the living. “What? What’s going on?”

“Davina’s at the docks. Marcel says she’s asking for you.”

There’s no time for questions, no time to process much of anything. She grabs her coat and follows Rebekah out into the storm, cold rain soaking them through almost instantly as they raced out onto the darkened streets.

The air at the docks is thick with petrichor and tension from the moment they arrive. The atmosphere crackles, a surge not unlike static electricity that makes Lucie’s hair on end. Something inside her responds, reaching out to it with invisible hands and she gives a watching Rebekah a grim nod. Davina is here.

She senses her even as they step inside and make their way noiselessly down the hall where voices carry to them from the other end.

“If I can just wait it out a few more weeks,” she hears Davina’s voice say, rough from exhaustion. “Marcel, help me. Please?”

“I will,” Marcel’s voice replies and Lucie doesn’t miss the underlying strain. “And when it’s over, I’ll do what I should have done—get you out of town.”

They round the corner, where the hallway opens up into a wide, open warehouse. Davina is settled against a cot, skin colorless and sweating beading on her forehead. “I had a dream that Tim wasn’t dead,” she murmurs, voice carrying to where Rebekah and Lucie stand unnoticed in the doorway. “He played a song and he kissed me, and we were just normal.”

Lucie glances at Rebekah, ignoring her constricting chest as she watches her step out into the open. “That sounds like a beautiful dream.”

Marcel’s eyes are sharp, angry as they narrow on her. “What are you doing here?”

Rebekah ignores him, her gaze soft where it falls on Davina. “But it was just a dream, wasn’t it darling?”

Lucie’s head snaps towards her, wondering what exactly she’s trying to do. Marcel beats her to it.

“Get out!” he bellows, rising to his feet. Every inch of him radiates with an unspoken threat.

“This is killing her, Marcel,” Rebekah says, undeterred. Though they’re biologically not far off in age, right now she’s every bit the eight hundred years his senior. “Your stubbornness will mean her death.”

The truth of it is apparent. Still, it smarts and Lucie still licks tenderly at the wounds of the group's earlier argument.

Marcel’s jaw ticks. “I promised I’d fight for her. I’m not breaking that promise.”

“No one is asking you not to fight,” Rebekah says for both is benefit and Lucie’s, her expression softening. She turns to Marcel, “But you’re the only family this girl has left. You owe it her to fight for her to live.”

Lucie watches the exchange, observes the ensuing standoff. All the while, she wonders exactly where she falls on the battle lines. It still feels like a gamble, betting Davina’s life on the word of the witches. But she remembers Elijah’s gentle voice, the earnestness in his gaze as he held her face and begged him to trust her. She eases a little. She may not trust Sophie, but she can trust Elijah. And Rebekah.

A rustling noise breaks the stalemate and three sets of eyes watch Davina force herself into a seated position with great effort. Marcel is beside her in an instant, adjusting the pillows to support her. “Take it easy, D. You need to rest.”

She only shakes her head, tendrils of lank hair rippling around her shoulders. “No,” she rasps and her eyes lock on Lucie. “I asked you here. There’s something important. Something you have to know.”

Lucie releases her hold on the door frame, coming closer to Davina despite the knot in her gut. There’s a seriousness in her blue eyes, it almost gives them an unearthly luminosity in the shadowed room.

She waits until Lucie settles on the edge of the cot before she speaks. “When I did the spell in the garden earlier, I confirmed something I suspected back in the attic. Lucie,” she takes Lucie’s hand between her palms, “Your connection to the Ancestral Well was never severed. I felt it. It was faint, but definitely still there. Like music through a wall.”

Each word lands like a physical blow, forcing all the air from Lucie’s lungs until she can only manage a breathless, “I…I don’t understand. I felt it. I felt it disappear when Violette performed the rite.”

Davina’s face crumples with sympathy, her grip tightening. “Violette lied to you. She performed a spell, but not one that severed you from the Ancestors. Lucie, she put a block on your magic.”

[atimeofyourlife]

Hiding my past from my future

day 23 | rated: t | wc: 1372 | prompts: FORCED CHOICE | Public Display | Broken Pedestal | "I'm doing this for you." ALT prompt: Secrets Revealed | cw: past self harm | ao3 Buck only wears long-sleeved uniforms after joining the fire department, after getting splashed with an unknown substance the team find out why.

Buck knew it would get picked up on eventually. He'd managed to evade it through the academy without anyone noticing, only a handful of comments about his insistence of only wearing long sleeves. Long sleeved workout gear, long sleeved uniform shirts. Most people just assumed he had a bunch of tattoos on his forearms that he had to keep covered as per LAFD policy.

Once he'd received his assignment to the 118, he fought to keep it a secret. Ignoring the comments on his choice of uniform, and any mention of him being quick to shower and change without anyone seeing. He just did not want to deal with the awkward and uncomfortable questions that he knew would be sent his way.

It was a couple of months into his probationary year. A medical scene that was the aftermath of a dispute that the police had already cleared. Buck didn't have much to do as there was only one patient, so he was mostly grabbing anything that Hen and Chimney asked for.

As they were preparing to move the patient, Buck noticed a man approaching them.

"Sir, I need to give us space so we can do our job." He did his best to block the mans way to the patient.

"That bitch needs to get whats coming to her." The guy shouted and lunged forward.

"Cap." Buck yelled, jumping back in front of the guy. He felt something splash on him, hitting him on the neck and chest, quickly soaking through his shirt.

The remaining police on the scene were quick to react, tackling the guy to the ground. Bobby and Chimney were close behind, grabbing Buck and guiding him to the engine.

"We need to get this shirt off." Chimney said, but Buck wasn't quite registering what had happened until Chimney was ripping Buck's shirt open, then grabbing scissors for his undershirt.

"What are you doing, stop." Buck pushed Chimney away, panicking at the thought of anyone seeing him shirtless.

"Buck, we need to get your shirts off so we can flush the area. We don't know what you were splashed with. We need to follow protocol." Bobby replied, resting his hand on Buck's shoulder on the side that hadn't been hit with the unknown liquid.

"I. I can wait until we're back at the station. I'll shower it off and change there." Buck was close to begging at this point.

"No can do. It's to limit contact. If it's corrosive, or whatever, the longer it stays on the skin, the more damage it can do." Bobby explained.

Buck didn't respond and just hung his head as Chimney started to cut his undershirt.

"You know, pretty boy like you, I thought you'd always be wanting to show off your muscle. Never expected you to be so shy." Chimney said as he'd cut the shirt through and moved to push it off of Buck's arms.

Buck couldn't rise to the bait, fearing what would come next. He didn't react to the twin gasps of shock as his shirts were removed.

"Let-lets start to flush the area." Chimney said quietly, not coming up with a joke for once.

"Yeah. It's going to be okay, Buck." Bobby added, then both were dousing him with bottled water. It was cold against his skin, but Buck couldn't bring himself to care. Too worried about how they were looking at the fine silvery-white scars that covered both of his arms.

"There's no obvious skin reaction." Chimney murmured, shining his penlight over where it had hit. "No redness, no blistering, no swelling. Feels to be the same temperature as the surrounding skin. Does it feel sore, or does it itch at all, Buck?"

"No." Buck mumbled, unable to meet their eyes. "It's fine."

"Here." Bobby tucked a blanket around Buck's shoulders. "We've been cleared to head back to the station, just need to keep an eye on you to make sure there's nothing that comes of it. An officer will be by to grab your statement."

Buck just nodded, and pulled the blanket tighter around him. Not wanting anyone else to look at him. He moved to pull himself into his seat in the engine, still worried about what would come of it back at the station.

"It's okay, Buck." Chimney murmured, taking the seat next to him.

--

Back at the station, Buck hopped out of the engine and made his way straight to the showers, grabbing a clean uniform on the way. He stayed under the spray for way longer than he usually would, wanting to put off facing his team.

"Buck?" Chimney's voice came from the door to the men's showers. "Cap sent me in to check on you. And to tell you to hurry up, because an officer is here for your statement."

"Yeah. I'm fine." Buck replied, turning the shower off and grabbing his towel. "I'll be out in a minute. Just let me get dressed."

"Not so fast on that one, Buckaroo. He also wants me to take another look at you. Make sure you're not having a reaction." He could hear Chimney's footsteps coming closer to his stall.

Buck groaned and wrapped his towel around his waist and stepped out of the stall, fighting to resist the urge to hunch in on himself and hide.

"There's a little redness." Chimney commented, his fingers ghosting over Buck's skin. "But I'm guessing that's because you've scrubbed pretty hard to get rid of whatever that was."

"Uh-huh. Can I put my clothes on now?" Buck asked, a slight whine in his voice. He felt exposed and wanted to cover up as quickly as possible.

"Buck." Chimney grabbed his shoulder. "You- you know we're not going to judge you for this, right? It doesn't change how we think about you or anything."

Buck scoffed, he'd heard it before that people wouldn't judge for his history of self harming, but they always did.

"I mean it. We've all got our own shit. This job weighs on all of us. None of us are going to judge someone for how they coped with the shit they were dealing with."

Buck nodded and turned to go and get dressed.

--

After he'd given his statement to the police officer, Buck slowly made his way up to the loft, feeling like everyone was looking at him.

"They have any idea what it was that guy threw over you?" Hen called over the back of the couch.

"He said it was piss." Buck replied, thankful they weren't going for the difficult part of the conversation

"Gross." Hen wrinkled her nose. "But at least it was only disgusting and not dangerous."

Buck managed to crack a slight smile at her reaction, and took a seat in one of the chairs. He tried to ignore it, but he could feel Hen, Bobby and Chimney sneaking glances at him.

"I can feel you all looking at me. Just get it over with." Buck sighed.

"We're just concerned about you, Buck." Hen said softly.

"I'm fine." Buck insisted. "It's been ages. And this is why I hid it. Because people get weird about it."

"How long?" Bobby asked.

"Does it matter? It's not like I still do it." Buck was getting defensive, hating that he was being question about such a private part of himself.

"Either you answer our questions, or I'll have to remove you from active duty until you have had a psychiatric evaluation to determine your fitness for duty." Bobby's tone left no room for argument.

"I'm not fucking crazy." Buck burst out.

"No one thinks you're crazy, Buck. We want you to be at your best." Hen moved to his side and took his hand. "But we have seen how badly someone cutting themselves can turn out."

"It's been over two years. It was worst when I was kid." Buck admitted, hoping the little bit of information would satisfy them.

"Okay. If you ever get to that point again, can you just come to one of us? Talk it out and let us help you." Hen offered.

"I'll try."

"That's all we ask for, Buck." Bobby said. "And I'm sorry that this had to be revealed in such a brutal way."

[dogshit-gambler]

Chamomile Dream: Simon ' GHOST ' Riley x F!Reader

Summery: Can't sleep. Time for tea.

SFW - Comfort - Ghost Is Emotionally Constipated But is Trying - God Now I Want Tea - First Person -

Wordcount: 952

It's late. God. Why am I still awake? That familiar feeling of dread when I close my eyes but feel my limbs itch. I know Simon is still next to me, but to say if he's sleeping or not... I'm not sure. I know he hates it when I can't sleep. Every time I whisper 'are you awake?' to him, his hand reaches for mine in a wordless conversation. I don't expect him to solve my sleeping troubles, I just enjoy his company. Even if he is silent, I know he is there with me.

I try not to wake him when I stir. The bed moves easier, it's lighter without him. In my haze, I reach for the lamp. Simon's gone. He's quite famous for midnight walks and working out at the crack of fucking dawn; then again I have no idea what time it is. It's still dark, I know that much. The floor is cold against my feet, usually Simon had the misfortune of feeling my cold skin against his in the middle of the night. It wasn't my fault he radiated heat like a summer fire. He was hot like one too, and I don't exactly mean his looks. He's warm and magnetic, and not too shabby looking either. He hates compliments and still hasn't gotten used to the fact I am full of them. I love him, I do. Part of me wonders if he understands just how much I love him. That's why I shower him in praise even if he hates it.

I'm met with the kitchen light on and the back of Simon Riley facing me. I smell tea on the stove -- it's chamomile. But he hates chamomile, he only buys it because I like it. "Let me guess... Can't sleep?" he asked, still facing the stove. "That's too good for a guess, Simon."

"An educated one, love." I can hear him chuckle, he really does think he's all that. I noticed him steeping tea on the table, it was pure black tea. I know this because that's all he ever drank. "Making tea for two?" I inquire, walking over to him. He turns his chair around to face me, his face tired and sleepless. I know he suffered too, but for a different set of reasons. "May I sit with you, Mr. Riley?" I reached over to stir his tea, the scent over powering. "I'll have to think about that." I noticed him sliding a cup beside his. My cup. The one he bought for me as a move in present, the one he said was cheesy and I'd get sick of looking at it it a week. The same cup he cursed himself for dropping but he was quick enough to catch it.

"I'll let you think, but don't hurt yourself now. While you're thinking, I'll get us some snacks." I watched his lips curl into the subtle smile he always does. He thinks I don't notice but I notice everything about him. When he laughs, he bites his lip after. When he's angry, he bites his cheeks so hard they bleed. Kissing him with the taste of iron isn't exactly pleasant but I've never told him. When he's happy, he's talkative and wants to be around me. I know it seems obvious but nothing is obvious with Simon.

I cut us up apples and oranges, but he hates the fact I sprinkle salt on my fruit. Much like I hate how he drinks his sugar free tea, he doesn't understand why I always do 7 sugar cubes in mine. I watch him add 7 cubes to my cup. I watch as he stirs it to the left while he pours over the boiling tea. I try so hard not to stare at him but I can't help but to notice his hair's gotten longer. Brown tresses just long enough for my fingers to comb through. He's so kind when he wants to be. "Having trouble sleeping these days?" He asks suddenly. I could ask him the same thing.

"Yeah," I say, sitting down in front of him. "I don't know what the problem is. I just... can't sleep at night anymore." He nods slowly, pushing the salt shaker over to me. "Yeah. I know. Why do you think I made 2 cups? I knew you'd be out. You think I haven't notice your little pattern at night?"

"My pattern?" I chuckle.

"Oh, yes. Your pattern. You ask if I'm awake and if I want to stay quiet, you'll go make tea. But you said it's always better when I make it." It is always better when he makes it. Maybe it's the English touch. "I always knew you were awake." He smiles again. "Listen... Y\N," he started. He uses my name often but not like this, not in this concerned tone. "I don't know what it is you're dealing with to plague your sleep, no matter what..." He paused, his eyes looking into mine. His gaze is powerful. "I'll always, and I mean always be by your side. No matter what. If you're anxious, just... tell me. If you're scared, tell me, and I'll neutralize your fears. I promise." I... wasn't expecting this from him. He's showing his feelings for once, something I seldom get to see. I'm grateful for the time we share. "I know you will." There that smile goes again. "I trust you, Simon. I know you'll always look after me."

He takes a sip of my tea this time. "Sweet," he says. "How you like it." I take a sip of his tea, he grins at my disgusted face. "Putrid," I say. "Just how you like it."

[sgtcalhouns]

My Man

take my hand, wreck my plans, that's my man

uhhh hey! sorry it's been a while. I've been trying to get back into the swing of things by rereading some of my old fics, and while reading The Man, I remembered that I had always had a vague idea of what the aftermath of that fic would look like in the back of my mind. I decided to try and flesh it out into a fic of its own, which is um. very nsfw. I hope you enjoy!

This must be heaven. It had to be, because there was no earthly explanation for the pampering Felix was receiving. For the warm glow of candles illuminating the room, for Tamora’s soft hands massaging soothing oil into his tired muscles. He’d been confused when he arrived home and was immediately ushered into the shower, and he’d made a poor show of hiding his disappointment when she declined to join him. After her surprise visit to him at work, he’d been itching to make love to her again.

While he was sulking in the shower, she was transforming their bedroom into a peaceful haven, lighting vanilla-scented candles and covering their bedspread with fluffy towels. He was overwhelmed with love for her as she settled him on his stomach and straddled his lower back. She had stripped down to her bra and underwear to protect her clothes from the massage oil she was gently working into his skin. The massage was intimate, but not inherently sexual; he swore he could feel the love emanating from her palms as she showered him with attention. Her thumbs met on either side of his spine and he hummed as she worked the tense muscles.

“Does that feel good?” she asked.

“Mmhmm,” he sighed.

His eyes were closed, but he heard her chuckle above him.

“Good.”

“Y’know, I’ve never had a massage before,” he said.

“I don’t know if this counts,” she mused. “I’m not exactly a professional.”

“Mm, this is so much better than any professional massage,” he replied.

“And why is that?”

He opened his eyes, and she leaned to the side to meet his gaze.

“Because I’m in love with the masseuse.”

Often, she would tease him for such a cheesy comment, but the events of the day had softened her heart too much to make light of it. Instead, she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, eliciting a giggle when the ends of her short hair tickled his nose.

“I love you, too.”

They fell into a companionable silence as her hands branched out toward his shoulders. Her touch became more gentle as her fingertips brushed over the pink marks her nails had left behind earlier. He sighed blissfully as he soaked up her attention.

“Relaxed?” Tamora asked.

“This is amazing,” Felix nodded. “When you mentioned a massage, I didn’t realize you were gonna do all this. I feel so special.”

“Well, you deserve a little special treatment,” she replied. “You work hard, and you had a big day.”

“I’ll say,” he mumbled with a smile, cheeks flushed pink at the memory.

Her fingertips ran a featherlight path over the scratch marks on his shoulders, making him shiver. From her place on his back, she could see his hands twitch, could feel him shift slightly beneath her. She smiled to herself; his desire was clear. Pumping more oil into her hand, she focused her attention on his left bicep, her slender fingers gently working the tight muscle. The more time she spent doting on him, the more she came to appreciate everything that Felix—this body, these muscles, these callused, gentle hands—did for her on a daily basis.

“You’re always doing little things to make me feel appreciated,” she said. “After I came by to see you today, I realized it’s been a while since I did something like that for you.”

“Tammy, you know you don’t have to do anything for me,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m already the happiest man on earth because I get to come home to you.”

His words quirked her lips up into a smile before she had a moment to resist. At times like this, she struggled to believe someone like Felix could exist; he was simply too good for this world. Switching to his right arm, Tamora gathered her thoughts. There was an ulterior motive to this surprise, and now seemed like the right moment to discuss it.

“Well,” she began with a smile, “we’ll need to make sure you’re in top shape if you’re gonna be building us a house.”

It took a moment before he registered her meaning. His eyes snapped open, and he attempted to push himself up and twist around to look at her.

“Lay back down, I’m not done!” she said with a laugh, gripping his shoulders to remain upright.

“Do you really mean that?” he asked, eyes bursting with excitement. “You’ll let me build you a house?”

Her gaze softened as he spoke. It was unbelievable to her that he was so excited about the prospect of completing such an enormous task, but that was her Felix.

“There’s a lot to consider,” she said, “but I think we should definitely look into it.”

He twisted further, and she recognized the silent plea in his eyes and leaned down to kiss him before he could pull a muscle and ruin all her hard work. This seemed to appease him, and he moved his body back toward the mattress.

“You won’t regret it, Tammy Jean,” he said, smiling so wide it threatened to split his cheeks. “I’ll make sure everything is perfect.”

“I know you will,” she said with a fond smile. “Now, relax.”

He settled back down and closed his eyes, but nothing could wipe the smile off his face. As she smoothed her hands over his back, he tried his best to relax once more, but he was so thrilled he knew the effort was futile.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked after a moment of comfortable silence.

“I’d never really thought about it before,” she answered. “I have everything I need here, and I never bothered to imagine anything else. But hearing you talk about what our future could look like, I could envision it so clearly.”

There was a moment of pause as Tamora reflected, and Felix waited patiently for her to continue.

“The more I thought about it, the more I realized you were right. It would be nice to have a place that we could make our own,” she continued. “Something that belongs to us.”

She was grateful that he couldn’t easily see her face as she spoke. While she had come a long way in terms of voicing her feelings to him, it was sometimes overwhelming to do so to his face. The love that burned in his eyes could be so bright at times that it felt like staring into the sun.

“And, with you in charge, I know I won’t have to worry about the quality of the construction,” she said, smiling along with him. She sat up on her knees. “Turn over for me.”

“Don't you worry, I'll make sure everything is perfect,” he said as he rolled onto his back. She could practically see hearts in his eyes as she settled back down on top of him. “The finest materials, the best construction, the most trustworthy crew. You can even come by and help me supervise if you want.”

“I think I’d rather put your handiwork to the test like we did today,” she said suggestively, reveling in the way his cheeks flushed at the comment.

“You’re in a bit of a precarious position to be bringin’ that up,” he replied, glancing down to where she was seated on his pelvis. “Unless you’re plannin’ to act on it.”

The glimmer of hope in his eyes made her laugh as she reached for the massage oil and squeezed more into her palm.

“Nice try,” she smirked. “But I’m not finished with you yet.”

She ran her hands up the length of his torso, stopping once they reached the curve of his neck.

“This feels so nice,” he sighed, “but it’s startin’ to feel like you’re teasing me on purpose.”

Her hands glided across his chest and down his arms until their fingers were interlinked.

“Maybe I just want to see you all oiled up,” she replied with a quirk of her brow. “Ever consider that?”

He glanced away, bashful in the face of such a comment. She took a moment to admire him; the vivid blush darkening his cheeks made his eyes that much more striking. His round nose and soft jawline made him appear somewhat boyish, but the tough hands that enveloped hers were undoubtedly that of a man—strong, sturdy, and unwaveringly supportive.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” he said. He was trying to keep up with her teasing, but she could hear the slight breathlessness in his voice. “All this attention might start goin’ to my head.”

She smiled down at him.

“Good.”

Leaning down, she pressed her lips against his in a heated kiss and felt him exhale deeply against her. His hands quickly became restless in her grasp as he finally allowed himself to embrace the desire that had been simmering in the pit of his stomach for the better part of the day. He shifted his hips against hers and she chuckled.

“Someone’s eager,” she teased.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he murmured, craning his neck to kiss her again.

Tamora released his hands, gently pushing him down by the shoulders until he was pressed back against the mattress.

“Me too,” she replied. “But after the way I put you to work earlier, I want you to relax.”

She pressed a few soft, slow kisses along his jaw.

“So why don’t you take it easy and let me take care of you?”

Felix shuddered, eyes fluttering shut. He nodded in response to her query, and immediately he felt her soft lips on his neck. It was unusual for him to be the sole recipient of so much attention—his primary focus was always his wife’s pleasure—but she had worked him into such a state of relaxed euphoria that he couldn’t resist. His hands slipped down by his sides until they found purchase in the soft skin on her thighs, fingers pressing into her flesh as her kiss became more aggressive. He huffed in disappointment when she eased off.

“Leave a mark,” he uttered, voice wavering slightly with desire.

“You won’t be able to hide it if you keep taking your shirt off at work,” she replied.

“I don’t want it hidden,” he shot back.

“Is that so?”

“It’s no secret that I belong to you,” he said. “And the fellas at work already saw the scratches you left behind earlier."

"Oops," she chuckled.

Her lips returned to his neck, and he hummed with pleasure as she sucked at his skin. A shockwave of excitement ran up his spine as her teeth sank into his flesh, and a satisfied smile eased its way onto his lips as she tended to the spot with her tongue. Without looking, he could already tell that there would be an impressive mark left behind beneath his shirt collar.

Any attempt to continue the massage was long forgotten as they both allowed their hands to roam. His hands smoothed up her back until they reached the clasp of her bra. Before he could ask her permission to remove it, she captured his lips in a passionate kiss and shrugged her shoulders out of the straps. Taking this as his cue to continue, he unclasped her bra and helped her discard it. She pressed her chest against his, and he relished the skin-to-skin contact. When she lifted herself up enough for him to touch her, he noticed that some of the massage oil had rubbed off on her, and he delighted in the way her breasts slipped in and out of his grasp.

Tamora hummed, leaning into his touch as his callused palms glided over her nipples. She pressed down on his lap, gently rocking her hips against his and taking great satisfaction in the way his hands briefly froze against her as he gasped. He was already hard, she could feel his erection between her legs as she moved, and knowing that he had likely been fighting to keep his arousal under control for hours turned her on more than she cared to admit. 

Despite his arousal, Felix was in no rush to move things along. Her visit to him at work had been exciting, the sort of risk that kept things interesting. Those moments made him feel like a teenager riding the thrill of desire without a second thought. He’d never experienced that sort of desperation in his youth, and it was refreshing to throw caution to the wind when the opportunity presented itself. 

But he and Tamora weren’t teenagers sneaking around, they were husband and wife. They knew one another fully, and the love he carried for her stretched to the farthest corners of his heart. What he cherished more than anything were these moments, when they shut out the rest of the world and simply enjoyed being together. As far as he was concerned, they were the only two people in existence, and they had all the time in the world. His fingers tangled in her hair as he gently pulled her in for a deep kiss, his free hand smoothing down her back and allowing his fingertips to slip just below the waistband of her underwear.

“I thought I might have worn you out earlier,” she murmured, grinning against his lips. “Glad to see I was wrong.”

“Mm, Tammy, I’ve been buzzin’ since the minute you left,” he replied. His fingers shifted further beneath the fabric, pressing into her soft flesh. “I haven’t stopped thinkin about how it felt when you pounced on me at work.”

“Tell me.”

“I just felt so…wanted,” he explained. “I know you want me. You’ve never made me doubt it. But today you didn’t care about anything else that was going on, you just wanted me right then and there…”

He struggled to gather his thoughts as she pressed heated kisses along his jawline.

“And the way you talked to me… I didn’t know a few simple words could light me up like that,” he admitted. 

“Yeah? You like hearing what a big, strong man you are?” she purred in his ear.

“I like hearin’ you say that I’m your man.”

His honesty gave her a moment of pause. It went without saying that he was her man; they were married, and they had been for several years. However, she quickly realized that his sentiment shouldn’t have surprised her. She remembered quite clearly how thrilled he had been to be referred to as her husband in the months following their wedding. While the formality of these titles had never mattered to Tamora, they were clearly a source of pride for Felix. It made perfect sense that the right title would rile him up in bed.

She planned to have some fun with this discovery.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about all day?” 

He shivered as she spoke, her lips pressed against his ear.

“How good it felt when my man picked me up and fucked me against the wall.” 

The words drew an involuntary moan from his lips; they rarely used such coarse language with one another, and the shock alone was nearly enough to push him over the edge. He couldn’t explain the surge of energy that began pulsing through his veins, quieting every thought in his head until there was nothing left but desire. His hand began gently tugging at the waistband of her underwear, and Tamora grinned. She loved Felix and his polite and considerate nature, but it was always exciting when he stopped resisting the urge to take. He could take whatever he wanted from her; there was no one she trusted more.

After slipping out of her own underwear, Tamora pulled off Felix’s boxers. A renewed sense of hunger lit up her eyes as his cock sprang to life before her; she simply couldn’t help herself as her oiled hand wrapped itself around his girth and began pumping. Although she hadn’t let it show, all this waiting had been driving her mad. She felt her walls clench involuntarily as his erection pulsed in her grip, signaling her need. 

Unable to wait any longer, he reached for her hips and pulled her forward until she was poised above him, and a thrill ran down her spine at his display of impatience. Finally, she put an end to their suffering and guided his tip to her entrance. Without hesitation, he shifted his hips and buried himself deep inside her. They both sighed in relief as they settled into a slow rhythm together.

“Is this what you wanted?” she spoke low in his ear.

He released a shuddering breath and nodded.

“Good,” she replied. “My man deserves a treat after a long day at work.”

“Tammy,” he sighed, winding his arms around her. “You’re so good to me.”

It overwhelmed him then, the events of the day, how seen and known and loved he felt because of her. He had spent all day fantasizing about this moment, coming home and making love with his wife, and somehow the reality was better than anything he could’ve imagined.

He craned his neck to kiss her, and Tamora met him halfway for a moment of passion. Though an almost desperate desire fueled their actions, they maintained a steady, controlled pace, allowing themselves to relax into their intimacy instead of rushing through it. There was something romantic about making love this way—holding each other close, appreciating every little sound and touch, and Felix cherished these occasions more than anything. 

Before long, he felt the unmistakable twinge of pleasure in his abdomen that told him he was approaching his orgasm. An upward glance at Tamora’s face revealed that she was on the same path. The slow buildup was as delicious as it was tortuous, embers slowly building into flames that licked their insides in all the best ways. Every needy sound that escaped their lips was more desperate than the last, yet they didn’t give in to the urge to speed up their ascent. 

His hands slid down her body to grab her backside and she gasped as he used his grip on her to guide her hips more firmly against his. The push and pull of his hands was gentle but insistent, and soon his own thrusts deepened, hitting her just right and causing her to cry out in pleasure. The sound was nearly enough to undo him as he struggled to maintain the unhurried pace that had come so naturally just a moment ago. 

“Oh, Tammy…” he stammered, his grip weakening as he began to lose himself to pleasure.

“Don’t you dare stop,” she growled.

“Yes ma’am.”

His voice was breathless, both with desire and reverence. Her command renewed his sense of control, at least enough to make sure that his wife was fully satisfied. His hands squeezed and groped at her supple flesh as he helped her grind against him. She was so beautiful, and her body was so perfect in his arms, writhing on top of him, it was all he could do not to burst. No doubt she could feel his struggle as his cock pulsed inside her; any second now, he would lose control of himself, he was sure of it. 

Suddenly, he felt her hips jerk out of rhythm with his, and he looked up to watch as pleasure overtook her. The sound of her moans was so sweet, and her walls clenched around him just right, he was defenseless as she pushed him over the edge along with her. Neither of them held back their sounds of ecstasy as they rode the high together, finally releasing the pent-up tension they had both spent the afternoon keeping at bay. They held one another close as they slowly worked their way back down, still panting noisily as they slowed to a stop. 

Felix reached up to spoon a bit of hair behind Tamora’s ear so that he could press an exhausted but content kiss to her lips. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he closed his eyes and soaked in the moment as his body began to calm. She was a few seconds ahead of him, and he smiled as he felt her fingertips brush through his hair. 

“Relaxed?” 

“Mmhmm.” His smile grew as he heard her chuckle. “Now you might’ve worn me out for the day.”

“Well, I’d say you’ve earned it,” she replied. “So long as you can stay awake long enough to have a slice of the pie that’s cooling on the counter.”

His eyes slid open, looking up at her face to gauge the sincerity of her words. She smiled down at him without a trace of teasing, and an incredulous laugh escaped him before he could stop himself.

“You mean to tell me that on top of all of this,” he gestured to the candles adorning the room and the massage oil on the nightstand, “you made me a pie today?”

Tamora nodded, and the look of pride on her face made him fall even more deeply in love with her—a feat he hadn’t even thought possible prior to this moment.

“I really am the luckiest man on the planet,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I love you.”

It was almost enough to make her laugh. Felix was building them a house, but a few thoughtful acts had him convinced that he was the lucky one. She knew it would be pointless to argue with him, however. The fact that she was present in his life at all appeared to be some sort of miracle to him, and she had learned a long time ago that he couldn’t be convinced otherwise. Deep down, she held him in the same regard, and while she couldn’t express it as easily as he could, at times like this, she hoped he could feel it. 

“I love you, too.”