#I hear this game has much disturbing content so please be aware

[monstrousmenagerie]

SPECIMEN #42

Daphnia from Linda Cube

[thefanficmonster]

What's It To You?

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Summary: To some people, relationship labels aren’t important. To some they aren’t important only in theory. Well, Y/N finds out she falls in the later category, leading to a falling out with her boyfriend Corpse.

Requested by Anon. You’ll know who you are when you read the fic 😉 Thank you for the ‘angsty argument’ request. I hope I captured what you had in mind and I hope you enjoy the read. Love, Vy 🥰

The time is nearing 7PM and Corpse has barely eaten anything. I always keep track of his meals and time spent in front of a computer screen, making sure he doesn’t spend too much time exhausting his eyes or starving himself. He never notices he’s hungry until he takes a bite of something and his appetite grows in  matter of seconds. The real battle is to get him to take that first bite.

I get up from the couch, walking into the kitchen. I open the fridge, scanning its contents for any ideas that might pop into my head for dinner. When nothing comes to mind, I resort to my last option - asking him. There’s only a slight chance he’ll be of any help. He’ll most likely say he’s not hungry or that he’ll make himself something late. He never does. I’ve gotten used to him being a man-child when it comes to eating. In the eleven months that we’ve been dating, I’ve force fed him more times than he has eaten on his own terms.

I go upstairs, stopping outside the door to his recording room to see if he’s talking to someone so I don’t walk in and interrupt. When no noises come from the inside I knock. 

“Come in.“ 

Upon opening the door, I’m met with Corpse nonchalantly sitting in his desk chair, leaning as back as he can without tipping over. Arms folded behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him. The whole nine yards, suggesting that he not streaming.

“Hey.“ He greets me as he turns his chair a bit in an attempt to face me

“Hey, what’d you like for dinner?“ He opens his mouth to reply the millisecond after I have spoken my question. I already know what that reply will be so I hurry to prevent it, “And no, ‘later’ and ‘I’m not hungry’ aren’t on the menu.“

He sighs, shaking his head as though he’s disappointed that I caught onto his game. The smile that slowly makes its way to his lips, however, suggests that he appreciates my concern. “Grilled cheese sandwiches? I mean, if you feel like it.”

I smile, relieved that the usual convincing portion of our interaction on this specific matter has been avoided. “Ok. Be down in fifteen then.” I give him a nod before heading back out into the hallway.

Before I am able to close the door, I hear someone else’s voice come from behind me. “Hey Corpse, was that on your end?”

Oh shit, he wasn’t muted

“Yeah man, sorry. Accidentally unmuted myself.“ Corpse sounds unbothered by this, but I am a little uneasy now.

Corpse and I have agreed to keep our relationship by a ‘won’t ask, won’t tell’ rule - if someone asks him if he’s in a relationship, he won’t lie and say no, but we haven’t gone public nor do we plan on doing so without someone asking us about it head-on. Well, not us. Him. His friends don’t know me and neither do his fans. I’m not in the same industry. I don’t stream nor film YouTube videos. The most I do for that platform is help Corpse with some editing when he needs to have a rest. So, if anyone were to reveal our relationship, it’d be him.

“Oooh, who was that?“ A girl’s voice asks teasingly. “Corpse, what are you not telling us?“

By this point, I’m out in the hall but I left my ears in the room. I know I’m not in the right here - eavesdropping is most definitely not nice, but I can’t help myself.

I hear him chuckle, “Nah, it’s just my friend Y/N.”

My heart drops so suddenly for a reason beyond my understanding. I feel like a kid feels when it’s told Santa isn’t real - I can’t believe what I heard. 

I hurry to get back downstairs as soon as possible and also as quietly as I can. It’s tough, running with a pit in your stomach and a knot of I’m pretty sure is tears in your throat. When I’m finally in the kitchen, the aforementioned tears are blurring my vision. I try to blink them away but accidentally send one of them trickling down my cheek.

I’m aware this might be an overreaction and if I stopped to think I could probably find ways to justify what Corpse said. But I’m genuinely hurt, and I hate that I am.

I’ve never cared about what others know about me or think of me. Same goes for my relationships. I don’t put labels on things nor on my connection to people. I am surprised and disturbed by how much the label ‘friends’ bothers me. We’ve been dating for almost a year now, you’d think calling me his girlfriend would be second nature. Guess not.

I swallow the hurt and surprise, deciding to keep myself busy with the preparations for the dinner I was planning to make. However, keeping my hands full and giving my eyes a place to look doesn’t stop my thoughts from eating away at me. 

                                                             * * *

Twenty minutes later the sound of a door opening echoes from upstairs, followed by the sound of footsteps going through the hallway and then down the stairs. 

“It smells so good in here.“ He comments, his eyebrows raising when he takes in the freshly made sandwiches on the kitchen island. “You’re the best, Y/N.“

“Hmm, aren’t you lucky you have a friend who knows their way around the kitchen, huh?“ I reply sharply, not even sparing him a glance.

In the twenty minutes I was left alone with my wilding thoughts I declared that I wouldn’t beat around bush when he comes downstairs. That I would address the issue and tell him exactly how I feel about it. What I didn’t plan was being so harsh. I actually barely contain a wince when I realize how sharp of an edge my words had.

I feel ten times more guilty when I see the regret that flashes on his face, “You heard that.” He grips the edges of the table, leaning down and letting out a sigh, “I’m sorry, I panicked.”

The anger in me evaporates, leaving room for the hurt to keep spreading and take over me. I was never really angry with him, I’m just upset by the fact that his immediate reaction wasn’t to refer to me as his girlfriend. 

“Why would you panic? What’s it to you if they know?“ My voice is barely above a whisper now, the tears I’m fighting back are clogging my throat, not allowing me to sound as clearly as I’d like.

“What’s it to you? I thought you didn’t care.“ He argues back, his gaze travelling from the tabletop to my eyes. I see the guilt in all his features and his body language.

“I thought so too.“ I shake my head, “But hearing you call me a ‘friend’...’just a friend’ stings. I don’t even know why, but it does. It feels almost like you are embarrassed of me. If that’s the case you can just tell me, you know?“

In a blink of an eye he’s crouched down in front of me, one hand holding both of mine while the other cups my cheek. “It’s not. It has never been and it will never be the case. You are one amazing person, Y/N. You deserve the world, not to be stuck with me. I’m just...” He trails off, his eyes not able to focus on mine any longer, “I’m scared of how people knowing about us will affect our relationship.”

My blood starts boiling again. I know I need to get away from him before I reach the point of saying something that’ll hurt him, so I untangle my hands from his grasp, pulling away from him. “Weak excuse, Corpse. You know it will change nothing except make me feel more included in your life. I will no longer feel like I’m a house rat no one knows about.” I stand up, unable to look at him, and start heading for the staircase. 

“Y/N, please! ”I stop dead in my tracks when he calls out my name, his footsteps following behind me. “Don’t be...-”

I turn around, cutting him off in the process, “I need to be alone right now.” I tilt my head in the direction of the dining table, “Sit down and eat dinner. We’ll talk...later.”

                                                             * * *

Now that it’s been almost twelve hours with no contact between us I realize that my reaction was justified only to a certain extent. I understand his concerns and I could’ve expressed mine a little more calmly and in a lot less accusatory manner. But what happened happened and all I can do now is go over to him and apologize, establish a proper communication to resolve the issue that I so stupidly blew out of proportion.

My phone died sometime during the night and has been sitting on the charger but still turned off for a while. I go over to it and press-hold the start button. While it’s powering up I start changing my from my pajamas into my regular clothes, noticing a small stain on my shirt in the process. As I’m examining the stain, my phone starts going crazy with notifications, causing me to jump and drop my shirt.

“Fucking hell.” I mumble, disconnecting my phone from the charger and looking at the huge list of notifications on my lock screen. They are all alerts of new followers, likes and tags, non from people I know. Non except one.

@ corpse_husband tagged you in a post 

Wait what?

I tap the notification which leads me to a picture Corpse posted two hours ago. It’s a picture of me taken in the living room without my knowledge. I’m an oversized sweater and yoga pants, my hair in a messy braid and my attention caught by the book in my hands. My glasses have slipped a bit down my nose, suggesting that I’m too concentrated on the contents of the pages in front of me that I haven’t noticed.

We started off as friends but it didn’t take long for her to become my best friend. And then she stole my heart. I know you’ll read this eventually, Y/N. So...hi. Love you. 

PS - the sandwiches were bomb 🖤

I’m more than caught off guard. Like a surprise hug from behind, warmth spreading all throughout my body. 

Without a second of hesitation I put my phone down and run to the bedroom door. However, I don’t make it very far considering I nearly run straight into Corpse’s chest as I exit the room. He catches me before I knock him straight to the ground, thankfully.

“Aren’t you a rocket this morning. Where are you headed?“ He chuckles, holding onto my upper arms.

One look at his smile, a single word out of his mouth and I’m melting. I walk straight into him, wrapping my arms around his torso, hiding my face in his chest. He comfortably rests his chin on the top of my head, not asking any further questions until I finally answer.

“Right here. I was heading for you.“ I whisper before I pull away enough to be able to look him in the eyes. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I was being childish and overdramatic and I’m sorry about all I said. I was really upset.“

“It’s ok, baby. I’m sorry for making you upset in the first place. I understand now how much it means to you.“ He caresses my cheekbone with the back of his hand. “I...um...tried to make things right by...“

I push up on my toes, pressing my lips against his, putting an end to his timid stuttering. “I saw it.” I mumble in the kiss.

“Did you like it?“ 

“I loved it.“

“Did you read the comments?“

My heart skips a beat when I hear that dreaded term. Just the thought of reading through the comments terrifies me. I tell myself that some strangers’ words aren’t gonna have an impact on me, but I know they will. Especially since these ‘strangers’ mean so much to Corpse.

I shake my head. He pulls away, taking my hand and leading me towards the living room. “You have to. You’re gonna love them.”

I reluctantly follow him, plopping down on the couch next to him as he pulls out his phone and scrolls through the comment section of the picture he posted. He was right. All these people have said such things about me and about our relationship. Some verified names are also there, sharing their support much like the fans. 

“See, this is why I was nervous. I’ll have to do duels for your attention now.“ He glances at me, leaning in and kissing my temple as he sometimes does so impulsively.

“You don’t do duels when you are already sitting at the throne. Right next to me.“ I once again capture his lips with mine, tempted to never pull away, but also tempted to keep reading the comments.

Damn, he might be right about the duels.

He takes his phone from me setting it aside as he slowly lifts me and settles me in his lap, never letting our lips detach.

Nevermind. Fuck the duels

@susceptible-but-siriusexual  @simonsbluee  @save-the-sky  @hacker-ghost  @itsminniekat  @bi-andready-tocry  @imtiredaffff  @jazzkaurtheglorious  @hereforbeebo  @fandomgirl17  @chrysanthykios  @maehemscorpyus  @loraleiix  @letsloveimagines  @annshit  @i-cant-choose-a-username-help  @enigmaticmaze

[tailorvizsla]

Hi I love your writing. Could I please request some angst with the lovely Prince Oberyn Martell? thank yoooouuuuuuuuu

Anon, I’m pretty sure you meant to send this to someone else, but I’m more than happy to give it a whirl. 🤣

Title: Mistaken Identity Pairing: Oberyn Martell x Reader Word Count: ~2000 Rating: R Warnings: Angst, but with a happy ending, mentions of sex and violence typical for the show (I think), no explicit content though. Author’s Notes: shrug idk man I know nothing about GoT. This may go really well or it may go really poorly.

📚 My Master List 📚

If you want to be tagged in anything, send me an ask or leave a comment!

Wind howls through the long, winding stone corridors of the ancient castle you call home. Outside, lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the wild, windswept landscape. Whispers of your Prince’s death had taken the castle by storm, occupants and servants alive working themselves into a frenzy until a blood-stained golden cloth had been brought in. It felt like a fist to the gut. Even now, your breath comes in tiny gasps, your head swimming as you struggle to stay on your feet. Now, in your narrow room, you watch as the servants begin to build the funeral pyre in the courtyard.

“Milady,” comes a soft voice from the door.

“I do not wish to be disturbed,” you say, the words thick in your mouth. “Leave.”

“Milady,” your lady’s maid insists. “Please, come away from the window. You will catch your death if you linger in this cold.”

Pursing your lips, you step back, knowing that the older woman speaks the truth. The nights have grown chilly as of late. You wonder if you will ever feel warmth again without Oberyn’s arms around you. How could this have happened?

“Milady, if it pleases you,” she says, standing next to the bed.

She keeps her head bowed, but you can see the apprehensive look on her face, as if she fears you will fly off in a fit of hysterics. Part of you wishes to fly off into hysterics, but you know that you cannot afford to do so. With Oberyn gone, there is no one left to protect you, should someone decide to begin gossiping. You need to worry about what your future will bring, but you cannot bring yourself to such selfish thoughts.

Oberyn is dead. He deserves to be mourned.

She slides the warming pan out from under the sheets as you slide in. The bed is pleasantly warm. As she draws the curtain, she dims the candles and excuses herself. When you are certain she is gone, you grab your dressing gown and sink down into the divan at the end of the bed. His tunic is still here. It looks like he had left for just a moment to attend to business elsewhere, as if he will return in just a few moments’ time.

“Oberyn,” you whisper softly, eyes filling with tears as you stroke the golden silk between your fingers. “Oberyn. How could you leave like this? Without so much as a goodbye?”

Your throat tightens and the tears stream down your face, but you stifle your sobs, lest the maid in the adjoining room hear and come investigate.

“I still remember the day we first met,” you continue softly, running your fingers along the embroidered neckline. “My brother wished to curry your favor. I did not want to come – I confess, I was terrified. I could not stop shaking, praying that you would not notice me. I thought you might eat me like a snake would.”

You had hidden yourself behind your brother, drawing up your veil to conceal your features, hoping that the Prince known as the Red Viper would ignore you. That he would not notice you cowering in terror.

“Of course, I would not be so lucky, would I?” you ask softly, smiling sadly. “You greeted my brother by name. Then you looked at me. I could feel your eyes boring into my soul, Oberyn. Like I was completely bare before you.”

You had kept your eyes downcast and focused on the stone beneath your feet. Then he stepped closer. Then his hand drifted into view. Hard, calloused fingertips pressed against your jaw, as gentle as a butterfly’s wing, tilting your head up. Still, you refused to look at him – still terrified that he would have pupils like a real snake.

“Such lovely eyes,” he remarked, and that had broken your resolve.

You looked him right in the eyes. Even now, you still feel the warmth quivering in your belly when you recall his beautiful brown eyes. They had been filed with fire, burning into your very heart. You had let your eyes admire his features – soft, curling brown hair, prominent brows, and a distinguished nose. A plump lower lip. Carefully trimmed facial hair. Yet you could not stop looking at his eyes, marveling at his warmth.

“Of course, I made a fool of myself,” you whisper, sniffling as you laugh. “Do you remember, what I said next, my prince?” You wipe your eyes. “Oh, Prince Martell, the rumors are false!”

You laugh into the neck of his tunic, catching the faintest whiff of his rapidly fading scent. You choke back a sob, curling forward around the fabric. “You asked me, ‘What rumors, little one?’ And I…I…oh, how did you not refrain from simply removing my head?”

You laugh quietly.

“My Lord, your pupils are round!” you whisper with a soft smile. He had been in utter shock for just a moment before carefully schooling away his response. Before he could respond, your brother had turned and grabbed you by the arm, his other hand rising to beat you for your insult. “But you stopped him from flogging me, Oberyn.”

He caught your brother by the arm and forced it back down, eyes flashing with fury and jaw set tightly.

“I am called the Red Viper,” you whisper softly, remembering the keen look of amusement he had shot at you. “Do not strike her for believing the tales you have likely whispered into her ear.”

Your brother had been furious with you. After the prince had left, he had caught you by the arm and squeezed so hard he left a violent, hand-shaped bruise on you. He had promised to inflict punishment for your embarrassing behavior, to ensure you could never speak so improperly to your lord again.

“Before he could hurt me, you invited me to serve your lady here in the castle,” you continue. “He could not refuse without causing offense, and so you saved me. You have saved me so many times from my own stupidity.”

There had been so, so many of those moments as well.

“You taught me to read, to write, and to defend myself,” you say. “You gave me a dagger, Oberyn. You coated it in poison and made me swear to use it only to protect myself. Without you…what will happen to the kingdom? To your family?...to me?”

Sighing, you let your shoulders sag. You had spent countless nights here with him. From that first encounter where you lay on the bed, stiff as a board, terrified that it really would hurt as much as the married women back home told you it would. Until he told you that you had no obligations to share your bed with him. That he would not force you to partake. That had brought you pause – your brother had often lectured you on what would await you on your wedding night. Drink copiously, he said, it is the only way to make it bearable that first time for a woman.

“You are the only person who listened when I said no,” you say softly, tears splashing onto the fabric, dotting the fabric with damps spots. “You were so kind to me. You were gentle. You showed me that I did not need to be afraid.”

Oberyn then sat on the edge of the bed, tunic unbuttoned to his belly button, and looked at you with those warm, sympathetic, brown eyes. Shyly, you asked him to stay and tell you stories about his time at the Citadel, about the things he had learned there. And he did. He told you about the lands he had traveled to in his youth. The duels he had won. The time spent with the mercenaries in Essos. You marveled at his stories, staring up at him in awe, until you had finally drifted off to sleep in that soft, warm space in his arms.

For a week, he came back every night to hold you and tell you stories.

Then, one afternoon, you happened upon him training with one of his men. You had hidden yourself in the shadows to watch him, stunned into silence as he spun, parried, dodged, and blocked with ease. He moved with such deadly grace, lunging once to claim victory over his opponent.

The uncomfortable throb in your belly lingered until that night, where you shyly confessed to spying on him. He had given you such a mischief-filled smirk, whispering “I know” as his fingers slipped under your skirt.

This time, you encouraged him to continue, biting your lip at the memory of his fine, muscular body as his fingers found your intimacy. He had kissed you, touched you, made you feel like you were floating in the sky like the clouds. Oberyn showed you the most exquisite pleasure at his hand. You had never known such fire, such passion. That was not all he taught you.

“You taught me to stand up for myself. To protect myself when you were not here. How would my family react if they knew I would gut them for touching me?” you ask, hand falling to the sheath on your thigh. “How would they react if they knew I could read, write, and provide for myself?”

Sighing, you press your hand into your face. So many people had tried to take advantage of you, and he had protected you each time. Slowly, surely, you had learned the games played at court, and you adapted.

“Oh, my prince,” you whisper sadly. “Now you are gone, and it feels as if my soul has shattered. Will this ache ever end? Will I ever be whole again without you here?”

Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, you press your face into his tunic again, shoulders shaking as you finally break down and sob. You are only vaguely aware of the door opening and footsteps. A warm hand falls to your shoulder. Pure anger fills you at the thought of the maid touching you. You shove the hand off and jump to your feet, ready to snap at the girl. You come to a half upon seeing those familiar brown eyes.

“O-Oberyn?” you whisper. He grins. You sink down onto the divan, your face draining of its blood as he comes a step closer. He reaches out and presses his fingers to your cheek. He tilts your face up and leans in for a kiss. You stay there, staring up at him.

“I thought – I thought you we-were dead,” you stammer out, shaking your head.

“They neglected to mention which lord was dead,” he says. The impish grin on his face fades away at the expression on your face. “Oh, my sweet – you truly thought I was dead, didn’t you?”

Mutely, you nod, and then the overwhelming relief spills out. You begin to sob into the tunic in your hands. Oberyn joins you on the divan and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his shoulder, inhaling his scent. He smells like sweat and the road, as if he had ridden nonstop to get back home.

“Oh, my sweet, I am here,” he whispers into your hair. “I will not leave you that easily. I am here. Do not cry. It was someone else who perished.”

That does not help you in the least bit. The sobs grow louder, much to your mortification, as you grab great big handfuls of his robes, holding him tight. Oberyn holds you closer, hand massaging your back, as soft noises escape him. It takes a long time before your sobs die down, but he holds you the entire time, never once letting you go.

“Dry your tears,” he soothes. “Do not weep for me.”

He reaches up and brushes one of your tears away with his thumb.

“There we are,” he says. “Let me see that beautiful smile.”

You smile for him. He leans in and presses his lips to yours. You close your eyes, sighing with pleasure as he deepens the kiss, teeth grazing your lower lip. A whimper escapes you as his hand finds your breast. He kneads gently, pinching your areola lightly. When you gasp, his tongue flicks out against yours, his free hand curling around the back of your neck. Before you can gather your thoughts, he pulls away.

“I am going to bathe,” he says. “I will return shortly, my sweet.”

You sulk as he smirks at you.

“Surely you can last?” he asks. “Or would you like to join me in the bath?”

Oh.

“I will join you,” you say, getting to your feet.

Oberyn grins and laughs at you, offering his hand. You take it and let him lead you out of the bedroom, the thoughts of a hot bath soothing away the anxiety and fear that had been plaguing you all day.

-

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Tags:

@hdlynn @princessbatears @oloreaa @phoenixhalliwell @reader-without-a-story @nelba @aeryntheofficial @trippedmetaldetector @jedi-mando @marthastewart89 @razzlefrazzum @paintballkid711 @hayley-the-comet @prxtty-big-simp @aesnawan @leias-left-hair-bun @shadylightbearherring @calamity-queen @pedroepascal @dinsdjarinwp

[pitaparka]

keepin’ busy

request: 5. “I know a few ways we could keep busy…” 19. “Pornhub is giving away free premium right now you perv. Get away from me.” 20. “That’s a dangerous game to play if we’re gonna be stuck with each other for the next four weeks.” with Frank Castle? idk how many prompts per request we're meant to send so I picked my fave 3

summary: frank’s been a lot more… tense, since quarantine started. whether that’s because he’s not taking his rage out on bad guys late at night or because he’s stuck in your house without a little privacy? that’s anyone’s guess… 

pairings: frank castle x reader

word count: 1.9k

warnings: suggestive content, frank has nice hands ;) 

a/n: if only we could go back to a time where we all thought we were getting like, eight weeks off… hah…haha…hahaha…whew… on a less depressing note, jon bernthal is really fucking hot. pretty pretty please send in some requests for my boy frankie :( i love him so much. If you’ve had any ideas floating around you’d like to see written out to completion, now’s the perfect time to see it happen! maybe some smut, or fluff, or angst, or anything really… big love <3

He wasn’t supposed to be staying with you. But apartment hunting when your face has been all over the news recently as one of America’s Most Wanted criminals in the state of New York is kind of hard to do, not to mention when there’s a global pandemic going on. You knew first hand, apartment hunting was hard enough as is. At first, you didn’t really notice him. He would always be out going on runs, exercising in the basement in order to not disturb any neighbors, and guarding the streets at night, like a vigilante cop. Soon, he was staying home more than he was patrolling. Frank still got out from time to time, but it was hard to catch bad guys when they were at home, drinking and sleeping and waiting to be able to go back to causing trouble again.

You hadn’t touched anyone in weeks. You were starving for affection of any kind. You missed hugging your friends, awkward cheek kisses from your family, even shaking hands with strangers at this rate. What you wouldn’t give for a nice firm handshake… 

It was driving you crazy. Frank on the other hand, was making the most out of his time stuck in your apartment. He had recently gotten into a netflix show, you had noticed, which was just one of the luxuries exposed to him during the pandemic. He strummed on your old guitar, the one you barely played anymore, if at all. It was a surprise to hear, but you knew from the familiar sounds of tuning and plucking strings that it was not coming from the television. It was a nice thing to see, him hunched over on your couch, guitar case open on the floor, fiddling with the capo for a song he knew by heart. It was nice he could let his guard down a little bit. He was even learning how to cook, and could make a mean fettuccine alfredo for the two of you. 

Frank was a very domestic man outside of his nightly routine of making New York a cleaner place to live. 

Nights were different now. You two sat together on the couch, your head on his shoulder, dozing off against him as he tried to clue you in on what was happening. It was a gangster show, but that was the only thing you gleaned from his run down. 

“I bet you were a mafia man in a past life,” you said, breaking the silence between the two of you. He tore his gaze from the television.

“What?” he said, smiling down at you. You didn’t look away from the TV, but continued.

“Like, a mafia boss or something. Yeah, I can see that.” “Where is this comin’ from?” he asks.

You hum as you imagine it, ignoring his question. 

“You’re weird,” he comments, and he puts his legs up on the coffee table.

“You can see?” he asks, and his feet are in the way of the screen but you’re not really watching it anyway, so you nod your head against his shoulder. He moves his arm behind your head and rubs your shoulder softly before resting it over the arm of the couch. You readjust yourself, head on his thigh, curling up into Frank. It became easier to listen to his breathing when he turned the volume down a bit, fully aware of you on his lap. It didn’t take long before you dozed off, but when you woke up, you were in your bedroom, shrouded in darkness, covered carefully by a comforter. 

OVER the course of the coming week, the two of you get closer. You’d even become invested in the show he’d started watching. 

With your closeness, you hadn’t noticed you started touching Frank a lot more. 

Nothing you wouldn’t do to your other friends. It was mainly just laying your head on his, playing old hand games you remembered from your childhood, and petting the back of his neck. It was absent minded, and it was only because he had shown you how to cut his hair with his old beard clippers. When asked about why you would run your hands over the prickly surface, you explained it felt nice, and that you had the right to admire your handiwork. 

Later into the quarantine you ordered a palmistry book, and since nobody else was around, you asked Frank to read his palms. He of course was hesitant, but did as you asked, handing over his right hand for you to examine. His nails were nicely trimmed, you noticed immediately. The tips of his fingers were calloused, as were his palms, the skin cracked under harsh and constant use. He held the flashlight from your phone as you read from the book and bent and pulled at the taut skin there. You read him his diagnosis, and he said it was all bullshit, like astrology. You just think he didn’t like being labelled as a dreamer. 

It really only heated up when you asked for the massage.

You said it as a joke, but Frank was by your side, rolling his eyes and pushing up the sleeves on his black Henley before you looked up at him.

“Oh shit, you’re actually gonna do it?” You mused, flipping yourself over. Very briefly you were self conscious of your lounge shorts and novelty shirt that was a size too big. But just for a second, because then Frank was straddling your back, considerately resting most of his weight on his knees, kneading your shoulders with his big hands. His palms work the knots out and you breathe a little lighter as he trails downward, pressing hard into your lower back. It makes you moan a little bit, but if he hears you, he doesn't acknowledge it. He takes precious time down there, all fingers and knuckles and palms, pushing hard into your soft skin, almost like he’s done this before. 

You feel him back up off of you, and you note the lack of contact, making you open your eyes for a second. His thumbs push and pull the soft flesh of your calves. It’s only moments before they move softly up your thigh, sending shivers down your back. He goes just a smidgen too high for comfort. It makes your heart jump into your throat, and you wriggle out from his grip.

“Pornhub is giving away free premium right now, you perv. Get away from me,” you say playfully, smile on your face. It’s not contagious.

“I thought that’s what you wanted?” He spoke, confused. Your brows furrowed.

“What?”

“You’ve been doing little things all week like that… ‘thought you wanted me to… God, never mind. I’m just… I’m sorry,” he apologizes, and stands up from the couch. 

You’re dumbfounded. You don’t know what to do. But you know you don’t want him to leave.

“What?” you respond again, this time with even more confusion.

“Don’t worry about it, you’re fine,” he says, making his way down the hall. Did he mean what he said? Did he say what he meant?

You stood up hastily to follow him, tripping over your own feet in pursuit. His hand is on the door handle to your office, which had since been converted into a room for Frank, complete with luxuries such as a pull out futon and fast internet speeds (thanks to the router being in there).

“Frank,” you said, stopping at the beginning of the hallway. You watched his hand grip the knob. His shoulders rise and fall with his breathing.

“I…” you start, but don’t know where to go. What to say. You’re confused, and you don’t want him to be upset. Not even at you, just in general. You can’t stand the lack of contact with the outside world already. It would suck to be alienated by your… roommate? If you could even call him that.

“What is this?” you say, and he spins around to look at you. 

Now it’s his turn to be confused.

“What?” he questions, and his shoulders are squared and tense.

“Where is this coming from? I mean… yeah, but… me?”

His brows are furrowed and he squints at you suspiciously.

“You?” He questions.

“I guess quarantine is taking a toll on everyone, and you can’t really see anyone else… do you… do you really want…”

“Do I really want what?”

You could barely look at him, eyes tracing the wood patterns in the floor and the door behind him. 

“Do you want that, Frank?” You ask. Your eyes meet his.

“Do I want what?” He asks again, irritated. You sigh gently, and your feet move on their own accord, anticipation and worry festering where your heart should be. He watches you come to him.

You stand in front of him, your feet almost touching, your hands by your side.

His eyes are dark in the dimly lit hallway. His gaze is intense.

You reach your hand out to him, taking one of his hands in yours and squeezing it, pulling it closer to you. He moves his head closer to yours, tentatively stopping within centimetres of your lips.

Then he’s on top of you, pushing his lips into yours, unyielding and feverish. His hand comes up to cup the nape of your neck and you breathe heavily into the kiss, softening under his touch. 

He pulls away, and you’re panting with the intensity of it.

“That’s new,” you say, backing up slightly. He smiles mischievously.

“We can take it slow.”

THE television in your room is smaller than the one in the living room, and has remained largely unused since Frank moved in. 

It’s nice to have Frank in bed with you. There are flashes of color bouncing off the walls of your dark bedroom. It’s not Frank’s mafia show tonight. It’s the news.

“It’s crazy out there,” you interrupt. “Never seen anything like it.”

Andrew Cuomo is on screen, making important announcements about the state of New York, when he changes your whole outlook in just a few words.

Statewide shutdown ends May 15th, adding another month on top of your quarantine with Frank. A lot longer than you had originally anticipated.

“That’s... two whole months, huh?” He ponders, your back pressed up against his chest in your bed.

“I know a few ways we could keep busy…” you suggested, tracing patterns up his arm. You tilted your head up to look at him.

“That’s a dangerous game to play if we’re going to be stuck with each other for the next few weeks,” he spoke quietly, tension thick in the air. He was so close you could feel his breath on your lips. 

His hand cups your chin and throat, and you swallow hard, gaze unwavering. You lick your lips inadvertently. 

He comes in even closer, and envelopes you in a soft kiss. Frank being a sweet lover, you never would have guessed. Your skull is cradled in his big hands, and it makes you notice how vulnerable you are to him. Your neck exposed, bodies pressed against each other in a hot passion. His lips are a little rougher down other parts of your body, but his hands are always soft and firm, touching and squeezing and dragging his fingertips down your stomach. He’s painstakingly slow with it, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat. What a tease. He knows what he’s doing to you, and it drives you crazy. It would be a long night. 

Frank knows how to take care of a partner, too. Only in his case, it’s not bandaging and stitching. It’s much, much more pleasant.

[effymaybe]

Might buy, might bite

Lisa is having a terrible night. She makes some poor decisions, unaware of a certain creature awaiting in the dark. - 

Vampire!Jennie because it is not Halloween but vampires are always cool.

Pairing: Jennie/Lisa

Warnings: Mature content but the sexy kind / Vampires are not known by establishing ideally healthy relationships on the first try / I haven’t written in months and you CAN notice 

The night is unusually dark.

The few stars above palpitate almost painfully, and the darkish clouds invisible against the black mattress of the sky become only evident as they engulf the full moon in a loose hug. The contrast creates a faint, somber light that coats the quiet neighborhood as in a silent spell, and the yellowish glow of the few artificial lanterns surrounding the street only contribute to the mysterious vibe of the otherwise familiar landscape.

The absolutely rational portion of Lisa’s brain knows very well that a woman should never walk alone at night. She also knows, stored along other probably-live-saving hacks, that in case of finding herself indeed walking alone at night, she should never ever choose a lonely, poorly illuminated shortcut to reach her destination.

Now, although Lisa’s rationale works quite well, her emotional side couldn’t give less a fuck about surviving.

And that’s how she finds herself walking-running-crying throughout the most dangerous way home.

Her overly-expensive makeup is intact, thankfully, but the tight white dress she chose to impersonate an angel at that damn Halloween party is crumbled everywhere. Her long, black hair is quite messy, but at least her bangs are still in place. She’s running in her heels, much at the sake of her feet, and the ridiculous white wings she was so proud about just three hours ago hit softly against her back as she rushes to burry herself under a billion mattresses.

It’s pitiable, really, how he manages to break her heart in more and more pieces every time she decides to put it back into his hands.

It’s pitiable, too, how every single person she knows manages to betray her at least once.

Lisa stops in her tracks, feeling her long legs weakening suddenly. A ragged sob escapes from her plump lips as she brings her hands up to contain the tears spilling mercilessly from her eyes.

It was supposed to be a fun, happy party to celebrate that the big group of whatever they mean with “friends” could finally gather together after a long time of isolation. She prepared herself along with the girls, her own doe eyes shining in poorly-hidden excitement. She laughed genuinely at the questionably-mannered comments about her costume, drank a bit of rosé even before they got to the gathering. Once there, her boyfriend dedicated her a crooked, cocky smile and grasped her roughly by the waist in what Lisa considered a sign of appreciation. They danced and they drank alcohol. At some point, the brunette thought that her partner was going to kiss her, but he merely hugged her stiffly every time Lisa stared into his eyes.  

Then, time passed and he disappeared. Lisa’s so-called friends spread throughout the place to dance without her. Her feet started to hurt and the party got uncomfortably warm. She looked for him with her doe eyes lost under the flashing lights until she decided he wasn’t on the gigantic living room.

Then, she looked upstairs.

And she heard the moans even before she actually saw something.

Lisa didn’t want it to be her boyfriend. Her hands shook as she merely pushed the half-closed door completely open. She stared with her heart already weeping as the man that had promised her never to hurt her again twice engaged quite passionately in a much intimate activity with a girl who, amidst the dirty blonde hair covering her face, looked quite familiar.

It only took Lisa two seconds.

Her boyfriend was fucking her best friend.

Lisa ran downstairs, crying, ignoring her now ex-boyfriend’s weak protests and her ex-best-friend’s voice basically begging him to forget her and come back to bed. When she found to her group, or what she could gather of it, with her eyes already filled with tears, the simply told her that of course they knew and that she was kinda stupid not to notice, really.

Lisa bolted out of the party with her usually sunny spirit completely shattered.

Which brings her to her current situation, still sobbing desperately as the alley she is walking through gets gloomier and gloomier.

Fuck him. Fuck them, too. I deserve better. I deserve-

She catches a weak, airy sound with her left ear.

Lisa turns around suddenly sober and suddenly very much aware of the fact that she got herself in quite a disadvantageous situation.

The night got warmer, somehow. The moonlight has given up under the insisting obscure clouds.

Lisa feels the cold shiver of pure fear shooting through her spine and relaxes only slightly when she cannot spot anybody around the place.

She swallows thickly as she starts to walk faster, her footwear clicking on the pavement almost as if giving her in.

The brunette feels wired in, hyperaware. The fain sound of the wind makes her shoulders tense. She catches a quick shadow with the corner of her eye and only gets more nervous when she can still see nothing.

The narrow space crooks at some point, and Lisa inhales deeply.

She can do it.

She will walk straight home and gather plenty of strength and call her stupid ex-boyfriend to tell him-

But she cannot keep walking.

As her slender body submerges more profoundly into the darkness of the night, a strong grip pushes her against the rough, cold wall of the alley. She fights back, absolutely terrified. Her heart hammers painfully against her choked chest, and she feels the tingles of pure adrenaline strengthening her arms.

And yet, the grip remains solid.

Lisa thinks about shouting, crying, breaking down in a loud wail hoping to be rescued. Just then, with her voice already reaching her throat, she realizes that the figure keeping her in place is slightly shorter than her.

Feminine, surprisingly delicate.

Lisa can’t scream.

Her eyes search widely the ones of her captor, absolutely dumbfounded, and it is at that moment when the moon can finally push the disturbing darkness away from its light.

As the alley gets brighter, Lisa is left absolutely breathless.

Just in front of her, with both hands immobilizing her body completely, stands the most beautiful girl Lisa has seen in her entire life.

Her face is soft, but cut sharply by prominent cheekbones. Her eyes, dark as the silent sky, are drawn in a cat-line shape that makes her gaze simply melting. Her nose is delicate, small, and her indented philtrum leads to luscious, curved lips. Her forehead is half-covered by open bangs, and her light-brownish hair falls in irresistible waves against her soft jaw. Her dress, tight, black, and visibly expensive, exposes prominent collarbones and a set of curves that should be illegal for a single woman to have.

Lisa only realizes that she’s staring when she hears a soft teasing chuckle.

“Well, hello, honey”.

The brunette presses her lips together in a nervous habit. The girl’s voice is sultry, tempting.

She finds herself struggling for a few seconds before answering.

“Huh- Who…? What…?”

The beauty in front of her licks her mouth almost as if gloating. Her grip remains stoic.

“Who are you, honey?”

Lisa feels somewhat offended. She tears her astonished gaze away from the girl’s face to focus on trying to escape.

“No, who are you? What is this? Let me go!”

She tries with all her will, but the light-brunette’s grip does not give in.

There is something… wrong with it. Cold. Too steady.

It feels like she’s struggling against iron.

Another chuckle heats up her cheeks.

“I’m Jennie”, she hears, and Lisa stops fighting for a moment, “There is no need to be so rude. I was just trying to put a name on my next meal”.

The tallest girl scoffs loudly but grows quiet at the girl’s determined expression.

Jennie doesn’t sound like she’s joking.

“You smell so good”, the shortest girl murmurs. Lisa can’t move. She’s suddenly scared again, as her brain tries desperately to put some of the pieces of all that nonsense together. “Let me….”. The light-brunette shifts, burring her face bluntly against her neck. Lisa is still terrified, really, but Jennie’s chilly breath against her skin rises pleased goosebumps here and there.

The shortest girl runs her nose up her prey’s throat, absolutely delighted.

“Oh, sweetie, you smell fantastic. Fuck”.

Lisa trembles as her skepticism falters.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. What the hell are you?”

She hears a delicate, throaty chuckle vibrating against her pulse point.

Lisa’s knees give in further, somehow.

She tries earnestly to remind herself that the serious possibility of getting murdered in the same night she found her boyfriend having sex with her best friend should not be sexy at all.

“You know the answer, already, cutie. Don’t you?”

Jennie pulls away to lock her gaze with Lisa’s again. There is a predatory glint, a paralyzing edge that makes her cat-like eyes seem as if they could pick on every piece of the tallest girl’s soul.

“I… yes. No, I mean…. You don’t exist. This can’t be”.

The shortest girl’s lets a perfect eyebrow curve in a teasing manner. Lisa can tell that she’s plenty enjoying whatever sick pre-murder game she’s playing. She’s beautiful, the dark-haired girl thinks helplessly. Stunning. Jennie’s luscious mouth spreads in an open, gummy smile that would look adorable if it wasn’t for the –absolutely threatening and not at all attractive- sight of her pointy fangs in display. Lisa manages to stop staring at the girl’s reddened lips to focus on her intense orbs once again, and she lets out a breathless gasp when she sees deep coffee turning into bloody red.

“I do very much exist, gorgeous. And this definitely can be. I wasn’t even going to hunt today, but…” Jennie brings mouth closer to Lisa’s jaw. “Your scent… I had to have you”.

Jennie is not exactly courting. She’s more like being a blood-thirsty, all-powerful, over-intense vampire. Yet, Lisa finds herself blushing like a damn idiot. She knows, at a relatively conscious level, that the smoking light-brunette is just speaking about the very much needed liquid that runs through her veins and not about her whole physique.

She’s about to be Jennie’s next meal. And as the vampire´s fingers indent more profoundly in her skin, she discovers that there is no way out.

So she stays, somewhat embracing her destiny. Her ex-friends are shit. Her ex-boyfriend is shit. Her father is shit. She doesn’t really know whether her mom is shit or not because she abandoned when she was a child so- well that probably makes her shit, too.

At least she’ll die at the hands of a gorgeous woman.

Meanwhile, Jennie’s stare has changed. Deep red has settled in her orbs, but now she’s staring at Lisa’s features with scrutinizing detail. Her head is tilted. The tallest girl can see the delicate mole sitting just above her left eye. Her aura is intense, and definitely hypnotizing, and the brunette finds out that she has stopped fighting against the vampire’s embrace long minutes ago.

“You are so beautiful, sweetheart”, Jennie murmurs suddenly, and lets the pad of her index finger run softly against Lisa’s forehead, then the bridge of her nose, her pouty lips, her strong jaw. The tallest girl trembles, finding it difficult to draw deep breaths. Jennie’s touch is icy against her overly-heated face and it feels so nice, so charming. “So beautiful, baby. Tell me your name”.

And Lisa doesn’t even put up a fight.

“Lisa…Manoban”.

“Mmh, we’ll see that”, Jennie answers, and licks her lips as she traces her blunt nails against her prey’s throat. “You are so enticing, darling”, then, as an afterthought, Jennie brings her gaze up to Lisa’s mouth, “I bet you have an owner already… well… that’s not my problem, really”.

A twisted smile crawls up Jennie’s smug expression, and the brunette scoffs loudly.

“I do not have-”, her voice falters as the vampire’s starts to trace messy patterns up and down her thigs, “An owner. I mean, nobody does. It is not-”, the shortest girl’s nose dips back into her neck, “It doesn’t work like that”.

She feels another cold chuckle pressing against her skin.

“Fine, then. A boyfriend? A girlfriend? A partner?”

Lisa opens her mouth to answer. She’s about to be dismissive, really. If the vampire is really about to suck her dry, there is no need for her to put her fingers inside such a hurtful open wound.

But she can’t speak. She feels her lungs aching for air as Jennie starts to drag her velvety lips against her racing pulse point.

“I asked you a question”, she hears up her jaw, “Do you have a partner, Lisa?”. Jennie’s left arm squeezes Lisa’s small waist firmly, demanding. The tallest girl feels hazy as the vampire leaves open-mouthed kisses along her exposed skin.

“I- no. No, he… he cheated on me”.

Lisa guesses that the mere thought of the past events in the night should make her feel profoundly depressed. It’s actually kind of hard to think properly with the vampire’s sweet scent engulfing her senses.

Jennie stops suddenly, and the tallest girl feels irrationally disappointed.

“Is that why you were crying?”, the shortest girl asks, her red eyes- now more threatening than ever- burning into Lisa’s doe stare.

“I… how long have you been-”

The light-brunette frowns as her mouth curls downwards.

Lisa realizes that the girl likes her answers straight.

Well, damn.

“Since you left that stupidly loud party. What a waste of time for a beauty like you”.

The brunette is left speechless. She stares at the shortest girl with slight surprise. She doesn’t really know what a cold-blooded vampire that clearly has her under her entire disposition could win by such a display of sensibility.

Then, something changes. The light-brunette smirks once again, as if empowered, her aura shifting towards something dangerous, irresistible. Her soft hands start to run up and down Lisa’s body slowly, grazing the underside of her breasts, and the tallest girl cannot even think about the fact that she could try to run away once again.

“Don’t you see, sweetie?” Jennie murmurs deceiving against the skin of her neck, “Don’t you see that I could treat you so well?”.

The vampire inhales deeply just pressing against her prey’s pulse point, as if trying to contain something extremely forceful. “I could make you feel so good, baby, so good”. When Jennie’s hands reach to palm her breasts gently, Lisa gives up. She closes her eyes, powerless, and her mouth falls open as the shortest girl licks along her jawline, now exploring her back. “I love this”, the brunette hears vibrating against her ear, and it takes her a moment to realize that Jennie is talking about the damn wings, “They look cute. It was so fun following you around”.

“Oh my god”, Lisa breathes, and the shortest girl smiles against her neck.

The moon shines brightly now. The shadows of the night highlight Jennie’s acute features almost dangerously. There is a faint scent, hers, all hers, that clouds Lisa’s thinking. When she feels a firm, naked leg parting her own thighs, the tallest girl can’t help but to throw her head back in a spur of delight. The firm pressure against her moisty heat sends her into a frenzy.

“You are so beautiful baby. All for me. You just have so say yes”.

Lisa’s dizzy judgment wonders why would a vampire need permission for something that she can take so easily.

When Jennie starts to suck reddish spots on her sensitive skin, the brunette can hardly gather another thought.

“Say yes, beautiful. Let me taste you”. The vampire nibbles at Lisa’s velvety throat with her front teeth, soft at first and more insistently due the lack of response. A needy groan goes past Jennie’s lips as the tallest girl’s flavor falls onto her tongue. “Fuck, sweetie. Come on. Say yes. Give in, Lisa”.

Jennie uses her strong hands to guide the tallest girl’s waist so she can ride her leg in a steady pace. The dirty mewl that breaks off Lisa’s throat should be enough, but she knows that the vampire wants straight answers and she would give her anything, anything she wants just to keep up with the pleasing friction.

“Yes”, she lets out in a moan, feeling her body pleasingly trapped between the vampire’s strong body and the rough wall. “Yes, yes, oh-”.

Jennie doesn’t want any longer. She doesn’t think she can actually. The smell of Lisa’s thick blood now combined with her raw wetness unveil an animalistic nature she tried to keep at bay. She drags her piercing fangs along the brunette’s neck once, just to tease her a bit further, before actually biting down in pure need.

The taste alone almost gets her off.

It’s delicious, succulent, rich, even more addictive than she expected.

Jennie has never stopped herself from drinking blood, whether fresh or packed, whenever she needed it. She has been in it for centuries, damn it, and yet Lisa’s tangy-sweet savor is something her now gleeful taste buds have never experienced.

The vampire smiles in an almost sick euphoria as she feels the thick liquid spilling here and there. She alternates between sucking earnestly and lapping in a happy delirium, and feels the girl against her getting desperate to speed up her delicious motions.

For Lisa, it was brief pain, the feeling of sharp needles piercing through her skin.

And then, pure, consuming bliss.

She didn’t even know it could feel like that. It probably can’t, in normal conditions, but she is not even able to consider it properly properly with her clothed core grinding wet against Jennie’s bare thigh.

“Fuck, baby. You are the most exquisite thing I’ve ever tried”.

Lisa hears the vampire’s words coming in short gasps. It turns her on even further. Everything feels so nice, so damn right that she can’t bring herself to care anymore. When Jennie tongues the fresh wounds in her throat, she clenches hard.

“Such a good girl, Lisa. All mine”.

The brunette feels the vampire’s tongue deep inside her mouth before she realizes that she’s moving. A tang of copper combines with a cherry-like flavor that can only be Jennie’s. She mewls against the shortest girl’s mouth, her eyes shut closed as she takes in the relentless waves of pleasure that shoot through her body.

Lisa begins to thrust in abandon. She wants to thank Jennie for helping her find the perfect pace with her steady hands. She wants to thank her for making her feel so, so fucking good. She wants to be perfect for her at that moment and offer, just offer it all. A burning fire sets low, and it grows impossibly grand. She feels it tying and tying and she wants to cry out in desperation. She pleads right against the vampire’s demanding lips.

“Please, please… Please, Jennie”.

She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for, but the light-brunette does. With just a flicker of her wrists, Jennie changes the angle of Lisa’s thrusts. The shift hits perfectly, just there, all that the brunette needed, and she hears as the occasional moans she can’t help but to let out when Jennie releases her swollen lips get increasingly louder.

“It’s okay, sweetheart”, the vampire sucks in her tongue just for another moment, “Come for me. Show me, baby. I want to see it all”.

Lisa does not need any more convincing.

As if wired to Jennie’s firm orders, her body lets go in a powerful release that has her high for a few minutes. When she comes down, she feels Jennie’s lips catching a few tears of pure overstimulation falling from her eyes.

She is panting, damp, and incredibly exhausted, she gathers both because of the astonishing peak and the non-incidental loss of blood. Her head falls almost shyly on top of the shortest girl’s shoulder, but the vampire seems completely unbothered by the gesture.

She keeps holding her, waiting. Her hands run through her back almost soothingly, and then begin to fix her clothes in a surprising display of care. When Jennie’s knuckles graze against her underwear, Lisa jolts and whimpers a half-serious complaint.

The vampire smiles.

“You did so well, beautiful”, Lisa feels soft pecks pressed against the skin of her neck, “but I think you ruined your panties”.

The brunette allows herself to chuckle before inhaling deeply.

It’s clearly over.

A shiver of fear runs through her spine but there is not much else to do. She knows that there is no point in even trying to run away. She’s not even sure of being able to stand without Jennie’s anchoring arms.

“Are you… gonna kill me now?”

Lisa feels as the vampire detaches herself slowly from her body.

Her heart starts to beat furiously against her chest.

It’s truly over isn’t it?

She makes an effort to meet Jennie’s intense gaze with hers. When she finds pure confusion in a renewed coffee tone, she doubts her own words, too.

“Kill you, darling? What are you talking about?”

Lisa hesitates for a moment.

“Huh, since you are… a vampire and all”.

Brief recognition illuminates Jennie’s expression to then be replaced by an almost edged amusement.

“Oh, baby”, she murmurs, and uses her knuckles to caress the tallest girl’s features almost reverently, “You really thought I would kill you? And deprive myself from a gorgeous human like you? Absolutely not. I’ve been looking so long to find someone exactly like you. And now that I have…” her fingers grasp the brunette’s chin, forcing their stares to melt, “you are mine, Lisa. And I take care of what belongs to me”.

The tallest girl opens her mouth, stunned. She figures she should feel furious.

She’s mostly in disbelief.

“But…”

“You already said yes, cutie”, Jennie giggles. She looks so young, suddenly mischievous, happy with herself. “I have already marked you. There’s no way out”.

Again, Lisa figures she should feel furious.

She’s mostly… considering.

“I’m going to take you home now”, Jennie tells her, and eyes Lisa’s neck in a bust of pride. “I promised the girls that I was going to take a human someday. They’ll be ecstatic”.

“The girls?”, Lisa mumbles. She feels Jennie’s hand grasping hers, pulling her in, dragging her somewhere.

Her feet follow as if in a spell.

“Rosé and Jisoo. They are getting bored, I guess. It’s been only us three for centuries. They could use some new company”, there is a pause, “as long as I make their boundaries really clear”.

“Boundaries?”

Lisa is lost, but not completely. There is something growing in her chest. A warm, fuzzy feeling.

“I don’t share, Lisa”.

“Oh”.

They stay in silence for a few seconds. Jennie analyzes Lisa’s expression carefully. Her hold is firm and cold, yet somewhat tender. The tallest girl simply waits. There is no need to make a decision. She feels her own limbs going back to a relaxed, pleased position.

“Ready, darling?”

Jennie is testing her. In response, Lisa licks her lips. The faint taste of iron and strawberries makes her smile.

“Yes, I am ready”.

Jennie’s eyes light up in silent happiness only to turn deep brown again.

“Perfect. Let’s hurry up. I’m dying to taste the rest of you”.

Lisa wonders if she’ll get to sleep before that happens. Or if she’ll make it into some form of a shower.

As she delights herself with the gorgeous figure of her captor, she figures she doesn’t mind, really.

[limeblood-exe]

A Singular, Bloody Mattress (part 2)

So much fluff, you guys, it’s tooth-rutting. And a lil bit of Raph angst, too because why not. Ok, but it’s also mainly fluff. Enjoy!

He can’t sleep. It’s three in the morning, and Raph lies completely awake, staring at the cracks in his bedroom ceiling.

Out of all of his brothers, Raph has no problem sleeping. Mikey might have the occasional bad dream or he might stay awake playing video games or doing art, but for the most part Mikey has taken to heart Raph’s lectures about needing to get a good amount of sleep each night. “It’s important for a growing, young turtle,” he had explained. However, he wishes that his other younger brothers would have taken that advice. 

Donnie and Leo are Raph’s headaches when it comes to making sure all of his brothers are taking care of themselves. Donnie has an even worse habit of staying up too late, but it’s mostly because he gets so absorbed with a new project that time passes without his knowing. It’s common for Raph to find Donnie either passed out on his worktable in his lab, or stumbling into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. But while his younger brother does stay up late occasionally, he enjoys sleep probably the most out of any of them, so it’s easy for Raph to convince his brother to sleep (convincing, as in Raph mentions the time to Donnie, who replies with “Wow, would you look at that,” and then promptly sleeps for the next twelve hours).

And Leo just doesn’t sleep sometimes. Honestly, just even knowing the fact that Leo has insomnia was actually discovered from pure luck. Raph didn’t even know his brother was having problems with sleep until he accidentally came across him on his way to the bathroom just hanging out in the family room, binging some Jupiter Jim films. 

He tried to talk to Leo about it, but every instance he brought it up his brother had an annoying ability of dodging the topic. Finally, with Raph having to resort to the “I’m gonna tell Splinter” card, he had admitted that sometimes he has issues falling asleep, but that it wasn’t anything to worry about, and he would let them know if it got worse. So Raph had agreed to let it go with that promise in mind. That didn’t stop him from staying up a couple of nights spying on his brother just to make sure the problem didn’t, in fact, get worse. He never saw Leo leave his room those nights, so he either must have gotten through his sleep drought or knew Raph was watching him and used his portals to secretly escape his big brother’s view.

He doesn’t know which one it was, to be honest.

And he feels he should have done more, Raph comes to realize, because this whole “not being able to sleep” thing is just awful. The stinging sensation in his eyes, the restlessness of both mind and body. He can’t understand how Leo would try to hide this instead of just asking them for help. He has no idea how long Leo might have been suffering from insomnia, but one night and already Raph feels like splitting his bed in half, despairing that sleep has slipped from his clutches.

But he's no fool, he knows the cause of why he is not currently sleeping. 

It's because of the fact that his aforementioned brother is currently holed up in their infirmary.

No matter what he tries, Raph can’t stop thinking about what had happened just a couple days prior. They had come so close, too close, to losing their brother. Not just when they were cornered by their enemies; as soon as they got back home, it was a fight to keep their brother alive, restoring his lost blood with blood donations from Mikey, who argued that he wanted to do it, he wanted to feel helpful, and stitching together torn skin and shell.

He was fine, though. Damned lucky, their father had said, but he managed to pull through.

And yeah, they cried when he opened his eyes for the first time since they got back home, but that doesn’t matter. What mattered was that their team had not been reduced to three.

Leo is gonna be fine, things are heading back to normal; so how come Raph can't stop thinking about how useless he felt during the entire ordeal?

Sitting up abruptly, Raph decides that staring at the ceiling isn't gonna help him get any sleep. 

He leaves his room quietly so as to not disturb any of his brothers, who desperately need the rest just as much as he does, and departs for the kitchen. He's thirsty, so it seems like a reasonable first destination. 

He walks mindlessly, his mind swallowed by too many thoughts.

Water sounds nice, maybe that’s what I need. A glass of cool water, and I’ll head back to bed, Raph thought to himself. 

Entering the room, he turns on the light, looking for the fridge hoping to find-

This is not the kitchen. An easy discovery, what with the lack of kitchen essentials and instead he sees humming machines, a curtain, an occupied bed-

Ah, he’s in the infirmary. Without thinking, his feet had unconsciously brought him here.

He immediately slaps the light switch off, worried he woke his brother from his needed rest. He hadn’t meant to come in here; he didn't want to be in here. Not right now. He’s supposed to be trying to keep his mind off things.

He can just go back, he didn’t hear his brother wake up; didn’t hear a groan or even a peep, so there would be no harm in him just walking away.

But he might as well check that Leo is asleep as he’s already here and all; he does have a track record of hiding any of his sleep issues.

Raph pads to the side of the bed, spotting his brother cocooned in a hill of blankets. The only parts of him he clearly can see are his head and his arm that sticks out, dangling over the edge of the bed. Raph lays his hand on Leo’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his steady and constant breathing. Raph can't see them right now, but he's painfully aware of the large swath of bandages that cover his middle.

Content that his brother is indeed asleep, he grasps Leo's dangling arm (noting he has one of Donnie’s techy bracelets strapped to his wrist, most likely monitoring his vitals) in his gentle hold, and positions it back in his warm bundle. Tucking his brother in, he smiles softly before he makes his way to the kitchen to grab something to drink.

"Raph?" a soft voice mumbles before he even takes a single step, and he definitely did not give a little yell of surprise, no matter what Leo says.

"Leo! Sorry," Raph u-turns instantly and puts a hand on his brother's head, patting it gently like a parent would to a kid. "I didn’t wake you, did I?"

"You did," Leo gives a jaw-cracking yawn before he continues, talking into his pillow, Raph straining his ears to hear him, "but it’s fine. I feel like I’ve been asleep for too long anyway."

"That’s pretty normal, and you’re gonna have to get used to it. It’s going to be awhile before you’re back to normal, buddy," And the events of that night once again rush to the forefront of Raph's mind. He looks to the ground, unable to look his brother in the eye, afraid that Leo will see through his eyes and read his thoughts.

"Huh? What is it?" Leo looks more alert due to the seriousness his face had suddenly morphed to, struggling weakly in his blankets to lean up against his pillow.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Leo squints up at him with a disapproving look. Like he’s gonna believe that for a second.

“Now, why don’t I believe that? Are you lying to me, bro?”

"No-it’s just-I’m not lying to you,” Deflating under Leo’s sharp glare, Raph nervously rubs his hand together, gathering the courage to speak. 

“…Back then, I couldn't do anything. I'm supposed to be the leader, Leo, and I did nothing." His face scrunches, and his hands clenching together in a show of anger. "And I'm… I'm sorry, Leo. I’m sorry that I couldn't protect you."

Raph would expect his brother to do many things after his revelation; make a joke to lighten the mood, ignore the apology altogether, saying something along the lines of “please don’t embarrass yourself by talking any longer”, etc. He did not expect for his brother to grab his wrist suddenly and pull him close to the edge of the bed, and with one large motion, wraps his arms around Raph’s neck. If he wasn’t too shocked, he would have admonished Leo for moving around so much, since he just got mortally wounded, but the hug feels so good at the moment that all he can do, all he wants to do, is hug his brother back.

“I don’t blame you Raph, you don’t have to ever apologize for something like this,” Leo comforts. His voice is gentle and kind and so unlike Leo’s usual carefree tone that Raph lays one of his hands on the back of Leo’s head checking for a fever.

Not finding one, he buries his face in his younger brother’s shoulder, and Raph has to choke down the sudden lump in his throat to softly mutter, “But I should’ve done, you know, more. I’m the eldest, it’s my job to protect you guys. And at that moment, I failed. And it’s not just that, I couldn’t come up with a plan. My mind felt so gooey and slow and I just-because of that I put you at serious risk, Leo. If you couldn’t-if you didn’t-”

“But I did. And stop putting all the blame on yourself,” Leo adds. “If you wanna play the blame-game, then I think I gotchu beat.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. We wouldn’t have even been in that situation in the first place had I never gotten hurt. I let my guard down, Raph, and I paid the price for it. And so did all of you.”

“That’s not fair, Leo. You couldn’t have known that those paper guys would have been any more dangerous than the ones we’ve already fought before,” Raph pulls apart their hug, going into his lecturing mode. “You can’t blame yourself for everything that happened.”

“But that’s what I’m saying. It was a sucky situation, so you can’t blame yourself as our leader when things go bad, because it’s not just on you. We’re a team, and we’ll fail together as a team.”

While bleak sounding, it sparks an understanding in Raph.

We’ll fail together as a team.

He understands where Leo is coming from. He always thought that the pressure of failing would be on his shoulders alone; he’s the leader, and a good leader takes responsibility. A good leader would know better than to lead their team to their deaths. 

But a good leader would also know that you can’t win every fight. Raph doesn’t want to accept that as a possibility, he might never be able to, but he can know where he stands when it does.

He’s lost this argument, so Raph just slowly nods. He still feels like he could’ve done better, and he knows it might take awhile before he accepts what Leo had to say, but he feels relieved, the burden of feeling so alone lifted from his shoulders.

Raph, thickly says, "Thank you, Leo."

"Anytime, brother." Leo replies. As Raph rubs at his eyes, clearing away beading tears, Leo adds, "Now, pay up."

"What? What do you mean?" Raph asks, confused. Leo sticks out his quivering lips, his eyes pouting upwards. Leo raises his arms towards Raph, his hands making a grabby motion in the air.

"Carry me."

"What? No! Why would I do that?"

“Because I’m bored! I’ve been lying here for, what has it been, three days?”

“Just two, actually.”

“My point being! I need a change of scenery.”

“Uhh, but you’ve been sleeping for the past couple of days? How can the scenery bother you when you're not awake to see it. Besides, you’re still recovering.”

"Oh, come on! That's not fair, and you know it. I'm healing just fine," Leo doesn't give up and increases his efforts to be held, mimicking a petulant child demanding attention. "Please, Raphie, I don't like the infirmary."

"No."

"Pleaaaase-"

"Alright, fine!"

Leo laughs victoriously as Raph leans down to pick up his brother. Leo wraps his arms around Raph's broad neck, and his big brother puts his arms behind Leo's back and beneath his knees, making sure to do so around his blanket as well. He doesn’t want his brother getting cold, after all.

Straightening his back, Raph glares disapprovingly at Leo, who just smiles happily in return, snuggling his cheek against the dip between Raph's plastron and his neck.

"Where am I going exactly?"

"Anywhere is fine."

"Uh-huh."

Raph is convinced that Leo made a big fuss just to be held, but who is he to deny his brothers want they want. After all, it wasn’t just Raph that went through a tough ordeal. If Leo wants to be held, it's the least Raph can do.

With the choice being left to Raph, he decides that the family room is the perfect spot and makes his way there.

Leo begins to doze in his hold, snuggling close to the heat of his brother.

Why would he need a change of scenery if he was just gonna fall asleep anyway.

Raph doesn't have it in him to wake him back up, so he sits cross-legged on the floor as soon as he arrives and holds his breathing brother close.

This was not how Raph thought his night was gonna go, with Leo asleep in his lap and the night continuing to tick by. Content regardless, Raph rests his chin on top Leo's head, appreciating the living movements of his brother: his breaths, his sleepy snorts, his leg twitches, they're all proof that he's alive.

Being up so late and having the comfort of his younger sibling close, Raph feels himself starting to doze off as well, imagining the swell of sleep that would finally overcome him. Ready for the bliss of sleep to take him, the thundering of distant footsteps startles him to full alert mode. With the frantic, but familiar, steps coming closer Raph looks to see none other than Donnie rounding the doorway, whipping his head around in search of something. Spotting the two of them on the floor, Donnie rushes forward.

"Is Leo ok?!" Donnie asks.

Taken aback by the urgency in Donnie’s voice, he says, "Uhh, yeah. He’s fine.” Looking down at his dozing brother as if to confirm his own statement, he looks back to Donnie as Leo sleepily mutters into his chest. “He's sleeping right now, so if you could be quiet, Donald." Raph slightly scolds Donnie for his loud shout. 

"Wha-excuse me!" Donnie, offended by his brother's admonishment, stares incredulously at his only older brother. "I just thought, you know, that something must've happened, Raphael, with my tech informing me that one of Leo's stats changed. I had gone to check on him when, to my surprise, he is nowhere to be found."

Oh. That would explain Donnie’s panic. The tech bracelet on Leo’s wrist was meant to monitor his well-being, so of course Donnie would have had any sort of change being directly messaged to his own wrist-band, alerting him if anything were to happen. That must have included his sleep cycle, and with Leo awake long enough to have a conversation with Raph, he was awake long enough for Donnie to be alerted.

"Oh, my bad... Sorry, Donnie, I didn't know."

Donnie breathes a deep sigh, the act calming himself and he regains a more collected composure.

"It's fine, I was just worried that he did something stupid again, like trying to use the bathroom on his own when he can't even stand properly." He takes in the sight of his two brothers cuddling on the floor together, fully registering what's before him. "Um, but might I ask what you two are doing?"

"I couldn't sleep, and I think Leo was getting bored of the infirmary." He slightly shrugs his shoulders. "So, here we are."

"Bored of the infirmary? Does he not understand the whole concept of 'I nearly died and I should take it easy?'" Donnie crosses his arms, "I swear, sometimes I wonder where his head can be. He be just as bad as Mikey sometimes-"

Donnie pauses, leering suspiciously at Raph.

"Wait, what did you mean you couldn't sleep?"

"It means that I couldn't sleep, Donnie." That was before his talk with Leo, and as much as he loves his heart-to-hearts with his brothers, he doesn't feel it in him to do one more for tonight. "And besides, that was way earlier. I'm better now."

His brother just mm-hm's to himself. Donnie then joins Raph on the floor, sitting next to his side with his legs sprawled out in front of him. A moment passes as Raph waits patiently for Donnie to speak first. 

"Do you still want to talk about it? I'm up now, you might as well take advantage of having me all to yourself. Not many get the privilege of that, dear Raphael."

Raph gives a good natured eye-roll, but before he can give his own snarky response, someone beats him to the chase.

"Wow, conceited much?"

"Shut up. Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?" Donnie asks at the same time Raph mumbles to himself, "Are you ever asleep?"

Leo slowly morphs his face into a smirk, then replies simply with a cheery "Nope."

He continues to say, "And how can I? You guys keep waking me up. For once I have the chance to get a full night's rest, and you guys are ruining it."

His brothers have no argument to counter him with, so Leo counts that as a small victory.

“Well, speaking of sleep, I’m gonna go back to bed now that I know Leo's not gonna crack his head open on the toilet or something,” Donnie stands, stretching his arms above his head. “What are you gonna do?”

“Me and Leo are good here,” Raph says.

“You’re gonna stay like that? On the floor? Call me crazy, but that doesn't sound very comfortable, Raph.”

“Yeah, I know. But we’re already here, sooo.”

Donnie gives a thoughtful hmm, hand to his chin in a contemplating manner. After sometime, he raises a pointed finger to the ceiling, eyes bright with newfound determination.

“You know what, I actually have a brilliant idea. Hang tight, I’ll be right back.”

Curious as to what Donnie has planned, Raph complies with Donnie's order. He watches the descending back of his brother and wonders just what he has gotten himself into tonight. He grows impatient when minutes tick by, and even Leo starts to huff in annoyance, the waiting anticipation keeping him up.

Ten minutes later, Donnie reappears with a sleepy Mikey in tow, both loaded with pillows and blankets, which are so stacked it's nearly blocking their view.

"You didn't have to wake him up, Donnie."

Mikey just shakes his head, setting down his load by Raph’s feet.

"It's fine, Raph, no biggie. Dee told me we were gonna have a sleepover in the family room," Mikey smiles through an obnoxious yawn, laying out the blankets (some, Raph notices, are from his own room) to form a giant pile on the floor. "And I thought, ‘Oh, man! We haven’t had one in so long!’ It sounded nice, especially after everything that’s happened."

Now that Mikey mentioned it, they haven’t done this for a long time. They’ve been so busy dealing with the whole mutant outbreak that sleepovers kind of took a back-burner to their list of priorities.

Raph, with Leo in his arms, mumbling something he can't quite make out, moves to stand a distance away, making space for Donnie and Mikey as they prepare the rest of the room. 

Donnie and Mikey make quick work, busying themselves with preparing a blanket fort by using nearby objects to hold up the blankets, ranging from Splinter's recliner to using the projector as a tether for the fort's ceiling. And since this just so happens to be the genius and artist of the family, the fort they create is a mix of both their technical and artistic skills. 

The fort, while not only being huge, would put most other blanket forts to shame in just style alone.

Mikey suspends numerous low-lit strings of light on the ceiling, giving the fort a warm glow while Donnie works to construct the cushions and blankets on the floor to maximize their comfort. Throwing in a couple of stuffed animals along with some glow sticks they found in Raph's room, their blanket fort is complete.

Donnie grabs one end of a blanket, acting as a curtain for the entryway, while Mikey grabs the other and simultaneously they pull them back to reveal the inside of their new masterpiece with a bow. Raph “aah’s” at their display, entranced with the sight.  

Raph lays Leo in the middle of the fort, who sinks delightfully into the cottony bliss, exhaustion overtaking his body which has reached its limits for staying awake for so long. Mikey leaps into the fort and lands next to Leo, giving a mirthful shout as he immediately grabs one of the blankets covering his sleeping brother and bundles himself next to Leo, snuggling into his shoulder and wrapping his arms around one of his big brother’s.

“Be careful, Mikey,” Raph warns. Mikey would never intentionally hurt one of them, but Raph thinks it safe to at least warn his brother that Leo is still recovering from an injury.

“I know!"

Leo gives a little huff, turning his face towards Mikey and blowing a quick gust of air into his face. Mikey makes a face, grunting, "Ew, your breath stinks," while Leo replies with, "Some of us are trying to sleep, Miguel."

Mikey giggles into Leo's shoulder as he says, "Sorry," but he doesn't sound all that reproachful.

Raph is next to settle down, laying on Leo's other side, grabbing Donnie's wrist, who was distracted admiring his and Mikey’s handiwork, and pulling him down with him. Having lost his own snuggle buddy to Mikey, Donnie has become his next victim, squashed between Raph's massive arms. But he only gives minor complaints, so Raph doesn't feel all that bad.

The combination of soothing lights from the ceiling and the glow sticks and the cushions beneath them lull the turtles into a comfortable daze. Next to him, Raph can hear the sleeping forms of his youngest brothers, cuddled together with their limbs entangled. 

"You know, next time you have problems with sleeping, you can always come to one of us. You always help us when we can't sleep; of course, we'd want to do the same for you," Donnie gently mentions. Patting Raph on the arm, he adds for good measure, "You're our big brother, but we can still help you."

We're a team.

Surrounded by the warmth of his family, knowing that everything has finally gone back to normal, Raph smiles.

"Yeah, I know, Donnie."

Donnie hums, accepting his answer, and in a couple of minutes his own breathes become slow and even, deep in sleep.

His brothers, all of them, are right here, safe and sound. Raph still might have self-doubts as a leader and as a brother, but for now, he'll let go of his troubles and join his brothers in the blissful land of slumber.

In no time at all, Raph feels the dregs of sleep consume his mind, falling asleep with a peaceful smiling gracing his lips.

[alicemitch09writes]

soft hours??? soft hours! so, i hc suna as someone introverted, definitely a person who needs his alone time.

as a couple, after moving in together i totally, totally see sunayn having a tradition. it’s nothing much, and people would probably never think twice about it but no matter where they are or how much they’re apart, once they’re in the presence of each other, it’s a tradition to always exchange

“tadaima”

“okaeri”

and they were times, wherein suna swear he could cry.

so he did.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————

suna rintarou was a person who liked to keep to himself.

sure, there were moments wherein he mingles with people like when he gets dragged into the twins’ antics back in high school, or when komori has another idea he wants to go try with washio and him— because, he said, who else could he ask except his favourite teammates, or when they have another gatherings with sponsors and whatnot.

but at the end of the day, suna rintarou still prefers to keep to himself; to enjoy the peace and quiet of his own room after an exhausting day of studying and trying mixed with the twins’ loud, chaotic antics and perhaps have a quick power nap... or two.

still, it was not as if he was against the prospect of mingling with others or being surrounded by people, because as much as he liked keeping to himself and liked things to be kept peaceful and without disturbance, he’s used to it. it was a normal routine to have komori’s endless bundle of energy and joy, his other teammate’s banters, gruelling drills, loud chatters over quick or long breaks. it was normal, and as much as it pains him to say, it was something he already welcomed.

there were days where suna would have a sensory overload.

where seemingly normal routines suddenly grates on his never ending nerves. these are times where he feels that komori is too bright for him to look at, loud chatters during quick breaks and the team’s banters create an annoying buzzing in his ears, washio’s block during a practice match seemed too provoking, refusing to think about a practice game he’s on because thinking is too much, thinking feels too overwhelming,or where the volleyballs touching his skin feels as though it burns, skin too sensitive to even be touched by his own fingertips, irritating him further. many would assume it was just suna typically slacking off during practice. and perhaps, it wasn’t a full lie, but not exactly the full truth. at least, suna thought, everyone seemed to stay off on his case today. if anyone tries to approach him in this state, he honestly wouldn’t know what he’d do. everything feels too much.

the sound of the whistle calling practice off was music to his ears, despite the buzzing in his ears still present. freshening up was done in a haste, going straight to his car to go home.

the jiggling of his keys resonated inside the house, unsettling him and making his brows furrow, did you forget to tell him you’re going out or something? suna sighs, disappointed, but reminded himself that he needed the silence. this is good, he needs this.

crossing the threshold, however, there was you.

you, on the couch laying flat as you immersed yourself in the book while a pair of headphones rest on your ears, the entire world clearly forgotten.

you, in your peaceful glory, dressed in nothing but a pair of tight shorts, his jersey, and a wine red thigh high socks.

fuck, he mutters. then, faster than his mind could form a coherent thought, he was on you, nudging your legs apart, slotting himself between as he lays his head on your stomach.

you gasped, startled at the tall man who brought you back to reality, book now on your chest and hand reaching out to turn your music off. suna seeking your hand with his pinky, linking with yours once he found it, resting the rest of his hand to the back of your palms to caress your knuckles.

“y/n,” he whispers, hot breath tickling your stomach, “let’s stay like this for awhile, please?”

suna could cry. he could cry when all you did was let out a contented hum, your other hand finding solace in his hair. he lets you play with it, feeling his all too tense muscles loosen by the ticking second he spends with you.

“baby,” he peers up, saw you tilting your head to the side, gaze questioning.

“tell me a story,” realisation crosses your features, he is so fucking in love. his chest threatening to burst because he doesn’t think that his heart is enough to hold all the adoration he held solely for you.

“okay.... there was one time,” your voice low, barely above a whisper, as you tell him a story in another language you speak. he closes his eyes and climbs slightly higher, his head almost on your chest, blissfully aware of everything you are saying despite only understanding a few words here and there, realising that the story you might be telling him now is something new. something he hasn’t heard before, therefore, not memorising yet.

there were days like this— perhaps in different positions and in different scenarios, but the unmistakable sound of a foreign language spoken in a soothing, peaceful voice belonging to the person he’s so utterly, devastatingly, and madly enamoured with is all the same; him asking you to tell him a story, no matter how mundane or random it may be, in another language you speak and despite not knowing anything at all during the first few times he asked you of this, that did not stop him on listening to you in utmost attentiveness.

now, with you on your back and his head close to your heart, only thing existing around him was the sound of your heartbeat, his breathing, and your voice; the feeling of your warmth mixed with his, and the soothing caress of your fingers on his hair.

you, understanding that for today, he doesn’t need to understand a word that you’re saying, just hearing your voice was what he needed. so, recalling another story of samu and you as children, where the two of you would do something alone and suddenly, the other pair of the twin barging into your peaceful solo hang out, you recounted the tale.

and it was all too much.

it overwhelms suna. this time, it overwhelms him with relief.

he has you; you are irrevocably and undeniably his. all his.

suna is overwhelmed with relief and satisfaction— so he let a stray tears escape his eyes.

feeling a sudden wetness on your shirt, stopping your story as you worriedly called out, “rin?”

he looks up, still a bit teary eyed, and gave a shaky smile, “im home,”

you soften, adoration clear from your usually blank stare, “welcome home,”

someone actually wrote me a full blown drabble and i am SOFT.

thank you for this wonderful peace, sweetpea!

EVERYONE SAY THANKS

[afoolforatook]

Love is Being Scared and Loving Anyway Ch. 1 Expanded Trigger Warning (revised)

While working on the trigger warning list for chapter 2 I looked back and the one for chapter 1 and hated how it was formatted and felt basically unreadable even for me. So, here’s an updated version that hopefully reads a bit easier. 

(Hopefully chapter 2 should be ready soon, the Omni is just being a bit of a slog)

Here is an explanation of how this fic is formatted and what the versions are.

Or you can just go straight to the fic. 

Clover’s pov is chapter 1

Omniscient (Eye to Eye) is chapter 2

Qrow’s pov is chapter 

If you are worried about triggers, I suggest reading in the order they are posted, and stop at whatever version you feel comfortable with. If you aren’t worried about triggers I suggest reading Omni first and then Clover, and then Qrow.  

This is a pretty emotionally heavy fic, and one of the reasons I did the multiple versions was so that there could be options for anyone worried about triggers. Each version on AO3 has a short description of the trigger warnings relevant to that version, but I wanted to go into a bit more detail for anyone who wanted it, and didn’t want to put a wall of text in the chapter notes each time. So this is all the trigger notes for each version, as well as a more complete list of general tags for the chapter. 

As always, if you feel I’ve missed something, or that there is a better tag for something I have covered, please let me know. :)

Ch 1 - Generals tags

Characters - Qrow Branwen, Clover Ebi, Marrow Amin, Ruby Rose, Yang Xiao Long, Summer Rose

Relationships - Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Past Qrow Branwen/Summer Rose

Content - Hurt/comfort, Vent/therapy fic, Fair Game, Hummingbird

Broad warnings - Panic attacks, PTSD, Flashbacks, Past character death, Ch 12 mention, Ch 12 description, Clover death mention, Ch 12 fix it, Ch 12 was Qrow’s nightmare, Depression, Anxiety, Panic disorder, Insecurity, Grief, Loss of partner, Past alcoholism mention, Alcoholism recovery, Dissociating, Trauma, Nightmares

Individual versions

I’m only going to expand on the ones that are a bit loose or less straightforward, so things like ‘Racing thoughts’, are pretty straight forward so explaining would just be spoilers. These, and warnings already explained in earlier versions are listed at the bottom (marked with the version that explains them).

Clover

Altered perception of reality/Flashbacks/Hallucinations/PTSD

 - All of these really are for the same thing but I wanted to be overly cautious. None of them fit the instance perfectly, but it is generally Qrow misinterpreting things in his panicked state. Seeing, hearing things not as in actual hallucinations but brain still putting everything in the context of his panic/not being fully aware.

Blood mention - Pretty minimal in this version.

Claustrophobia - Not necessarily technically claustrophobia, but some descriptions that I thought could be triggering.

Difficulty breathing - Due to anxiety, or perceived trouble breathing.

Dissociation - Two reasons, could apply to Qrow for the same reason as above. And for Clover, for using intentional dissociation as a coping mechanism.

Hyper-awareness/Sensory Processing Disorder (SPD)

- Just general over sensitivity, awareness, inability to process during panicked state.

Hypercritical - Overly high expectations of self, perfectionism.

Nausea - More just a description of  feeling off.

Paranoia - Really more anxiety related over worrying, apprehension, but again, thought could fall under this umbrella.

Trichotillomania - Again, not technically, but actions that could be reminiscent.

Unconscious self-harm - Felt like this was the best way to put this, but knew some people might not know exactly what I meant. This is regarding Qrow. He isn’t unconscious but rather, during a panic attack he unknowingly hurts himself, and it’s not at all serious.

(I say it this way because this is how I have described similar instances I have had - basically this is “Qrow hurt itself in its confusion” the tag) 

Anxiety | Coping mechanisms | False confidence | Grief | Hyper-awareness  | Insecurity | Intrusive thoughts | Loss of partner | Minor injury (Qrow’s) | Panic attack | Panic | Racing thoughts | Self-loathing | Summer death mention | Touch sensitivity

————–

Omniscient aka Eye-to-eye

Body horror - I think this is a bit of a stretch, but again, being overly careful. Mostly for descriptions of feelings/bodily awareness that could be disturbing. One or two places that lean a little more toward bloody/gory (but not much).

Ch 12 That scene mention/Clover death description/Clover death mention - Vague/minor short mention, minimal visual/emotional description, not graphic. 

Dermatillomania - Same as claustrophobia/trichotillomania.

Difficulty speaking/nonverbal episode - Similar to phobias, not quite there but Qrow has a very hard time making himself speak.

Feeling like dying - Description of what Qrow is feeling as he thinks he’s dying (panic).

Alcoholism mention (very minor) | Altered perception of reality (see above in Clover) | Anxiety | Blood mention | Claustrophobia (see above in Clover) | Difficulty breathing (see above in Clover) | Dissociation (see above in Clover) | Flashbacks (see above in Clover) | Grief | Hallucinations (see above in Clover) | Hyper-awareness (see above in Clover) | Intrusive thoughts | Loss of partner | Minor injury (Qrow’s) | Nausea mention (see above in Clover) | Nightmare/Night terror |  PTSD (see above in Clover) | Pain description | Panic attack | Panic | Paranoia (see above in Clover) | Racing thoughts | SPD (see above in Clover) | Summer death mention | Touch sensitivity | Trichotillomania (see above in Clover) | Unconscious self-harm (see above in Clover) | Vomit mention

————-

Qrow

CH 12 That scene description/Ch 12 mention /Clover death description/Clover death mention - Slightly more than in omniscient, longer mention, more visual/emotional description but still nothing outright graphic. 

Suicidal thoughts - This one’s a little border, or at least what most people would think of as border, even though it still is a form of suicidal thought. It’s nothing in any way actionable or planning, but wishing/expecting to die during a trauma. 

Altered perception of reality (see above in Clover ) | Blood mention | Body horror (see above in Omniscient, though this version gets the closest to actually fitting the term) | Claustrophobia (see above in Clover) | Dermatillomania (see above in Omniscient) | Difficulty breathing (see above in Clover) | Difficulty speaking (see above in Omniscient) | Dissociation (see above in Clover) | Feeling like dying (see above in Omniscient) | Flashbacks (see above in Clover) | Grief | Hallucinations (see above in Clover) | Hyper-awareness (see above in Clover) | Intrusive thoughts | Loss of partner | Minor injury (Qrow’s) | Nausea mention (see above in Clover) | Nightmare/Night terror | Nonverbal episode (see above in Omniscient) | PTSD (see above in Clover) | Pain description | Panic attack | Paranoia (see above in Clover) | Racing thoughts | SPD (see above in Clover) | Self-loathing | Summer death description (minor) | Summer death mention | Trichotillomania (see above in Clover) | Unconscious self-harm (see above in Clover) | Vomit mention

[captain-rennie]

Fair Game Week Day 2: Date/Domestic

Read it on Ao3 here!

Summary:

He wanted to spend every morning like this with his husband, and judging by the fond kiss Clover pressed to the top of his head, said husband was in agreement.

warnings: just married men bein cute (and a few suggestive flirts)

.

It was supposed to be date night. Their schedules were cleared, their suits pressed, and Qrow was halfway through gelling his hair back when the meteorologist's voice flooded their bedroom and connected bathroom.

"It seems the blizzard that was supposed to hit tomorrow has come early - expect snowfall within the next hour, and it will be building fast. We recommend nobody leave their homes at this time, and if you're out and about, head home immediately. Conditions are about to become hazardous and scroll service may suffer - "

"Just our luck," Qrow joked feebly, shoulders slumping, as Clover turned down the volume and joined his husband in the bathroom. Warm hands settled on his waist, then slid around his front to wrap around him, and Qrow leaned back into the embrace as Clover rested his chin on his shoulder.

"Just our luck," Clover agreed, his tone much lighter than his partner's. He turned his face into Qrow's neck, nuzzling sweetly. "Looks like I'll be getting my movie night after all. I was looking forward to seeing you in a tie, though."

Unable to help himself, Qrow quirked an eyebrow and asked, "Just the tie?"

"How very scandalous of you," Clover hummed, not sounding very scandalized at all. He pressed a kiss to his husband's shoulder, then backed away and returned to the bedroom. "It's a lovely thought, but let's backdate that to sometime when it's not subzero out there."

"It's a date," Qrow said, and Clover's answering laugh was enough to warm him for the entire season.

With their current date canceled, Qrow regrettably went to work washing the wasted product from his hair, and once done towel-drying it he changed from the nice vest and slacks he'd picked out to a large, comfortable green sweater and gray sweatpants. He clambered onto their shared king bed, nestling into Clover's warm side, and relaxed into the embrace as Clover slung an arm over his shoulder and they both watched the newscast.

After a few minutes, though, Clover slipped away and padded out of the bedroom, mentioning warm drinks, and handed Qrow the remote. Already, Qrow felt cold without his presence; it was cold enough now, but it would only grow colder in the next few days, and he was glad for his walking furnace of a husband.

Idly, he switched the screen to a streaming service, and flipped through the movies, none really catching his eye save for one or two he recognized from Clover's excited rambling. Qrow wasn't really the decision-making type. Soon enough, though, Clover returned, delicately balancing two mugs and two plates of something that smelled fantastic on a tray that he carefully set down on his nightstand.

"You are ridiculous," Qrow snorted as he accepted a mug of hot chocolate, of course topped with a tall mountain of whipped cream and sprinkled with cocoa powder to make it look pretty. Clover spared him a glance from the corner of his eye.

"You're wearing my sweater," he pointed out, amused, and Qrow frowned, effectively outed. He handed his husband the remote, who went hunting for something to watch.

"It's comfy," he grumbled, sipping his hot chocolate and licking whipped cream from his upper lip. "Point taken."

Clover sat back down next to him on the bed with a kiss to Qrow's cheek, and took the remote to browse for a good movie. As he did so, Qrow started propping up the pillows to lean back on for optimal movie night viewage, and settled back into them as his husband decided on a movie. Something with two men on the cover, back-to-back, guns blazing. Qrow was not even remotely surprised.

"Food?" he asked as the starting credits began to play, and Clover leaned over to grab a plate and fork.

"I reheated some of the cottage pie from last night." Qrow hummed in appreciation as the food was handed to him. "Careful, it's . . . hot."

Qrow's forkful was already in his mouth, and hot it was. He sucked in a breath, eyes watering, and quickly swallowed down the bite, shaking his head fiercely as his husband laughed at his misfortune. It was his own fault for not listening, but he glared at Clover nonetheless in offense.

"Ow," he complained as Clover's chuckles died down, his chest warming with fondness at that smile even as he pretended to pout.

"I tried to tell you," Clover defended himself, still grinning.

"And I burned my mouth anyway," Qrow relented with a sigh. "I know."

Clover raised his eyebrows in that goofy, flirty way Qrow loved so much, and asked, "Want me to kiss it better?"

Qrow was a fool for Clover's kisses and could never turn them down. Tonight's were tame and sweet, and yet Qrow could never get enough - but after a few Clover pushed lightly at his shoulder with a chuckle.

"Alright, movie's starting."

"Damn. I hoped I could avoid it if I could distract you well enough."

"Nothing can distract me from a good movie!"

"Is that a challenge?"

"A challenge for another night - I really want you to see this one!"

Qrow relented in the face of his husband's cute enthusiasm, and they settled back against the pillows with their food, shoulders touching, to watch the movie.

He did not burn his mouth again, and the movie was actually quite good. A bit generic in plot, but the humor was clever, with Clover lighting up in delight every time it elicited a laugh from Qrow, and to his surprise the two lead men actually wound up in a relationship by the end. The special effects were decently impressive, too. Despite Clover's dozing off two-thirds of the way through, Qrow actually watched it to the end.

Clover always fell asleep early, as the early riser, and it didn't bother Qrow in the slightest. Once the end credits were rolling, he switched to some show they'd watched before on low volume for background noise, and collected their dirty dishes to bring to the sink. He rinsed them out before returning to bed, and fixed the pillows on his side before disturbing his husband with a few light pats to the thigh.

"Time to lay down," he said when Clover gave a vague, tired grumble, and his husband obediently shifted so that Qrow could reorganize the pillows for him. By the time he was laying down, himself, Clover was fast asleep once more.

Qrow leaned over to his nightstand and turned out the lamp, flooding the room in darkness, before nestling under the covers and curling up against his husband in an effort to keep the cold out. As if by instinct, Clover shifted, turning toward Qrow and draping a huge arm over his husband. Clover's breathing was gentle and easy, and Qrow listened to it and matched it with his own until he was sinking into sleep's welcoming embrace, feeling fuzzy and comfortable and content.

.

Qrow awoke to the sun shining in his eyes and a notably empty bed. He groaned, squirming away from the invasive light and cracking an eye open to see its source.

The curtains were closed, as was the norm, but a small gap left between them allowed just the thinnest ray of light through to harass Qrow and steal his final few beloved hours of sleep. And Clover was out of bed, so he couldn't even complain about it or ask him to fix it. Sighing, Qrow shoved his face into his pillow and inwardly begged for sleep to take him again.

Unfortunately, his rising awareness made way for his senses to awaken one by one, and he registered the lovely smell wafting into the bedroom from, presumably, the kitchen. Seconds after, he caught the sound of Clover singing, quiet enough it wouldn't have awoken Qrow but loud enough for him to pick up on the song. It was something cheerful, some new tune popular at the moment and right up Clover's alley, and with fondness growing in his heart Qrow thought he could lie there and listen to his husband sing forever.

But all good things must be interrupted sometime, and after smell and hearing came touch, reminding Qrow it was freezing. Reluctantly, he started to drag himself out of bed; it was colder away from the covers, but Clover would be warm, and he never minded Qrow clinging to him to leech his heat. The cooking probably made the kitchen nice and toasty, too.

Slipping on some ridiculous pink slippers his nieces had given him the past holiday, he shuffled out into the hall, then the living room. Ever perceptive, Clover's singing stopped, replaced with a cheery call of, "Morning, sunshine!"

Qrow had not yet retained his ability to speak, so he only gave an incoherent, albeit generally friendly, grumble back. He approached the thermostat near the door, upping it a few degrees before heading toward the kitchen. Clover's back was turned to him, but he glanced over his shoulder long enough to greet his husband with a bright smile. Several things were sizzling satisfyingly on the stove.

"Did you touch the thermostat?" Clover asked by way of greeting as Qrow's arms slid around his waist, head thudding softly against his shoulder.

"You sound like Tai," Qrow replied, then yawned. "You're not even a dad."

"Yet," Clover said, and Qrow huffed in quiet amusement.

"Yet," he agreed. "Still too cold."

"I think it's lovely!"

"Easy for you to say. You're hotter than the sun."

"Why, thank you - "

"Oh, shut up."

Clover laughed, that lovely, deep sound that melted Qrow's heart no matter how often he heard it, and Clover turned his head to press a kiss to Qrow's temple. "Plates?"

Obediently (though reluctantly) Qrow stepped away from his personal heater to collect a few plates and forks, and Clover scooped a ridiculous variety of food - sausage, bacon, eggs, hash browns, and even pancakes - onto them. It smelled heavenly, and Qrow's stomach growled loudly, earning a laugh from Clover.

"Why don't you take the food to the couch, and I'll make us some coffee?"

"Please," Qrow sighed, the promise of caffeine one that spoke to his heart, and headed to the living room after a brief, sweet kiss.

He turned on the television after setting the plates on the table, curling up on the couch in wait, and switched over to the news. Most people seemed to be snowed in, including their building. Qrow remembered the thermometer and realized with some satisfaction it had already become much more habitable in their apartment. That was a relief - as much as he loved cuddling his husband, he preferred it to remain recreational, not out of necessity.

Clover joined him soon with a steaming mug, and Qrow took a grateful sip, humming pleasantly at the bitter taste and spreading warmth. Just the right amount of cream and sugar, as always. Clover made a good cup of coffee.

As his husband produced his scroll to call his boss and let him know they'd likely be snowed in for a few days, Qrow nestled comfortably against his side with his food. He didn't mind being stuck inside for a few more days. As important as he felt their work was, this was a totally viable and well-deserved way to spend an impromptu vacation.

He wanted to spend every morning like this with his husband, and judging by the fond kiss Clover pressed to the top of his head, said husband was in agreement.

[thetruenamelessmonster]

These Dark Times.... Psycho Pass Fan Fic

If you like what you see, have a question or anything else related to my story please leave a comment, this is one of the very few times I have shared this on the internet, I very rarely post my stories due their strange and unusual content that greatly deflects from the main anime. So with that in mind I present my disclaimer being that I do not own any characters from this anime and also a warning that many of the characters mentioned in my stories are very OOC (out of character!) ok enough of that legal stuff!!

 The tight dark alleyways which were almost maze like in appearance as they stretched for miles around the ‘free zone’ didn’t seem to bother Makishima as he sprinted down one particular long walkway while searching for the mysterious individual known as Azusawa.

The free zone was strange type of oasis on the outskirts of the main city.

It was a place that had been purposefully overlooked by the Sibyl System, a place where citizens could indulge their sins in small healthy amounts without fear of clouding their hue.

Many times, in the past Makishima, at times accompanied by his hacker friend Choe, had visited such an area to meet with certain individuals to discuss their plans of destruction.

It made sense then that the ‘hunter’ Division had brought the asymptomatic along as his knowledge of the area was quite valuable especially when it came to locating certain meeting places for lesser known criminals.

A certain name had constantly popped up during the investigation into Mount Olympus and that name was Azusawa.

While Makishima was unfamiliar with the name he knew exactly where such a mystery man would be hiding.  

Using his influence and street reputation the asymptomatic had managed to get the hunters inside without any incident.

Locating Azusawa however proved more difficult as they only had a very sketchy description of the suspect.

Makishima had purposefully separated himself from the group in order to draw Azusawa out.

Well aware that he was being watched from a far the asymptomatic didn’t flinch or react when he was approached by a tall man with scraggly short black hair who was dressed in a faded grey business suit.

It was quite clear that the smug arrogant individual who slowly circled around Makishima was indeed Azusawa who seemed very at home in the seedy darkened room of the underground café.

Azusawa appeared to be aware that Makishima had changed and was no longer the big scary monster he once was.

The obvious proof was that the asymptomatic had lead members of the MWPSB into a hidden area and also the fact that Makishima was dressed like an Enforcer.

It was according to Azusawa all the evidence he needed to know that the asymptomatic had gone soft and had fallen from grace, Makishima didn’t have as much influence as he once did in the past, he was slowly losing his hold over the lesser criminals he once commanded.

After making such cruel accusations Azusawa quickly left, choosing to stealthily slip out the back exit, and Makishima followed not because he’d been insulted by Azusawa but deciding to purse the man for a different reason which went beyond forcing him to apologize.

If the arrogant Azusawa was apprehended, the MWPSB would be too distracted in their interrogation to focus on Makishima who hoped to use Azusawa’s arrest as a means to escape.

The asymptomatic was getting quite bored of playing the role of the helpful civilian consultant to the law, it was time to break free and do his own type of investigation, one that didn’t involve being under the constant supervision of several Inspectors and suspicious Enforcers.

The communication device on Makishima’s right wrist started to flash which signaled an incoming call.

Such a distraction was ignored by the asymptomatic who continued down the alleyway, alert and looking for the sly Azusawa.

Seeing a form crouching behind a large metal dumpster up ahead caused Makishima to grin as he slowed his pace, it seemed that apprehending Azusawa would be easier than he thought.

Azusawa appeared to have little to no combat experience and it was because of this that he was most likely hoping that a swift surprise attack from a hidden location might give him an advantage over Makishima.

Silently approaching his target Makishima silently reached forward to grab Azusawa’s shirt collar, the sudden assault would hopefully be enough to force the man to the ground where Makishima could easily restrain him.

Again the communicator rapidly flashed on the asymptomatic’s wrist and again it was ignored by Makishima, his sudden disappearance at the café had no doubt angered and confused both Inspectors by now.

Suddenly Azusawa rapidly spun around to face Makishima catching the asymptomatic off guard as he took several steps backwards in surprise.

The individual that stood in front of Makishima wasn’t Azusawa but instead a very angry Kogami Shinya!

Kogami frowned in anger as he tossed the cigarette he was smoking to one side.  

Not allowing Makishima to say a single word the Enforcer grabbed the asymptomatic and pinned him to the nearest wall never taking his eyes off his hated rival.

Quickly studying Makishima’s attire caused both concern and confusion to flash across Kogami’s features as he frowned.

“What are you…? Why are you…like…that?” Kogami stuttered appearing unsure of what to say as his mind struggled to assess the current situation.

Makishima simply smirked as he observed the Enforcer in his current state, very rarely did anything really upset Kogami or cause him to become so shocked he turned into a stuttering mess and now the asymptomatic had found a new method to cause trauma to an already unstable Kogami and it was very entertaining to witness.

Suddenly Kogami seemed to realize that instead of concern, he should be feeling angry at Makishima and the Enforcer shoved the asymptomatic hard into the wall refusing to let go while glaring back.

“What game are you playing at now?” Kogami demanded. “Are you trying to mock the MWPSB by dressing like that? Answer me right now!!!”

Admittedly Kogami was still puzzled over what Makishima was wearing, the Enforcer was so used to seeing the asymptomatic only dressing in white or lighter colours such as green or blue that suddenly coming across his hated rival wearing what seemed to be an Enforcer’s uniform seemed very strange and disturbing.

Hearing Kogami’s angry words caused Makishima to grin as he stared back at the Enforcer.

“I believe you have it all wrong” Makishima said snidely. “I’m merely doing my part as a good citizen and assisting the MWPSB in whatever way I can, I was told that in order to temporarily assimilate that I should wear this suit”

Kogami gritted his teeth, “You expect me to believe that garbage? Since when do you listen to orders? What’s your true motive in all of this? Are you behind this new crime wave involving Synth addicts?”

“In all honesty Kogami I have no idea what you’re talking about” Makishima chuckled. “Perhaps in the past synthetic substances were something that may have been useful as an effective bribe when I was assisting others but I no longer have any ties to such individuals, tell me if you’re here you surely aren’t alone? Does that mean that the lovely Inspector Tsunemori is close by?”

Kogami slammed Makishima hard into the wall glaring back at the asymptomatic, it was obvious that Makishima had hit a nerve.

“Don’t change the subject!” Kogami snarled. “I know you’re playing a role in these killings; it has signs of your influence all over it!”

Makishima shrugged, “As I stated before I don’t know what it is that’s gotten you so upset, if you’d like to explain in greater detail then perhaps, I might be able to help you”

As Kogami went to speak he noticed that Makishima’s right wrist was blinking.

Releasing the asymptomatic from his iron hold Kogami grabbed Makishima’s right arm and quickly brought it forward, slightly turning the limb so he could clearly see the communicator.

“What the…?!? Why are you wearing this?!” Kogami demanded.

Makishima causally glanced at the communicator before looking back to Kogami.    

“It was put on me before I started to assist the hunters” Makishima said slowly. “I believe all the Inspectors have one too”

Flinging Makishima’s arm down in anger Kogami loudly exhaled.

“Please tell me you’re not that stupid” the Enforcer muttered. “That this is just a terrible dream I can’t wake up from”

“You seem troubled again Kogami” Makishima spoke up.

Glancing back towards the smug asymptomatic Kogami repressed the urge to punch the man.

“Idiot!!” Kogami yelled. “That’s not an Inspector’s communicator!”

As if to further demonstrate the point Kogami rolled up his left sleeve and showed Makishima the exact same communicator.  

When Makishima only casually glanced down at his communicator without any signs of concern Kogami’s anger slowly started to rise.

“Notice anything?” Kogami asked.

Makishima looked down at the communicator then back to Kogami before shrugging.

“I don’t notice any differences” the asymptomatic replied.

Exhaling loudly Kogami loudly grinded his teeth.

“Mine and yours, they’re both the same you moron!” Kogami snapped. “They collared you without you knowing, you’re an Enforcer now!”

Again Makishima’s blank expression caused Kogami to become angry.

“I suppose my curiosity got the better of me” Makishima remarked as he studied the communicator. “I assumed it was only temporary, isn’t this how all Enforcers are recruited?”

Kogami glared at Makishima as he took one step towards the asymptomatic.

“You know as well as I do that’s not how it happens, people don’t willingly become Enforcers for fun unless they’re stupid idiots like you, you’re the only individual I know who decided to become an Enforcer voluntarily and that truly sickens me!”

Watching as Makishima tapped his communicator against the brick wall frustrated Kogami.

“If you think that they’ll release you after whatever it is that you’re ‘helping’ them with you’re stupider then I thought” Kogami said quietly. “It wasn’t meant to end like this, it was supposed to be different but now…”

Glancing up at a confused Makishima who’d returned to studying his communicator Kogami sighed.

“The MWPSB caught you idiot!” the Enforcer said harshly. “And you didn’t even put up a fight”

“I assure you it’s only temporary” Makishima replied. “Despite the fact that I can no longer see any latch to unlock”

“Just face the facts!” Kogami said angrily. “You’re not walking away from this, you’re a wanted felon by the MWPSB remember? Why would they just let you leave without question?”

Before Makishima could say anything Kogami quickly pushed the asymptomatic hard against the wall pinning him in place.

“Someone’s coming” Kogami whispered. “So shut it!”

As Kogami glanced to the right a figure approached the pair.

Seeing the middle-aged man with short black hair, goatee beard and dressed in an Enforcer’s uniform caused Kogami to release Makishima as he turned to face the individual.

“Hey Boss” the young man said smiling. “Didn’t expect to see you here”

“Irie?” Kogami frowned. “What are you doing wandering these alleyways alone?”

Irie grinned as he thumbed towards Makishima, “It’s fine one of my Inspectors sent me to find this guy, he pulled a disappearing act before and neither Inspector is very impressed”

“So it’s true” Kogami breathed. “Makishima is assisting you”

Noticing Kogami’s faint smile caused Irie to question his mentor.

Taking a few steps away from Makishima, Kogami kept his smile while shaking his head.

“The idiot just realized he can’t take his communicator off” Kogami said.

Looking back at Makishima who was attempting to find a latch to undo once again caused anger to swirl inside of Kogami.

“It won’t come off unless an Inspector authorizes it” Kogami remarked.

“They have to be alive too” Irie added. “Just thought you’d like to know that”

Kogami turned back to Irie, “So you were told about Makishima, what he’s done in the past?”

“Yeah we were told, remember I am part of a group that’s meant to hunt dangerous guys like Makishima but lately…” Irie trailed off.

Irie paused before continuing, “It’s one thing to read the files and know about the MWPSB’s most wanted but it’s another thing to see them in real life, I mean I heard stories about Makishima when I was on the streets, that he was ruthless, a sadist, a manipulator but really intelligent and organized, I read about his ties to the helmet riots but I’m not sure if this is the same guy or not”

Kogami glanced past Irie to see Makishima attempt to break the metal strap by chewing on it.

“Stop that!!” Kogami ordered. “That MWPSB property and the last thing we want is your saliva all over that communicator!”

Makishima instantly stopped before looking up at Kogami, an act that surprised Irie as the asymptomatic refused to listen to either Inspector of the hunter Division.

“It’s not coming off” Makishima said. “Perhaps I should try a different approach?”  

“Of course it’s not coming off” Kogami huffed. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“Wow” Irie breathed. “He listened to you”

Kogami crossed his arms, “I just know how to speak to Makishima that’s all”

Directly looking at Irie, Kogami spoke, “Please tell me you didn’t give that maniac access to a Dominator? Your superiors aren’t that naive, are they?”

Irie shook his head, “No they didn’t but strangely enough Makishima seemed relieved that he wouldn’t have to use one”

“That’s because I don’t need such a weak weapon to enforce others” Makishima spoke up. “I have my own way of doing it”

“You’re not ‘enforcing’ anyone so just shut up!” Kogami shouted. “I’m still having a hard time believing that all of this is happening, it doesn’t feel real”

Irie shifted on his feet, “So Boss why are you out here by yourself? You looking for someone?”

“A Synth addict” Kogami replied. “I really should get back to my unit before I’m noticed though”

Before Irie could reply Kogami leapt forward and punched Makishima squarely in the jaw causing the asymptomatic to fall back hard against the wall in shocked silence.

Irie simply whistled softly as he glanced back at Kogami who was flexing his right hand.

“That feel good Boss?” Irie asked.

Kogami faintly smiled, “You don’t know the half of it, that was a long time coming”

Struggling to his feet Makishima touched his left cheek lightly smiling as the faint iron taste of blood filled his mouth, Kogami’s punch had caught him off guard however he didn’t mind the unexpected attack.

Not wasting any time Kogami reached forward and grabbing Makishima by the purple tie he wore pulled the asymptomatic closer, enjoying seeing the faint flicker of fear in Makishima’s eyes as though for once in his life the asymptomatic had no idea what his opponent would do next.

“Listen to me and remember this” Kogami said slowly. “Now that you’re an Enforcer I don’t have to hold back understand? What I did to you today is only a small sample of what I’ll do to you if I ever see you dressed like this again, you’re just very lucky that I’m needed elsewhere otherwise…”

Kogami left his threat hanging as he roughly shoved Makishima back.

“Whatever it was that frightened you so much that you willingly became an Enforcer is something I don’t care about, but know one thing you aren’t safe by pretending to be one of us in fact you just made your miserable life even harder, we Enforcers have a system of our own in place similar to a ladder and you’re the bottom rung, everyone steps on the bottom rung try to keep that in mind”

Kogami then turned back to Irie, “Get this idiot out of here before I decide to punch him again”

Irie simply nodded as he glanced towards Makishima who was gently touching the left side of his face which was slowly growing red.

“Hate to say I told you so….” Irie said shrugging. “But you sort of deserved that”

As Irie attempted to grab Makishima by the collar the asymptomatic flicked the Enforcer’s hand away giving Irie an annoyed stare as he started back down the alleyway.

Irie sighed, “Doesn’t look like I have the magic touch like you Boss”

“It’s not something you want trust me” Kogami replied. “What I just did should make Makishima a little bit quieter for the next few days but if he acts out of line again contact me immediately ok?”

“Sure thing” Irie nodded. “Best of luck hunting your suspect”

“I think your Division needs more luck then me especially now that you’re having to deal with Makishima”

Both Enforcers then simply nodded and went their separate ways down the dimly lit alleyway.

[southdownsraphael]

Nightmares and Revelations

Hey! This is my first posted fic attempt with Good Omens (Raphael hc) and it's mostly angst with some graphic injury. At the moment all I really have is a taster, I'm on vacation in America so my time is pretty limited until next week as well as only having my phone to work on.

However, I am still working hard on this and I'm going to post more soon...

---------------------------------

Crowley was dreaming.

This wasn't a particularly odd occurrence, Aziraphale would be the first to admit, but something didn't feel right.

Aziraphale was sitting beside his demon in bed, a book open on the bedside table and one of Crowley's hands resting on Aziraphale's thigh, his face inches from the angel's hip. He had been trying to hug Aziraphale's leg before he'd finally given in to exhaustion, his body having been denied the regular sleep it was used to for almost a week.

Crowley's wings were out, one spread across the angel's lap where Aziraphale had been grooming it carefully, reverentially fixing each feather while Crowley slept.

Now though, the tender peace of the small room had been disturbed, and Aziraphale paused, his fingertips still buried in the beautiful softness of Crowley's glossy black feathers as he listened.

"No...I didn't.." Crowley muttered again, his voice small and shaky, his fingers twitching against Aziraphale's leg. "Please.."

Aziraphale's heart felt like it had dropped into his stomach at the broken tone of Crowley's voice, the soft, sincere begging driven by intense fear. He hadn't heard anything like it from his demon, not even at the end of the world, not from Anthony J. 'forever the optimist' Crowley.

"It's alright, darling," Aziraphale murmured, slipping one hand off the delicate wing and into Crowley's messy red curls, his thumb stroking over the demon's cheek. "I'm here, my dear."

Crowley shifted again, his brow furrowing as this dream resisted the comforting gesture, usually enough to soothe the demon down from any nightmare. "No.."

Aziraphale sighed and ran his hand over Crowley's bare spine, feeling his cool skin and silently debating what to do next. Crowley had gone through a period after they'd pulled off the switch during which he'd had horrible nightmares every night, and once Aziraphale had gotten used to recognising them early, he'd always been able to calm the demon without waking him. This seemed to be different, and much worse somehow.

Considering the gruesome and horrifying content of Crowley's previous nightmares, Aziraphale wasn't sure he wanted to know what much worse would look like.

But Aziraphale had always been curious, possibly to a fault, and he knew he had another option, an option that could possibly make Crowley quite angry, but at least he wouldn't have to rely on the demon's rather variable ability to talk to him about his dreams.

Aziraphale stroked Crowley's wing once more, then brushed his knuckles down the demon's cheekbone before pressing two fingers against his temple lightly.

The room was small, dark, and made completely out of concrete. A light flickered somewhere near the high ceiling, a grubby yellow light that cast odd shadows in the box-like room.

Aziraphale had found himself in the corner of this room, an unheard and unseen watcher squinting at a slumped figure in the middle of the floor, an indistinct shape in the dim light.

The shape shifted slightly, the light catching glistening, bloodied skin, and the stark white of exposed bone. What had once been wings were now mostly gone, a few feathers clinging to charred bones and mutilated skin, the white feathers stained red.

As the figure moved, tried to push itself up on its hands, Aziraphale saw a flash of red curls dread settled deep in the pit of his stomach as he slowly moved closer, close enough to see the blistered, burned skin, the countless cuts and lacerations, the pool of blood sticky beneath the angel's torso. There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't smeared with red or dirt or both.

The angel fell back with a soft sound of pain and the iron door in the far wall slammed open, revealing Gabriel standing in the doorway. He strode in and over to the angel, who tried to push himself up again, to face up to the archangel in front of him.

Aziraphale slowly circled around in fascinated horror, dreading what he was going to see, but painfully aware he simply had to know.

"Archangel Raphael. Pathetic," Gabriel began, his voice booming in the small room as the door slammed shut behind him. "You've disappointed all of us."

Aziraphale relaxed slightly at the sound of the unfamiliar name, making his way around to the corner next to Gabriel, so he could see the slumped angel, whose head was down, one cheek against the concrete floor.

From this angle, Aziraphale could hear the rasping, rattling breaths Raphael was taking, his body very clearly only just clinging to the edge of life.

Gabriel took a step forward and crouched down, heaving a deep sigh. "You were a favourite, Raphael. The Almighty was quite impressed with you, in fact. And yet, here we are."

Raphael lifted his head slowly, every tiny movement betraying pure agony, and as the broken angel finally locked eyes with Gabriel, Aziraphale's heart stopped.

He knew that face, he knew it like the back of his hand, it was a face he'd been studying for six thousand years. The eyes were wrong, a soft, beautiful blue, the kind of pale blue that made the watcher feel that if the owner began to cry, all the color would just wash away with the tears.

Crowley was crying, in fact, the tears streaming down his cheeks, leaving little clean tracks in the dirt and blood and grime on his face, and Aziraphale remembered to breathe again.

"Please, Gabriel," Crowley begged, blood spilling from his lower lip as he talked, his voice hoarse and broken, despairing. "I've seen the Great Plan, and it has to stop! The Almighty can't just play games with living, breathing creatures, it's cruel!"

Gabriel just shrugged, tilting his head to the side. "You're not supposed to ask questions, Raphael, you can't go around asking the Almighty why she chose her path, and then criticising her on it. It's not what we do, we do what we're told."

Crowley's head dropped back to the stone, his eyes displaying nothing but agony and a terrible, heart-wrenching resignation. "She's going to kill sentient beings," he insisted quietly as Gabriel stood up, straightening his jacket stiffly. "Children, animals, everything."

"We don't question the Great Plan," Gabriel answered simply and firmly, giving the fallen angel a sad look. "They'll find a place for you here in Hell, Raphael. It's where you belong, you don't fit in with us anymore."

The door shut behind Gabriel with a loud clang and the angel on the floor let out a slow sigh, going completely limp and just staring at nothing. Aziraphale didn't think, his brain just shoved him forward as soon as Gabriel had gone, driving him to the body on the floor.

Raphael looked up dreamily when a pair of shoes stopped in front of his eyes, then dropped his head back again just as Aziraphale fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he reached out slowly.

As soon as his fingertips brushed the angel's skin, he was gathering Crowley up in his arms, gasping and trembling and stifling little sobs as he pulled the demon into his lap.  

Crowley cried out in pain, his whole being radiating hurt, but Aziraphale needed to hold his demon, he needed to hold Crowley and cradle him and tend to him. He slid one hand onto the back of Crowley's head, fingers spread, and held him with the other arm tucked around, under his waist. Crowley let out a long breath and drooped over his lap, his eyes slowly opening to stare up at Aziraphale's face.

Before, they had been such a soft, perfect blue, but now they were slowly changing, morphing into the much more familiar gold that Aziraphale had only ever known.

"Aziraphale.." Crowley gasped, his hands gently scrabbling on the angel's now blood-smeared coat. "Please. Wake me up.."

(To be continued....)

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Off Day: Six

Bucky walks into the shop quietly, watching you set up a new display in the window. Some seasonally appropriate artwork. Paintings and hand made pots. Books on how to do those things. Antique books from the 40′s it looks like. He’s afraid to disturb you. Afraid to ruin whatever fragile peace of mind you might be finding doing this.

You look like you did in Elementary school when the teacher handed you your worksheet. Content. Focused. To be honest, he’s a little surprised he didn’t recognize you. But then, you had glasses now. And your hair was darker. He just lets you have this for a second. Lets himself have this. “I’ll be with you in just one second,” you say, reaching up to adjust a book so it sits just so on your display.

“Take your time, Doll,” Bucky says softly.

“Bucky,” you say turning around, startled. You look up at him, lips slightly parted, about to say something and Bucky can’t help it. He just can’t.

He crosses the floor to you and cradles you against him gently, one hand tangling in your hair and the other hovering on the small of your back. First feathering a soft kiss on the tip of your nose and then your lips.

He has to do this. He has to kiss you the way you should be kissed. Not some sloppy drunk mess that leaves you wanting. The way your first kiss had been.

When you didn't pull away and slap him, he presses a little harder, nipping your lip gently to open your mouth and brush his tongue against yours in a soft caress. It takes serious discipline not to pick you up and set you on the counter. Not to throw you over his shoulder like a cave man and carry you off to claim you on the first soft surface he can find. He hadn’t planned this. But when you pull away, looking up at him blushing and surprised, he can’t say he minds.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, wiping some of your smudged lip color with his thumb, “I’m a sucker for red lipstick.”

“I- what about- I mean that woman- what’s going on?” you say, confused. Dazed. It’s been an emotionally trying few days. Weeks. Okay, really, you think, it’s been years but whose counting. And now Bucky Fucking Barnes of all people is kissing you. And looking at you like he loves you. And he’s sober. 

“Look, Y/N,” Bucky said blushing, “Char and I aren’t- I mean. She’s my fuck buddy. We’re not dating. Never were. And I just... If that kid is mine we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. But I doubt it is. Or that she’s even really pregnant given that I just found some dude balls deep in her, unwrapped... I’m sorry.”

He brushes hair behind your ear tenderly and takes a deep breath.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “For as long as I can remember, I’ve been half in love with you. I’m sorry I’m a fucking asshole. That I hurt you this bad. That I had to act all hard instead of just admitting that I love you because loving you would mean I was... I dunno. A whimp or something.”

You look away and he tilts your chin up, “I know 20 years is a long time to be stupid but, baby, please. All I need is one chance.”

“But- Kaity,” you protest.

“Kaity walked into my shop at 9am and informed me I better get my shit together because she has two months to live and no fear of jail,” Bucky snorted fondly. 

“Oh no,” you say, covering your mouth to try and stifle a giggle in spite of yourself. In spite of being about to cry.

Bucky pulls you close slowly and kisses the top of your head, “Just one chance,” he pleaded, kissing your nose again when you look up at him. 

“One,” you allow, exhaling slowly. “But only if you kiss me again.”

He needs no second order. “Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs against your lips, claiming the second kiss he’d been waiting for for years. Relishing the feel of your arms winding around him and the feel of you pulling him closer. A silent request for just a little more. There are desperation and longing. in the way you touch him. A need Bucky understands. A need to be distracted. To drown out all the demons screaming in his head. He’s happy to oblige, to give you that moment.

“Have dinner with me tonight?” he asks, a little breathless when he comes up for air.

“I can’t,” you murmur, “Hospice is coming to get set up tonight. We’re moving a couple rooms around.” You swallow hard and Bucky feels his heart drop.

“Baby,” he murmurs, “Is there anything I can do?”

You shake your head, “I just really need a nap. Maybe a cookie. But I’ll be okay.”

Bucky chuckles, “Well I can get you both those things, doll.”

You smile a little, “I can’t sleep. I haven’t really been able to since I moved home... Any time I start to sleep too well I jerk back awake. Afraid- afraid something might happen and I won’t wake up.”

“Even here if I tuck you in on the couch?” he asked, concerned. 

You nod, “I freak out because I might not hear my phone.”

“I can feed you a cookie,” he coaxes, “Get you a coffee too. Some soup. Anything you want. I’ll run the front and you just go lie down for a little bit. Even if you don’t sleep. Read a book. Look up someplace we can go paint a plate or something... just rest a little.”

“But-”

“Go on,” he said shooing you gently, “I’ll put the order in. I can handle this for you. You need to rest. Kaity is gonna need you well-rested, isn’t she?” 

“My bank card is-”

“No,” Bucky said, letting a little of his Sargeant's voice creep in. Not a lot, but enough to make you stop. Just stop and let him do this. Let him give you some comfort. A little TLC. “I told you to go lay down,” he murmured softly, “I don’t want your card. I want you to do what I said, understand, baby girl? I only get one shot. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He kisses your nose again tenderly and gently turns you towards the back, calling the cafe next door to order you soup, a cookie, and a hot chocolate and a sandwich. You need fuel and you need rest. Maybe if he can get you cozy for a while he can give you that. He can watch the shop and listen to your phone for a few hours if it means you get some sleep.

When food arrives, you're on the velvet fainting couch, covered up in a throw blanket. Still awake. Very much away looking anxious and pale, shivering. Bucky feels a stab of pain for you and carries things back gently, “I thought you might be hungry,” he explained, setting food out. A grilled cheese, some tomato soup, the biggest cookie he could order, and a hot chocolate. “And it’s fucking miserable outside, thought this might help.”

You put up the cup of hot chocolate and Bucky notices your hands trembling. “Thanks,” you murmur, taking a sip.

Bucky takes a bite of his own sandwich and nods. For the next 20 or so minutes, there’s not a lot of talking as you’re eating. Bucky is subtly pushing as much on you as he can, figuring a full stomach will put you to sleep for a while. He’s not disappointed when you protest that you can’t eat anymore, he just kisses the side of your head and tucks your blanket around you more firmly, trusting some warm soup and the shitty weather to knock you out. Hell, it usually knocked him out. 

He sits with you for a while, idly rubbing the little bare feet in his lap, half-listening to the front of the shop in case someone walks in, half-listening for your breathing to indicate sleep. Once you doze off, he tucks your feet in gently and pads his way to the front of the shop to sit and wait. It’s a nice few hours, watching the snow and ringing a few people out. Carefully wrapping a piece of artwork for a customer. Playing games on his phone. 

For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t mind being bored. Or sober. It’s for a good cause, he decides. And he hates the idea that he could kiss you and not remember it. Not when the way you responded to him was just so pretty. At closing time, when you come back up front, rosy-cheeked with sleep and rubbing your eyes, glasses in hand, he smiles softly.

“Good sleep?” he asked, pulling you onto his knee while you get your bearings.

You yawn, nodding and he rubs your stomach affectionately, “Warm soup belly,” he explained, “works every time. Not sure why it works but a warm, full belly will knock out insomnia pretty well.”

You make a soft sleepy noise and stretch, slowly remembering how to wake up, “I’ll defer to your expertise. I don’t think I ever sleep that good,” you tell him.

He tuts softly, “Well,” he said, “I got a few other remedies if you ever need me to knock you out again.” 

“Oh?” you ask putting your glasses on.

“They’re just not things you do with clothes on, doll,” he teased.

You blush and turn to lock down the register and put money in the bank bag. “Oh,” you say quietly.

“Y/N,” Bucky murmured, “Have you not ever?”

You shake your head, “I didn’t want anyone to see me,” you murmured, “I scarred myself up pretty bad over the years. I just. I dunno. After the first guy I dated freaked out about my wrists I just couldn’t.”

“I’ve seen your wrists,” he reminded gently, wrapping his arms around you gently and kissing your shoulder, “And I run around with bikers. Scars don’t scare me, baby. Not even the scary ones.”

You nod and take a shaky breath, “No,” he said softly, “There’s no pressure. Not one bit. Okay? I’m not gonna lie to you. I’d love to take you home, right now, and love you until you can’t walk. But this isn’t about me, okay?”

When you’re quiet, he tilts your chin up gently, “Okay, baby girl?” he presses gently. “Okay,” you answer quietly. 

Bucky doesn’t say anything else, watching you get everything ready to go and closing down before walking you patiently to your car.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently kissing your hand, dimly aware that he’s used more pet names for you in a few hours than he’s ever used for anyone, “you need anything, you call me? Okay? I don’t care what it is.”

“What if I just want you to bring me a teddy bear?” you say, smiling a little.

“Anything,” he repeats gently, “I’m gonna take care of my girl, you hear me?”

“I hear you,” you tell him softly.

“Good,” he murmurs, “Put the others in your phone too okay? If you can’t get a hold of me I want you to be able to get someone. They’ll find me.”

You nod and he shuts your car door firmly, stepping back so you can pull out of your space and avoid his toes. He waves as you drive away and watches you stop at the light. It’s still snowing and he makes a note to make sure he cleans your side walk and his mom’s tomorrow. You have enough issues without worrying about that. 

________

By the time you get home, Kaity is installed in her hospital bed and you come to sit with her, snuggling close and tucking a comforter around you both.

“I can’t believe you threatened to fucking shoot her,” you scold, “Or that Aunt Judy fucking told on me. THEN LET YOU DO IT!”

Kaity shrugged, pushing play on the remote. “You’re our baby,” Kaity said snuggling you and coaxing Salem closer. “Mama didn’t just take you in for fun, She loves you. And you’re my doll baby, remember?”

“You never let me forget it,” you murmur, resting your head on her shoulder. 

“You were so tiny when they brought you home,” she said, “I asked daddy if you needed batteries. You didn’t even look real.” She smiles, “I called you Dolly forever.”

“You still do sometimes, Cat-cat,” you tell her, adjusting yourself to sit cross-legged and start trimming her nails.

“You only call me Cat- cat anymore when you don’t want me to worry,” she said suspiciously, “What else happened today?”

“Nothing,” you tell her, keeping your eyes down, focused on your nails.

“So why’d Nat text me and tell me that Bucky was watching the shop for you?” she pressed.

“Because he brought me lunch and I fell asleep on the couch in the back,” you answer, keeping your voice as level as possible. 

“If that’s all that happened why’d Bucky tell Nat he kissed you?” she said, chucking you under the chin with her free hand. 

“I didn’t know how you’d react,” you tell her, looking down again and adjusting your glasses before starting work on her other hand.

“Y/N,” she said softly, “The only thing I want is for you not to be alone.”

“I'm okay on my own, Kaity,” you murmur.

“But you deserve so much more, Dolly,” she said softly. “You’re magic and champagne at midnight. Why are you settling for warm Natty light and a hot dog?”

“I’m just some trailer trash that can paint, Kaity. That’s all. I don’t have to take up space to do that.”

“Bucky doesn’t think so. I don’t think so. Mama and Daddy don’t think so. Grandma didn’t either. Bubbles, please,” Kaity said taking a deep breath, “I already talked about it with Mama and Daddy. I want to leave you the Shop. And Grandma’s house, since she wanted it to go to the oldest and that won’t be me anymore. Do me one favor?”

You take a deep breath and nod. You don’t want to talk about this but the hospital bed and the Hospice Nurse coming in in the morning made it impossible. 

“Take care of mama and daddy for me?” she said softly, “Make sure they don’t follow me too fast.”

You wipe away tears for her gently and nod, making her smile a little, “At least I know they’ll have you. That the shop’s in good hands. Even if you are a shit and won’t let me pay you.”

“I don’t need much Kaity. Just a place to sleep and some cat food.”

“And a biker to keep you warm,” Kaity teased, making your cheeks color.

“No,” Kaity said giggling, “It’s great. One of us needs to get laid soon or it won’t be the cancer that kills me. It’ll be all the fucking sexual frustration. Was he at least a good kisser?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, cheeks burning, making Kaity laugh.

“Whatever it is,” Aunt Judy said backing through the door, “I don’t want to know.”

She took a seat in a chair and arranged a dinner tray for Kaity, kissing you both fondly on the head, taking in your blushing cheeks, “I definitely don’t want to know.”

Tags: @lancsnerd @stevieang @etherealwaifgoddess @blameitonthecauseway @thorfanficwriter

[ahgaseda]

the NSFW alphabet | Mark (Got7)

{ this post contains graphic descriptions and explicit content : please read at your own risk! }

A = aroused (how he acts when he's in the mood)

like a horny little fuck boy. but he also smooth as fuck. says the dirtiest shit. cant keep his hands off of you. will bring your hand to the bulge in his jeans like baby look what you made me do. goes right for the neck kisses. he knows thats the weak spot and hes not afraid to go for it straight away. pouts or sulks when you play hard to get but secretly loves it.

B = body (favorite body part of their partner)

he loves your skin. he loves how soft it is. he loves how warm it feels against him. he lives to trace his fingertips in mindless patterns up and down your body. from your head to your toes. he loves to nip and bite. he loves to lick and suck. if he can mark every inch of you he will. oh god and the warm sweaty feel of your skin when youre on top of him after a round of sex is his favorite.

C = climax (what he's like when he orgasms)

face scrunching up. teeth buried in his bottom lip. during sex and climax its like the only word he knows is fuck. if its a really intense nut he may just repeat that word until he finally comes back down. hes not afraid to make noise but its usually soft moans or heavy panting. he also the type to like staying inside after he finishes. youre very used to him getting comfortable on top of you.

D = dominance (is he dominant, submissive or a switch)

a very very good switch. he is the master of both sides. can be a rough and intimidating dom that puts you in your place and fucks you from behind into the mattress. or he can be the cutest brattiest little sub that lets you cuff him to the bed and do whatever you want with him until further notice. he doesnt really have a preference since either are good fun for him and he likes making you both happy.

E = experience (how experienced is he in the bedroom)

he definitely been at this a while and hes not opposed to one night stands. when hes in a relationship he gives his all to his partner but a quick fuck with a stranger not so much. because hes a Virgo he prefers sex with love but when hes single he will make do with what he has. but when hes in that meaningful relationship with someone he loves he will make it his mission to become an expert on pleasing them in bed.

F = fortitude (does he have a lot of stamina and energy)

yes and no. lots and lots of stamina. he can make a round last as long as needed. he can hold back his orgasm until youve finished even if he has to pull out and calm himself down when hes too close. as for multiple rounds well that might be reserved for special occasions. or if hes been away and the two of you are reunited after weeks apart. after sex he typically wants to settle down and snuggle and probably sleep. that being said hes also the type to do a lot before actual sex. like dry grinding or manual or oral. there can still be multiple orgasms before any intercourse which is like the grand finale of a long show lol

G = gratification (what really gets him off)

getting exactly what he wants. it sounds selfish but its not. if he got you all worked up and now hes got you right where he wants you and youre moaning his name and its all playing out exactly how he wanted and imagined then hes gonna blow really hard. even when hes subbing and youre doing what you want he still wanted to sub in the first place so it still taps into what gets him off. he can be a greedy little lover boy but its never at your expense. he will never leave you unsatisfied.

H = habitat (preferred place to get busy)

at home usually. or at least somewhere that a couch or bed is nearby. he will want to call it a day afterward. but he also likes quickies so this isn’t a strict rule of his. he definitely down for car sex if the mood is right. in fact it probably happens a lot more than he would care to admit. he also is a big fan of pool sex for obvious reasons. tbh if the two of you are getting it on he really doesnt give a fuck where it is in the heat of the moment.

I = intimacy (how emotional is he when it comes to sex)

it depends on the mood. if its a rough round and hes just chasing your highs then probably not at all. if youre celebrating an anniversary or something then there will be a lot of intimacy and tenderness. also there is a lot of makeup sex in this relationship and he will get very emotional about it. hes not the type to pick a fight just for the sake of makeup sex. the fights will be real and serious and so will be the making up making love afterward.

J = joke (how much does he play around)

during roleplay and foreplay there will be plenty of joking around. also during a quickie yes he can be a little shit and make you giggle. totally the type to get horny and poke you in the back with his dick like hey you asleep? if humor works on you then he will use it. he can be really funny when subbing so be prepared to laugh. he doesnt take the bedroom too seriously unless the mood calls for it. hes a pretty easygoing guy and that carries over to his sexy time too.

K = kink (toys or kinks)

loves toys. will gladly tie you up and slip some vibrating panties on you and then play some video games with you having orgasms over and over behind him. but he also the type to get lots of different toys and then never use them lol he tends to stick with the usual stuff. as far as his kinks he loves when you dom the absolute fuck out of him. pin him down and fuck the soul out of him. he wont readily admit it but he loves when you own him in every way possible. also marking haha no pun intended. he loves to give and receive bruises and hickeys.

L = lust (how often does he want it)

the sex drive is between average and high. sometimes leaning toward the high side when hes in a committed relationship. you turn him on almost constantly hes just so damn into you. yall fuck each other on the regular. he really likes showing how much he needs you through sex. there will be times though when hes exhausted from work and just does not have the energy for a fuck. other times work can stress him tf out so bad that he just needs to take some pleasure out of your body. he will always give you a heads up text on the way home when thats the case though.

M = masturbation (mutual and solo)

its not a big deal to him. he dont care if you get yourself off though he does like hearing all about it. you can call him up for some phone sex and he will do the bare minimum. but that deep voice is enough. he will give you a mmhm and good girl and yep a couple of those do the trick. he gets a little freaky when yall are apart though. he wants you to send him nudes and show him your boobs when you facetime and all that stuff. when hes a horny little fucker and youre not around he really is shameless.

N = never (what he will not do)

share. you are his and every other guy can fuck right off. if you suggest a threesome you can forget it. if one of the members has his phone and accidentally sees one of your nudes he may come out swinging. he loves you way too much and is too emotionally attached to you. he cant ever see another guy give you pleasure or even let them see your beautiful body that belongs to him. he doesnt care if youve been with other guys or been in love before you are his now and he is yours and thats that.

O = oral (giving and receiving)

oh god giving him head is the best because the sounds he makes. he isnt loud but hes not afraid to make noise when he feels good and your hot wet mouth is the good shit. he just loves tangling his hand in your ponytail and thrusting into your throat. you love feeling his legs tremble when you swallow him. and hes not above reciprocating. the kid will suck you dry. you wanna be a little brat alright this will change that attitude real quick. awe youre stressed out lemme make you sing. most of the time he eats you out before sex because he catches a glimpse of how wet you are and he just has to have a taste.

P = position (favorite position)

it may sound boring but missionary. he loves having you beneath him. the view is fantastic. he can watch himself sinking in and out of you. he loves the way your boobs bounce with his thrusts and he has perfect access to grab one or both. he can either drape himself over you chest to chest or he can sit up and roam his hands all over your thighs and hips. either way theres definitely nothing wrong with good ole missionary. he also loves to get ahold of your neck and pin you to the mattress. sometimes he will squeeze and sometimes not. its pretty good either way. he is very possessive of your body in the heat of the moment.

Q = quickie (what is a quickie like with him)

hot and messy and wild and rough and crazy and the best ever. he really gives it to you hard and fast in a quickie. he loves the way your body shudders from enduring his thrusts. the way you cant stop chanting his name. these occur in the car or in the shower most of the time. you need him right this minute and damn it hes gotta have you right now. it still shocks you how merciless he gets and youre suddenly aware just how much he holds back. and hell hath no fury like mark if he is interrupted. be prepared for him to fling something at whoever disturbs you both.

R = roleplay (favorite routines and tropes)

they change on a whim. it depends on what yall are in the mood for. though he does like to get his way more often than not and he knows how to push your buttons to get the desired outcome. a common trope is the playing hard to get. he likes when you make him work for it. he lives to tease and be teased. he really enjoys everything that leads up to the sex. hes actually a pretty good actor when it comes to dom or sub tropes. when hes in dom mode your body obeys his every command without a second thought.

S = seduction (how he gets you in the mood)

he knows how to finesse his way to some sexy time and he’s damn good at what he does. a little bit of that low deep voice does the trick. its unholy. the boy knows exactly how and when to get you worked up. he gets very vocal about what he wants. come on baby lets go play dont you wanna come for me i love watching you come and listening to you scream my name for all the neighbors.

T = teasing (what is the best way to arouse him)

flirt with him. get naughty. touch him lightly but intentionally. keep at it and get him all riled up. the most sure fire way to get him is to put on some lingerie and give him a lapdance or something like that. if hes playing games and pretending to ignore you put on something skimpy or racy and sit right in his lap. also tap into his mark kink. kiss his neck and start sucking. he will melt into a puddle in your hands.

U = underwear (lingerie and costumes)

will buy you lingerie he likes without hesitation. baby please wear this for me. he dies for how good you look in lingerie. and holy crap does he have dozens upon dozens of pictures of you in his phone in these outfits. lingerie is probably one of his biggest weaknesses. meanwhile he always prefers to be naked. if company aint coming around you can guarantee he will walk around the house naked as the day he was born. the kid is hot blooded and hates wearing clothes.

V = verdict (what do you think of your sex life with him)

sometimes you catch yourself blushing as you think about the sex with mark. its good. so so good. the two of you feed off of and into each other. after a while youre in sync with each others desires and needs. you can tell when he needs stress relief. he can tell when you need reassurance. its like he can read your body fluently. he gives you some of the most intense orgasms and holds you afterward like youre all hes ever wanted in his life.

W = words (how vocal is he and dirty talk)

his dirty talk is next level and im not exaggerating. he a whole fuckboy and he knows how lethal his deep voice is. expect him to make it even lower and to say the nastiest things. remember hes shameless and not much is off limits except things he knows you dont like. he keeps it going during sex too. loves whispering in your ear when he takes you. when hes subbing for you he makes sure to be extra vocal and does not hold back. as a dom he goads you and gets even more explicit.

X = x-rated (how does he feel about porn or sextapes)

oh yall have definitely made a few videos. hes gotta have stuff to watch at night when hes on tour and youre on the other side of the globe. he prefers photos of you but he does have a couple vids that are his absolute favorite. he watches porn occasionally and he doesnt care if you do too. yall have watched porn together no big deal. yall pretty much get each other horny enough you dont need any porn for that lol

Y = yawn (what is he like after sex)

sleepy and cuddly. he turns into such a snuggle bug. it taps into that need he has for your skin against his. you become his personal pillow after sex. he smushes his face against your breasts. he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you flush against him. just cuddle the shit out of him. he needs and wants it so badly. as you both come down he really covers you in kisses. will lick every sweat droplet off of your skin. damn youre so beautiful and feel so amazing he just cant stand it.

Z = zodiac (what his sign says about him in bed)

oh the Virgo. greedy but needy. they want their wishes fulfilled but they also want to be good to you. its a steady balance. sometimes he gets a little too self centered and will pull your strings to get his way but he loves you so much that he will always make it up to you. he wants this relationship to last forever and ever and is therefore willing to bend over backwards to make you happy but he expects the same in return. this boy will never stick around for a one-sided love. match his effort or hes gone.

{ copyright 2018-2020 © ahgaseda // masterlist }

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @cousinshelley!

You said you liked hurt/comfort, missing scenes, concern, denial overcome by sheer determination and affection and rescues, so I hope you'll like my retelling of that scene from S3 in Derek's loft! 

Read on AO3

*****

The Feeling of Happiness

Derek had almost forgotten what happiness feels like.

He certainly remembers it differently, more vibrant, more all consuming, chasing Laura, being chased by Cora in turn, hugging his mum, winning the championship game.

But then he hadn't been happy since he’d been a teenager, and now he's an adult, finally happy again after all the time that has passed. He has changed a lot as a person, surely it only makes sense that his feelings of happiness have changed, too. What he remembers are the childish feelings of a boy about inconsequential things; what he feels now is the happiness of an adult, in love.

That’s what Jennifer always says - they are in love and they are happy.

It’s hard to remember a time before Jennifer was part of his life. And whenever she’s gone it seems empty without her, the hours passing by in grey monotony when she’s teaching, making them hard to keep track off. The hours when she’s with him are a haze of fuzzy happiness. There’s still the threat of the Alpha pack and whoever is responsible for the sacrifices, but it seems less immediate now than it felt a few weeks ago.

Sometimes, especially when Jennifer isn’t there, the nagging thought enters Derek’s mind that he should be doing more about those threats, should work harder at protecting his pack, what’s left of it at least, but Jennifer’s presence soon calms him again. It’s like she says - rushing won’t help here, they’ll need just a little more patience and time. What they are waiting for Derek can’t say precisely, but it must be worth it if Jennifer thinks so.

And anyways, it’s his pack, his decision. Noone is going to question him.

If only because no one else seems to be around anymore. He thinks he saw Cora once before school a couple of days ago and Peter is surely lurking around somewhere, but that’s it. Everyone’s busy with school, Jennifer says, tests and papers coming up, so Derek doesn’t bother them either, content to wait for them. Jennifer tells him what they’ve been up to anyways - it sounds as though they’ve been little mischiefs like always, especially Scott.

There’s something like an itch at the back of his mind, a similar feeling to having a word on the tip of your tongue, some thought or memory that wants to move forward into your conscious, but is blocked by something. Something about Scott being the mischievous one doesn’t match, but Derek can’t think of what is wrong with it. Scott has always had a knack for trouble, hasn’t he?

The sound of the loft’s main door opening draws him out of his wandering thoughts, and he realises that he never even heard anyone come up the stairs. The adrenaline rush of that realisation cuts like a knife through the cotton ball fluff filling up his brain.

The first thing he notices is his scent.

Warmth is the overwhelming impression it leaves, hot cinnamon and bright sparks. But not the sparks of a fire soon burning to ash, like Kate, but the sparks of firework, of the stars in the sky. Burning yes, but bright and beautiful, not signalling death and destruction. Oh, there’s still danger, a spark is what starts the fire after all, but it’s a threat turned outwards, to protect, not to attack. All of that is dampened right now, though, as if buried at the bottom of the sea, underneath mountains of water and salt.

“Grief,” his mother’s voice echoes in his mind. “That’s what you are smelling.”

Grief and the acid tang of fear.

Derek is moving before the thought has fully manifested, making it to the door in a few big steps, hand curling around Stiles’ shoulder and drawing him into the loft, barely acknowledging Scott behind him.

Stiles’ eyes are wide and his face is pale, shock written all over his features. Derek’s hold tightens and his eyes rove over Stiles’ frame, nose twitching as he tries to figure out whether Stiles is injured, if he’s in pain.

“What is it?” he asks urgently, voice cracking from disuse. He and Jennifer don’t talk much, and when they do, Jennifer usually takes over most of the conversation. If it can even be called a conversation. Derek’s mind feels clearer than it’s been in weeks and many things are starting to look stranger than he thought they did. But he can’t focus on that right now, not with the tears threatening to spill from Stiles’ eyes.

“My dad,” Stiles starts and then has to swallow, whether words or a sob, Derek can’t tell. “My dad, she has my dad, Derek.”

“Who has?” Derek asks, but even as the words leave his mouth another curtain rises and he knows what Stiles is going to say before he opens his mouth.

“Ms Blake. I’m sorry, Derek, I know you and she are, you know, but, she tried to kill Lydia, and then she took my dad. She’s going to kill him!”

Derek’s stomach twists at Stiles apologising.

“We are not,” he starts denying, before admitting: “I mean, we are, or were, I guess, but it’s all fuzzy, I don’t know.”

Stiles’ scent sharpens and his eyes narrow.

“Fuzzy?” he asks and Derek shrugs.

“I don’t really remember, the days just run one into the other. It was mostly just her, and me, happy and in love.”

It’s disturbing to hear himself speak and not recognise his own voice. Already he can feel his panic and worry slipping away, though, buried under a blanket of wool.

Stiles’ face hardens - Derek almost doesn’t realise it; it’s hard to focus, his eyes seem to want to slip away from Stiles as though he’s a piece of wet, slick soap in the shower. That’s what Derek feels like, too, under water, sight and scent and hearing all impeded.

Stiles’ voice cuts through the cotton in his ears, though, sharp and angry: “I’m going to kill her. Twice. I’m going to kill her, make Peter bring her back to life and kill her again. Once for my dad and once for Derek.”

“Stiles, killing can’t be our answer,” Scott interjects from behind him, and Derek had completely forgotten he was even here.

“Scott, she roofied him,” Stiles interrupts him, voice steely, only the tiniest hint of a tremble revealing the outrage that has overtaken his scent. “She whammied him with magical roofies and did God knows what to him, all while pretending to be his girlfriend and telling him they were in love!! You are right, death is too good for her, we’ll definitely need to resort to torture.”

His scent has turned almost rancid with hate, and Derek’s stomach both jumps and turns at the thought that it is for him, unleashed in his defence.

“Stiles, no,” he presses out, keeping his thoughts together somehow getting harder again. “Not for me.”

Don’t dim your light with hate, or something equally cheesy is what he wants to say, but his brain seems to have been replaced with cotton wads, making it impossible to form full sentences.

“Dude, someone’s coming,” Scott suddenly says, and again Derek is shocked at how lacking his senses are right now - or he would be shocked, the panic reduced to a faint sensation under the calming blanket of what must be Jennifer’s spellwork. Vaguely he’s aware of Scott tugging Stiles into the shadows of the loft, until they won’t be immediately visible from the door, but all his focus is now on what approaches from behind those doors, or rather who.

Now that he’s aware of it, he can feel how the spell works to keep him calm, filling him with fake content and a weak imitation of love. “Happy and in love.” Ha! But still the awareness is not enough to shake it off entirely, making him feel trapped inside his own body, inside his mind.

“Derek? Derek, where are you?” Jennifer calls as she’s entering and Derek feels compelled to answer.

“Right here.”

“Thank God,” she breathes, looking and sounding frazzled. Only an hour ago, Derek would have stepped towards her, tried to comfort her. “Something happened at the recital. At the school. Okay, I need to tell you before you hear it, before you hear any of it from them.”

“From who?” Derek presses out, trying to act as naturally as possible, or like he thinks he acted when fully under her influence, but it’s not working. Already he can feel her amping up the pressure, the desire to please her, to agree with her whatever she says growing despite his best efforts to push against it with his own will.

Jennifer’s eyes have narrowed in suspicion, but for now she’s playing along, apparently not yet willing to break the illusion.

“Scott, Stiles. They're gonna tell you things. Things you can't believe. You have to trust me, okay? You trust me.”

There’s weight behind those words, a weight that presses Derek down, makes him want to agree, reassure her. It’s only with the greatest effort that he gets a question out instead:

“What is it?”

“Promise you’ll listen to me,” Jennifer insists and this time Derek thinks he can almost see the tendrils of her magic, feel them snaking around him, binding him.

“I promise,” he says and doesn’t even have to be forced to do so, because it’s not a lie. He’ll listen. But that doesn’t mean he’ll believe a single word she says. It must be obvious to Jennifer, too, because she changes tracks.

“They're already here, aren't they? So... they told you it was me? That I'm the one taking people?”

“We told him you are the one killing people!” Scott pipes up, finally coming forward with Stiles in tow.

Jennifer scoffs.

“Oh, that's right. Committing human sacrifices? What, cutting their throats? Yeah, I probably do it on my lunch hour. That way, I can get back to teaching high school English the rest of the day. That makes perfect sense!”

Her mask is finally slipping, but her hold on her magic, and thus Derek is as strong as ever. It even feels as though the bands around him are tightening.

“Where’s my dad?”

Once again Stiles’ voice cuts through all the layers holding Derek captive. The sheer desperation in his voice carves into the wall built around Derek’s senses and the sharp mix of anger and fear, fire and acid in his scent blows the cobwebs from Derek’s mind.

But it is the single tear that finally spills from his wet eyes that washes away the last remnants of Jennifer’s control. It’s as though Derek can breathe freely for the first time in weeks, when he hadn’t even realised he’d been close to suffocating before. His thoughts and feelings are finally his own again, not dictated to him, and what overwhelmingly dominates them is relief and gratitude. And worry. For the Sheriff, but even more so for Stiles and what the loss of his last family member would do to him.

Jennifer’s voice distracts him, but now it carries no compulsion with it.

“How should I know? Derek, tell me you don’t believe this!”

It’s a fair enough last ditch effort, but it’s clear to Derek that she knows she has lost. Her hold on him has been broken, whatever spells she wrought, enchantments layered, curses spat, they have no power over him anymore. Derek doesn’t know how or why, but he knows Stiles has played a part. There’s a faint memory of a story his mom once told him that might help explain what just happened here, about a boy who ran with wolves and a wolf who played with fire, but the details escape him for now.

One thing he does remember again though, is the feeling of happiness.

And it’s not what Jennifer tried to press into him.

It’s the memory of Stiles’ smile. His cheering when he’d put down the mountain ash line, the twinkle in his eyes when he teases Derek, the fond grin that’s reserved for Scott.

It’s Stiles.

[aaltena26]

Unmasked ~ Eleven

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @aaltena26 and everyone else who has offered up their inbox for submissions. Please enjoy the eleventh chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

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

~~ Chapter 11 ~~

I sleep wretchedly. In fact, I am certain that I slept better in the days leading up to our wedding than I do on the wedding night, despite being left utterly alone and untouched. There are a few moments of tension in the morning, with Peeta and I moving around one another in an attempt to prepare for the day.

“I swear this room was enormous just two days ago,” I mutter as we nearly collide for the fourth time. Peeta laughs then and reaches behind him to grasp my morning dress from where it lays. I hold my dressing gown closed tight, hoping he will not be able to see how my chest heaves with my rapid breathing as he hands the garment to me.

“I suppose this will require some further adjustment on both our parts. I will try not to be so much underfoot, madame,” he say, offering the gown to me.

“It is your room as well,” I mutter through clenched teeth, accepting my dress and turning away from him, giving him some semblance of privacy to dress as I wash my face.

In the mirror, I catch a brief glimpse of him and avert my gaze. Heat creeps up my neck like grasping vines of ivy climbing walls. The sensation will not cease and urges my eyes up and up against my will until I become a spy, stealing a glimpse of my husband with no shirt and barely any pants on his body.

The day we met, I considered that what appeared to be broad shoulders beneath his coat might be a trick of the tailor, but no. There is no trick at all. Peeta is solidly built. As he moves, I feel as though some sort of string has been tied between his arms with their evident strength, and my gut. Surely that is the reason for my reaction to him, for the hollow feeling when his shirt is in place and he asks me a mundane question about the arrangements for church today.

I answer him and finish scrubbing. By the time Mary arrives to help me dress, Peeta is fully garbed and leaves me in the clutches of my maid. I am in a daze until I reach breakfast and eagerly grasp at the food as a distraction from the feelings churning inside me. It does little good with the source of my distraction seated across the table, engaged in easy conversation with his brother and sister-in-law, Maysilee perched in her now usual spot on his knee and Emma beside her, explaining how she combines flavors of jams to create new ones and what does Maysilee think of strawberry-apricot?

“Katniss are you feeling well?” Madge whispers to me and I startle, nearly spilling my tea.

“What? Fine!” I hiss under my breath so that no one might hear. She glances between Peeta and I, and I can see the concern in her eyes. It is then that I notice the faint rings beneath Peeta’s eyes that speak of poor sleep. At least he suffers as I do. Serves him right. “I will tell you later.”

Church presents its own form of torture, being forced to sit still and exude pious serenity with so much turmoil in my brain, especially given how centered on the bedroom and copulation my thoughts are this morning. Father Crane prattles on about devotion, the need to fulfill one’s promises even in the face of extreme adversity. I fume silently, twitching with the heat in the stifling building and hoping the sermon is burning my husband’s ears. Devotion indeed.

Father Crane continues, berating those who might attempt to influence the Hand of God, to alter their fate or question the Almighty’s plan, to escape their duties. I am certain that I have heard this exact sermon before and tune him out. His nasal voice disturbs my thought processes and I must be focused if I am to sort out the mess that is my marriage.

Peeta sits across the church from me, apparently serene and focused on the words, head bowed slightly. The sun even dares to shine on his hair in such a way that he seems almost divine. Beside him, Haymitch snores, although no one bothers to wake him. To do so would cause more disturbance to the sermon than the snores themselves, Although Father Crane sends him several withering glares throughout. On Peeta’s other side, his brother Henry stares out the windows, as though longing for an escape.

He is playing some game by not touching me, my husband. I am certain of it. Perhaps he means to force a divorce or an annulment by claiming that I have neglected my duty as a wife. Yes! That is it. If we do not consummate our marriage, he can use the lack of children to discard me. Or perhaps he means to weaken me somehow in refusing to act as a husband, lulling me into a sense of security before claiming what he truly wants. Whatever game it is he plays, I cannot allow this. I have worked too hard to secure a husband and a fortune to support my family to allow it to all fall apart now. I will simply have to seduce him tonight.

With a plan and resolution, I am better able to sit still through the sermon. It is once we are at home after that things begin to fall apart.

“Katniss,” Madge grabs my arm and keeps me back from the remainder of our party. “Are you alright?”

“Quite fine, now that I have a plan.”

“A plan?” Madge asks, her hand flying to her throat. “Oh no. Was it that awful last night?”

“Awful? Yes, it was wretched.” I bite out the words, unable to hide how embarrassed I feel. Why I am embarrassed is beyond me. I am not the one in the wrong here. It is Peeta who is shirking his duty in our bedroom, not I.

The more that I think about it, the more I am convinced that he either is repulsed by my scars and is therefore the worst sort of hypocrite, or he is using this to somehow manipulate me. I will not allow that. I will instead outmaneuver him.

Before Madge can question me further, I tear myself away from her and focus on our guests. Most of them will depart tomorrow, leaving us in peace to establish our new lives. I will have time to talk with Madge then, after I have seduced my husband.

************************

In the evening, there are games and conversation. Music and laughter. Primrose plays on the piano to great appreciation and the atmosphere is cheerful, lively. Haymitch and Peeta engage in a game of chess. Aunt Effie and Angelica Mellark somehow find common topics to discuss. Henry reads and on occasion joins in with the ladies’ conversation. Madge embroiders and I sit content with my book.  A strange sort of domestic tranquility settles over the group. Frivolity continues into the evening and yet my book fails to win my interest.

In fact, the warmth of the scene lulls me into a relaxed, almost dreamy state. I blame the exhaustion of the past few days as I am jostled partially awake, lifted into arms and held against a solid chest.

“If you could assist her in preparing for bed, Mary--”

“Of course, Mr. Mellark,” I hear Mary answer as I am moved through the hall. “Poor dear has had an exciting few days.”

“Haven’t we all?” he says and I hear my maid chuckle.

“Where is Mrs. Everdeen?”

“Upstairs with the Mister.”

It is a haze of movement and whispers. I drift in and out, only aware of vague instructions that I follow until I am tucked in and content, fall asleep.

In the middle of the night, I wake, startled by thoughts that finally coalesce. I sit up and stare at the back of my husband’s head as he sleeps in the chair, seemingly at peace.

“Curse him!” I mutter. He evaded me, the bastard.

************************

Our wedding guests depart, and I discover just how inept I am at seduction. I am thwarted at every turn. Peeta fabricates all manner of excuses to remain out of our room until late at night, past the time I fall asleep alone in our bed. Other nights, if I attempt to stay awake with him, I inevitably fall asleep in a chair or sofa only to have him carry me to bed and leave me alone there, still a maid.

Madge frets over me, concern apparent in her eyes each morning at the breakfast table as I struggle to hide my growing fatigue. I do not know how to tell her that my lost sleep is due not to a situation similar to hers, but to an entirely different dilemma. She might tell me how fortunate I am to not have to suffer my husband’s amorous attentions, and that would only aggravate me even further. My only consolation is that my husband appears to be suffering the same affliction as I. The circles beneath his eyes gradually darken and his limp grows more pronounced. My indignation grows with them.

“Mr. Marvel comes to call this week to discuss terms of sale,” I tell anyone who will listen one morning.

“Is that usual?” Peeta asks and Madge’s eyes dart between us. I can see her increasing desire to ask private and prying questions. I hope she does not. I am not sure how to answer them.

“Yes, they are fond of establishing terms of sale in person.”

“Perhaps you should have Peeta with you for that meeting,” my mother suggests and I scowl at her.

“Mr. Marvel knows me. Father always had me present at our negotiations in the past.”

“Yes but your father will not be there this time.”

“Are you suggesting I cannot handle the bargaining and sales on my own? That I need a man to accomplish it for me?”

“Of course not, Katniss,” my mother answers with clear exasperation. “I am simply considering the implications of you conducting business alone with two men.”

“I am married now. That affords me some freedom and protection from scandal, does it not?”

“I think perhaps,” Peeta says softly, leaning towards me as though we are conspiring. I turn my head to better hear him as he continues, “that your mother means to protect Mr. Marvel from your strong will and any hard bargains you might drive, madame. And perhaps from that ferocious scowl of yours.”

This, of course, only serves to make me scowl at him and he grins in response. After a beat of silence, Prim’s laughter rings out. My mother smiles and I lift one shoulder in indifference. “It is not my fault if a man cannot hold his ground in negotiations with me. Very well then husband, if you must attend, by all means, do so to protect Mr. Marvel from being intimidated.”

I can feel Madge’s eyes on us through the entire exchange and my cheeks heat in shame and embarrassment. I feel as though I am somehow lying to her, yet I do not know how to soothe her concerns for me.

Two days later, Mr. Marvel arrives with his son to conduct business.

“Ah, Miss Everdeen. A pleasure to see you again. Where is your father?”

“My father is indisposed, Mr. Marvel, I wonder that you had not heard.”

“I did hear of his accident in spring but had hoped he would recover by now.”

“Unfortunately not.”

“I am sorry to hear it. Surely then the rumors of a recent wedding are false then? I cannot fathom Miss Primrose marrying without your father’s blessing.”

“My sister is not married,” I say, spine stiffening at his words, at the assumption that it must be Prim who married. Am I so undesirable that everyone believes it impossible for me to find a husband? “Now are there any changes you wish to make to--”

“I am glad to be reassured of Miss Primrose’s prudence,” he says, turning to share a strange look with his son and it occurs to me that perhaps Mr. Marvel means to see his snivelling son wed to my sister. Not likely. “Surely it is unseemly to negotiate with your father indisposed? Miss Everdeen, a young, inexperienced, and unmarried woman--”

“Mrs. Mellark,” I say. It is the first I have demanded someone refer to me by my married name and causes a strange tingling in my skull.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is Mrs. Mellark, not Miss Everdeen. The rumors of a wedding were quite true, Mr. Marvel, only not in regards to my sister. How rude of me to neglect introductions. Mr. Marvel, this is my husband, Mr. Peeta Mellark,” I turn then to find him standing right beside me, if slightly behind, in a position of support and solidarity. He inclines his head to Mr. Marvel and his son as the introductions continue.

“My dear girl how did this happen?” Mr. Marvel asks, near to sputtering.

“It took a great deal of convincing on my part, I am afraid,” Peeta says, giving me what can only be termed as a very convincing look of complete devotion. “But I fell madly in love with her and simply could not allow her to escape.”

“Yes,” I say with as much charm as I can muster at his complete lie. “I could not imagine my life without you, husband.”

There’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes, but he deflects whatever his thoughts were, lifting my hand to his mouth in a gesture of affection. It gives me the chance to gather my wits and refocus on Mr. Marvel. “My father would be more apt to encourage the continuation of life as normal, Mr. Marvel, than to have his family wallow in sorrow and allow the farm to deteriorate. So if there are no further objections, shall we adjourn to the study and order refreshments?”

“Very well then, if you insist.”

As we turn to enter the study behind the Misters Marvel, Peeta offers me his arm. My hand shakes slightly as I take it. He covers my hand with his, and presses down, leaning over to whisper in my ear. “They are already shaking in their boots, atremble with fear. You’ve no idea the effect you can have.”

I am uncertain what that means, or even if it is meant as compliment or insult, but I’ve no time to discern which as Mr. Marvel launches immediately into negotiations

“Mrs. Mellark, I have issue with this price for the sage.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes it is much too high. It will fetch no profit at six pounds a bushel.”

“That is the same price you paid last year, and as I recall, you were quite pleased with your profits.”

“Indeed but demand for such herbs has lowered.”

“What price then do you suggest?” I barely notice Peeta accepting tea from Mary and pouring for us as the younger Mr. Marvel stares at my husband. Is it so shocking that a man might pour tea?

“Four pounds.”

“A one third reduction? Mr. Marvel, that is ridiculous.”

“Yes of course. This is why ladies should be left to the tea service and the gentlemen to the bargaining. Were it left to them, we would pay our entire income for a trifle,” Mr. Marvel states as he accepts the tea from Peeta. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Mellark?”

“Not at all. Mrs. Mellark is an expert on the functions of her farm and the values of her product. If you are disinterested in a fair price and exceptional product, no matter. We have other buyers more than willing to meet our price.” I glance at Peeta, uncertain where he is taking this as he hands me my tea. It is true that we have other buyers, but the Marvels have long been one of our larger sales. “Here you are, my dear.” I thank him for the tea. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Mellark?”

“Indeed it is,” I say automatically, too bewildered to question or contradict him. Such a thing might make the situation worse than I have already done.

“In fact one such buyer plans to expand our market beyond the borders of Panem. Oh dear I cannot seem to remember the name. Harmon? Blackthorne?”

“Hawthorne,” I say the name most present in my mind that fits and Peeta snaps his fingers with a bright smile.

“That’s the one! Mr. Gale Hawthorne. He is traveling abroad at the moment but should pay us a visit...within the fortnight, isn’t it dear?”

“I believe so, husband,” I say, catching on to his game.

Mr. Marvel blusters still, yet his son engages with him in furious conference. Peeta’s eyes meet mine as he sips his tea, almost tranquil. If I were not looking directly at him, I would miss the subtle wink he sends me.

“We are loyal customers, Mrs. Mellark. You cannot in good conscious sell our wares to someone else.”

“On the contrary, I can. Until you sign, the wares are not guaranteed for you. Mr. Hawthorne has offered a most generous price.”

“How much?” Mr. Marvel squeaks.

“Five percent increase from last year,” Peeta says. My stomach drops and I attempt to signal that this is too much.

“Ridiculous! I shall offer you a two percent increase.”

“Three,” I counter. “A bargain for an old friend. A sign of my father’s respect for your business acumen, Mr. Marvel.”

“Done,” he says and smiles as though he truly did just achieve a bargain. “Shall we discuss terms for this goat cheese your father mentioned in his last letter to me in the spring? I am most intrigued by the possibility.”

“Of course. Shall we ring for a few samples?”

The meeting proceeds quite smoothly from there, and as Peeta and I stand on the front steps, waving farewell to our visitors, I watch Peeta in my periphery. Today has given me a new appreciation for him, and when he turns to face me again, I am struck with my good fortune in finding, however unknowingly, such an apt partner and ally, despite our remaining differences.

“Have I anything I need apologize for?” Peeta asks me, true concern in his eyes. I consider my feelings on what he did today, but I do not feel that he did anything to demean or countermand me. True that he showed how smoothly he is capable of lying and yet I feel...empowered. I set out to find a business partner, not a romance, and that is precisely what I seem to have gotten. A partner I can rely on. He suggested that his presence would protect Mr. Marvel from my biting tongue and stubbornness, yet it turns out that what Mr. Marvel truly needed protection from was Peeta and I working together.

“No. Nothing today, husband,” I tell him and he smiles, tilting his head as if in regret.

“I shall try harder tomorrow then, wife.”

“Well, it shall be a new day with fresh opportunities.”

“If it is to be spent with you, then I look forward to it.”

Once more, he lifts my hand to his lips, no audience, no buyers to convince, and the effect of it is overwhelming. A brush of heat up my arms that gives rise to the thought that perhaps I am failing so completely at seducing my husband because he is attempting to seduce me, in a different way.

***********************

The days begins to shape a pattern. In public, Peeta and I are the picture of domestic tranquility. It is strange how easily we work together. How simple he makes the labor and how smoothly he defers to my judgement, even when people first seek his approval as the man. Our encounter with Mr. Marvel and his son is only one example in what becomes a pattern of us working together, and I quickly learn just how dependable my husband truly is. He is as at home laboring beside the common folk -- as evidenced by the day he spends digging and shoring up drainage systems after a rainstorm nearly washes away half of a field -- as he is negotiating terms of business in the parlor.

In the privacy of our rooms, it is another matter entirely.

Why does he not wish to touch me, anyways? He has proved himself most persuasive and does not hesitate to compliment me and yet he has not used that power tempt me into bed with him. It confuses me. I cling to the idea that he must be repulsed by my scars, although that does not hold up under even a cursory examination.

He is not afraid to touch me in smaller ways and has never once flinched from contact with me. With a grasp of my hand in assistance into or out of a carriage, he causes flutterings of sensation up my arm. A simple touch of his palm on my back, a deference of the lead to me as we move from one room to another, is like a shovel digging those unpleasant worms right back up to turn my innards into a squirming mess. I will not even speak of what happens when he assists me down from Sagittaria after our daily rides.

Each day passes much the same as the last. The hours while the sun hangs high in the sky are spent dealing with the business of the estate, preparations for the harvest and for selling our wares. Contracts are drawn up and signed. The goat cheeses we now offer in all their varieties of flavor  begin to take off with great popularity. There are moments of quiet when I will catch Peeta working diligently over a book he seems to carry with him at all times. I wonder at the contents but do not muster the courage to ask just yet.

In the evenings, after retiring to our chamber, Peeta and I will sit before the fire and share a drink. We restrict our talk to that of the business of the estate and family. Everdeen -- all of his concerns seem to revolve around Everdeen. It is unemotional and forthright. It is maddening.

When it is time to sleep, he remains in the chair. Most nights he removes his trousers and I think his false leg as well. I cannot be certain as I am too occupied hiding beneath the sheets, battling an insane desire to demand that he consummate our marriage. Why? I ask myself. He has given me what amounts to a stay of execution and here I am considering pulling the lever on the guillotine myself.

Most nights, I lay awake and analyse each brush of fingers at the dining table, and most especially each reassuring squeeze of my hand or comforting caress of my shoulders when father’s health looks to be taking a turn for the worse. Caresses on my scarred shoulder, nonetheless.

What remains of my hold on my quest to seduce him disintegrates when my mother asks Peeta about his time in the infantry at dinner one evening. He speaks of several of the foreign lands he has been to, strange cultures that sound lovely and exotic -- and so exciting. He enchants the entire table and I am left feeling small, inconsequential.

My husband has seen the world, experienced so much of life. Despite what Haymitch said of the absence of any lovers in Peeta’s past, I cannot believe it. A soldier traveling in foreign lands would have a much simpler time disguising his dalliance with a mistress or lover. No one would think twice about it nor consider it amiss for him to have such worldly experiences. What do I know of seduction compared to the exotic women he has likely lain with? Absolutely nothing. Of course he is not tempted by me, why should he be? The last time I attempted any sort of flirtation or seduction before this, it turned out horribly. I drove away every other potential suitor and then my intended eloped with another woman!

I sit vigil over my father that night rather than going to bed and facing the chasm between Peeta and I. It must be near midnight when my mother wakes me.

“Katniss, darling you should be in bed, not here,” she whispers, soothing back my hair and kissing my brow.

“I was worried about Father,” I argue and she nods.

“As am I. We shall ask Doctor Aurelius to make another visit as soon as he is able. In the meantime, your husband surely worries after you.”

I do not argue with her, although I am certain he could not care less. Gathering the frayed ends of my resolve, I return to my bedchamber only to find it empty. Peeta’s coat is draped over the chair as usual. The fire, left unattended, has burned down to mere embers.

I disrobe and change to my nightdress and dressing robe before examining the area where he sleeps for clues to his whereabouts. His book which he usually carries with him is set on the small table, open to a page. I should not pry so, but my eyes are drawn to it despite my intentions.

An exquisite sketch of Maysilee smiles up at me from the parchment, her youthful glee over the flower in her hand sparkling with such light, even rendered so in charcoal pencil. I gasp and snatch up the book, forgetting Peeta’s privacy as I turn the pages, reversed from here to the front of the book, and marvel at the drawings he has made. Dozens of pages filled with renderings of Everdeen and her people, her teeming wild life and cultivated life as well. Beauty leaps from every page, leaving me breathless and misty eyed.

There are a few scattered pages that have been torn from the book, as though their presence angered or offended the artist. Then I find one of a beautiful woman with softness and love glowing in her expression. It stops me cold. I do not recognize this face at all, but the way Peeta has so lovingly depicted her, I know that she is exceptionally important to him.

Now the coldness lives in my veins as something that has never before occured to me strikes deep in my heart. There are pictures of everyone at Everdeen -- Maysilee, my mother and Prim, any number of the servants and laborers, even Madge and Haymitch and Aunt Effie -- yet there are none of me. Only this strange woman with her soft smile. Perhaps in marrying me, Peeta lost someone he loves, someone he wished to marry.

I dare to flip another page to find more of my mother and Prim, more of Everdeen, one of Cicero and Joe. Near the front, there are several more pages torn from the book and then the drawings shift to people and places I do not recognize -- with the exception of his brothers and their families. The strange woman makes several appearances throughout. She is the one constant. The drawings grow somehow darker and more disturbing the closer I get to the start of the book, until finally, I reach the beginning. Staring aghast at the first ten pages, I discover distant battlefields, bodies in agony, hazy nightmares, the haggard face of a tired man.

I move to return the book and then decide against it. No, I wish to know more. I wish to know more of the nightmares that plague him. I wish to know who this woman who crosses my husband’s mind so often is. What place in his heart she holds.

Clutching the book tight to my chest, I venture forth into the midnight darkness of my home to seek out Peeta and confront him with my questions. My bare feet grow cold and I chastise myself for not pausing to don slippers. Noises from the kitchen alert me to human presence and I turn in that direction. The sight that greets me halts my tirade on my lips.

In the light of the fire, Peeta stands dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled up and flour kissing his forearms. His hands are sunk into a mass of dough as he kneads it with fluid motions. A stray lock of hair falls across his forehead, his blue eyes intent on his task. My mouth falls open at the domestic scene before me.

I must make some sort of noise that draws his attentions to me. Pausing in his motions, Peeta lifts his head and smiles at me, the expression slow, soft and welcoming, yet also shy in such a way that I momentarily forget about the strange woman in his drawings.

“You have discovered me, madame. I hope you do not mind.”

“I am not precisely sure what to think….since I do not know precisely what you are doing.”

“Kneading bread dough,” he offers and I can’t stop the short note of laughter.

“That much is clear. What is not clear is the why.”

“It helps me to relax.”

“That is a strange hobby for a soldier and field medic, the son of a marquis, to assume,” I say and he shakes his head.

“But not so strange for someone raised as the child of a baker.” I do not know what to say in response to that and remain silent. He sees my confusion and uses one hand to beckon me into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry? I confess to baking one of the loaves meant for tomorrow to sate my own hunger. This is meant to replace what I plan to eat.” He motions to the dough on the table before returning to his task.

Intrigued, I slide the sketch book into my robe and enter the room, taking a seat opposite to where he works.

“Is this where you vanish to in the night? When you are trying to avoid me?”

“Ah, I see I have not been as subtle as I would have wished,” he says and glances at me, holding my gaze for a moment before he continues. “Please understand, it is not meant as an insult. I simply needed something to help me sleep. This helps.”

“You say you were raised by a baker?” I ask rather than dwell on the hurt I feel, despite his reassurances.

“I did not always live with the name Mellark,” he whispers and sudden warmth fills my cheeks. Haymitch urged me to ask of Peeta’s past, and yet I did not, perhaps to protect myself. More likely to protect my animosity towards him. If I remained angry with him, righteous over the way I was forced into marriage, it was easier to forget that Peeta was forced into this marriage as well. That seems silly now, although there is still the strange woman in the sketch book to contend with. Perhaps I can learn her identity as well if I learn of his past.

“Where did you live before? Before you went to live as a Mellark, then?”

“With my mother,” he says simply and gives me another smile, this one sad. “My real mother.”

“What was she like?” I ask, drawn in to the story before he even begins, seduced perhaps by the crackling fire and the comforting smell of spices and herbs and yeast that lingers in the kitchen.

“She is...she was...beautiful.” I fold my feet beneath me and arrange my robe for warmth and comfort.

“Tell me more?”

“You really wish to know?” I nod eagerly, curiosity eating away at my patience.

“I would not ask if I did not.”

“Very well. She was not glamorous or wealthy, Katniss. She was a maid. Specifically a lady’s maid to the three daughters of a very prominent and wealthy family. The ladies my mother served… their names at the time she began her employment were Tabitha, Fanny, and Chastity Hilston. When Tabitha was married, my mother remained with Fanny and Chastity at their parents’ estate.”

I blink and search my memories for a connection. The name sounds vaguely familiar. Peeta seems to recognize my quandary and, slapping more flour on the table, flips the dough and resumes kneading.

“You would know her as Lady Tabitha Mellark, Marchioness de Vale.” I stare at him in shock and shake my head, denying the truth of where I sense this story is headed. “You still wish the sordid tale, madame?”

“I--” I swallow and search for courage. I find it in the challenge in his blue eyes as he levels a stare at me. Sitting straight, I nod to him. “Yes. I wish to know your origins, husband. Your past and all your family’s secrets shrouded in darkness. You have become privy to mine, after all.”

His lips twitch and he watches his own hands as he works and speaks.

“It is quite simple, really. Moving through society as someone no one wishes to see and is therefore generally ignored, I have since seen it more frequently than I would care to acknowledge. A man of wealth, power, and privilege can claim most anything he desires with little consequence, even in the home of another wealthy man.

“The Marquis, even after they were wed and had children, would often take his Marchioness home to visit her sisters and parents at their country estate -- how thoughtful of him allowing this family connection to continue rather than cleaving her from her beloved mother. They would bring their children and stay for some time. While there, Lady Tabitha would enjoy the service of her old maid who now served only her sisters now that she herself had a much fancier lady's maid befitting her title. And the Marquis...well he demands a different sort of service of the maid.”

“He raped her?” I ask, appalled and Peeta shakes his head.

“I believe so. I speak based only on the conversations I overheard between my mother and my father as a child. I do not think my mother fought the Marquis or denied him in so many words, but I believe that is because she felt that she could not. But not fighting, a sort of frightened acceptance of the thing, is still not equal to a desire to participate in the act,” he says. I mull over that for a moment. “When I was a child and Lady Tabitha would visit with her husband and sons, my mother would inevitably fall ill. She would sequester herself, despite Lady Tabitha’s pleas for her former maid to dress her and fix her hair.

“I did not understand the connection, nor why my father would insist that I stay in the kitchens and work with him during those visits. I was scarcely allowed outside the servant’s quarters while the Mellark family was present.”

“Your father?” I ask, confused momentarily with his choice of words.

“The man who raised me. The man I knew as my father until I was ten years old.” He pauses then to set the dough aside to rise, covering it with a cloth and checking the bread in the oven.

“The baker then? You knew the baker as your father.”

“Yes,” he says, using the paddle to remove the bread from the fire and setting it on the table before me. He sighs as he takes a seat, the steaming and fragrant loaf between us. “That will need to cool before we slice it.”

“Then you have time to tell me more,” I say and he folds his hands together, tilting his head to examine me.

“You are not scandalised yet?”

“I am not so fragile as that,” I whisper and he smiles. It courses through me, warm and comforting as the bread cooling between us.

“No you’re not, are you? As you wish, madame. The man I knew as my father was named William Thackeray, and he was a baker at the Hilston country seat. He and my mother, Nancy, had fallen in love as children living and working there. They had plans to marry when the Marquis...took liberties he should not be allowed. When my mother discovered she was with child as a result, she attempted to break her engagement with William. He refused, insisting that he loved her and that they could still marry and raise the child as theirs. Which is precisely what they did for ten years.”

“You had a happy childhood then?” I ask, touching the loaf of bread, my fingers dancing lightly over the crisp, golden surface to avoid burns.

His eyes dip to the motions then back up before he continues.

“I did have a happy childhood. Loving parents, a cousin who was the child of another serving couple and a dear friend--”

“Delly?”

“Delly,” he confirms with a smile. “As I have told you before, she was like a sister to me.”

“So then what happened?”

“My father -- William, the baker -- died when I was ten. For years, my parents had kept me separate from the Mellarks when they came to visit, fearing the truth coming to light. Until then, no one looked closely enough at the servant’s child to notice. There was no reason to. That year, without my father around to keep me occupied and protected, and with my mother fighting her usual response to the presence of the Marquis, worse this time without her husband around...well let’s just say that Lady Mellark was furious to find her youngest son playing with a servant boy who looked to be his brother.”

“No.”

“Yes. You can imagine what happened. My mother was let go, dismissed without references and thrown from the house with her son and little else. She struggled for close to a year to support us, I helped any way that I could, but no family nearby would take her in and the city offered only questionable sorts of employment for a widowed mother. One day, when we were both nearly dead from hunger, she stole a bar of soap and told me to wash.  It was pouring rain that day and bitterly cold. We took to the streets, she claimed so that she might find work, but instead she knocked on the door of the Mellark household.”

“Oh Peeta,” I gasp, holding my nightdress collar closed against the imagined feel of the rain, against the heartache Nancy Thackeray must have felt in giving up her son.

“She demanded that the Marquis see to the needs of his illegitimate son, if nothing else, demanded that at least her child be cared for since he had cost her everything. I will never forget the things Lady Tabitha called my mother that day, but the Marquis...he accepted. He promised my mother he would give me his name, educate me, give me a future and a home, raise me as his son. On the condition that she would leave and never see me or any of them again.”

We sit in silence, the fire the only sound as the pop and crack of the wood does little to dispel the chill in my bones at his story.

“Some days, I am convinced he only did it to anger Lady Tabitha, to remind her of the power he holds over the lives of everyone around him.”

I blink the unwanted tears from my eyes and bring forth the sketch book from my robe. I stare at the cover and then glance up to catch his furrowed expression. “I am sorry. You left it on the table...open and…” I cannot finish and find one of the many drawings of the strange woman. How desperate and sad she must have been that day. How terrified Peeta must have felt, abandoned and lonely in a strange home with strange people, many of whom likely resented his presence if not outright loathed him for it. How sad and confused he must have been for months, perhaps years of not understanding why his mother had left him so. “This is your mother...is it not?”

“Yes,” he says softly.

“What happened to her?”

“I do not know,” he says, and I hear the resounding crack of pain and regret in his voice. “I never saw her again after that day in the rain, although I have looked for her.”

He takes the book from me, running one finger down the side of the page before shutting it and setting it aside. I watch his fingers splay over the cover as something else strikes me.

“That day in the rain -- with me -- when you brought me home,” I prompt and he confirms with a nod.

“I had news of someone who might be her. That is where I was headed in such a hurry.”

“Oh no. Peeta, I am so sorry,” I whisper as guilt floods through me. His warm fingers brush over mine and pry my hand free of my dressing robe.

“I was days late, Katniss. Practically a week late, in fact. Not hours. By the time I arrived, whoever she was had moved on long before. Stopping to help you did not cause me to lose her trail again. It was already cold.” I stare down at our hands as he winds our fingers together. It is comforting, this small touch, almost a promise in itself as I realise just how much of his heart he has revealed to me, entrusted to me, tonight. When I lift my eyes, he’s watching me with a steady sort of trust or understanding.

“And to think I was angry with you so long for not dismounting. Such a silly thing and--” Peeta’s laughter halts my words.

“I imagine that had I dismounted to assist you, we would have both wound up in the mud.” He leans over and I cannot help but chuckle at the strange sound his fist makes on his false leg. “But enough of that, we should not let this bread go to waste,” he says and stands abruptly, releasing my hand to pick up a knife and slice the bread.

I reach out to halt his motions, my hand on his wrist. He stares first at my hand then into my eyes. I take a deep breath and rise up to kiss him.

A brief touch of warm lips and a flutter of pulse is all I am allowed before he lifts his head away from me and places his hand on my shoulder, shaking his head as I wonder what objections he could possibly have now.

“Pity is no better a reason than duty, Katniss.”

“It is not pity I feel right now.”

“Then what is it?” He asks the question, still close enough that were I to pitch forward the slightest bit, we would be kissing instead of speaking. I search my heart and attempt to put a name to the thing blossoming inside me and yet I cannot.

“I do not yet know.”

“At least you are honest. I would rather have the truth between us, wife. The last kiss we shared with false ideas in our heads did not result in much good.” He gently pushes me back and I sit heavily as he continues slicing bread. “When you determine what it is, and still wish to kiss me, then perhaps I shall kiss you back.”

I grip my braid as he sets aside his knife and looks around the kitchen.

“Do you happen to have any goat cheese? Perhaps some apples,” he says and I stand, glad for the task. I find what he needs, and with a few more swipes of the knife, Peeta hands me a slice of bread, spread with goat cheese and topped with apple slices. “And now, wife...it is your turn to tell me a story.”

“What sort of story?” I ask and he thinks for a moment.

“A happy story, I should think.”

I hum and bite into the treat Peeta has made us, closing my eyes to savor the tastes as they caress my tongue. Finally, I settle on a story, telling him of the time Father took me into town to purchase a birthday present for Prim. I had the most elegant blue ribbons selected for her, but on our way home, we stopped to speak with the Goat Man. As my father conversed, I gazed into a pen where several goats were busy feasting on their lunch.

“I was not paying nearly close enough attention and one of the goats snatched Prim’s ribbons right out of my hand and ate them! I started shouting and kicking up a fuss, so loud that my father thought the goat had bitten me. When he finally discerned what had happened, I demanded the slaughter of the goat so that we might retrieve the ribbons.”

Peeta laughs at this, preparing a second slice for each of us. “You were quite bloodthirsty. So then what did he do?”

“He bought the goat with the condition that the goat man provided an undigested blue ribbon. I tied the ribbon around the goat’s neck, after lecturing her that she was not to eat any more ribbons, and that was Prim’s birthday gift instead.”

“That is a very happy story,” he says, our fingertips brushing as he hands me the slice of bread.

“Indeed. That goat produced excellent milk. You are in fact eating cheese made from the milk of one of her many granddaughters.”

“The beginnings of your goat cheese empire then,” he says. “All born of your love for sister.”

“The goat owed me after eating those ribbons,” I say, lifting my nose in a haughty gesture.

“And she wouldn’t dare disappoint you.”

The night hours dwindle as we talk and eat, sharing pleasant stories of childhood and friends. When we are both full and content, we clean up our mess, bank the fire, and walk upstairs. Peeta is limping again and so, despite my freezing feet and the beckoning of my bed, I slow my pace to one that seems more comfortable to him.

When we reach our room, a strained silence fills the air. I twist my braid round my fingers, round and round as I consider my next course. Do I kiss him again, and risk another rejection? I was telling the truth, it is not pity that I feel for him, but something more akin to...understanding. He opens our door and then pauses, stepping aside to let me pass first, ever the gentleman. I move to do so.

“Wait, Katniss,” he says, stepping forward and filling half the opening. I might still pass by him if I wanted, but I find myself standing perfectly still, gazing up at him as he caresses over my cheek, back to my ear. He takes a breath and leans towards me, halting with a pained look on his face, close enough that I can see the freckles that grace the bridge of his nose, each individual lash. They are so long that I wonder how they do not tangle when he blinks.

“I told you that I would spend months courting you, would you grant them to me.” An almost foolish happiness forms in my chest and I strain to keep it contained.

“Are you asking to court me, then, husband?”

“As best I can, given the circumstances.” His fingers trail down my neck, over my scarred shoulder with layers of fabric still between us.

A smile curls my mouth upwards at the idea. It is so sweet and endearing and utterly maddening. “I will...allow it.”

His smile mirrors mine then and he once more laces our fingers together, as they were downstairs. “Then allow me to escort you home, madame.”

I nod and turn into our room, trailing Peeta behind me and then beside me as we approach the bed. It rises in the darkness, draped in welcoming fabrics like the arms of a lover, inviting whispers and secrets. I turn and lift on my toes, kissing his jaw, not out of pity or duty, but because I wish to do so.

He assists me onto the mattress and essentially tucks me safely beneath the covers before turning towards the fire and his chair, a soft smile on his face. For one moment, I consider inviting him into the bed with me, but as I lay down and finger my smiling lips that still tingle with the scrape of his stubble beneath their caress, I think that such a kiss is a very good start indeed.

To be continued...look for the next chapter on the blog of @sunflowerslyf

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: Kicking Roses, Folding Cranes

Author: @zombiekittiez

For: @irl-miu-fuckin-iruma / @miu-has-commoncold

Rating/Warnings: Teen, Language, Suggestiveness, Unhealthy Relationships

Prompt: 1) some cuddles 2) soft kisses 3) anything angsty

Author’s notes: Heyyyy it’s, uh, like really way longer than I meant and is way more 3) 2) 1) but then it was due so like… I hope you like it!

It starts, probably, when they find the pallet of triple-wrapped boxes at the back of the warehouse. It takes some maneuvering to uncover what was so carefully preserved, so the whole class ends up making a day of it. While Nidai leads a veritable army of Minimarus to the challenge, Imposter takes bets on the contents, writing each name and guess and wager in neat, even strokes. Mostly, Hajime thinks, the bets are centered more on wishful thinking than any concrete proof. It is highly improbable that Saionji will find a “fuck ton of gummies” or that Souda will stumble across a “disassembled liquid fuel cryogenic J-2 engine,” but he supposes that they are having fun and that is what counts.

While Nidai and Sonia eagerly attack the plastic sheeting, Hajime becomes aware of Komaeda, standing two steps back and to the right. It’s a habit he’s developed, since waking up, deferential hovering like some lady-in-waiting. It annoys Hajime, who has learned better than to confront Komaeda directly about things like <i>equality.</i> Rather, he takes a perverse sort of pleasure in thwarting Komaeda indirectly whenever possible.

Hajime takes the book from Imposter and makes a show of frowning at the page. “Komaeda,” he calls. He holds the page so closely that Komaeda must lean in, long hair falling in his face, to follow his line zig-zagging down the columns, scarcely any space at all between them. “I don’t see your bet.”

Komaeda laughs softly. “Wouldn’t that be rigging the game?”

“Depends on your guess.” Hajime points out. “There is a certain amount of logic involved in gambling, one reason you’re so good at it.”

“Logical… is that how you see me?” Komaeda asks, bemused. “I suppose I could make an educated guess.”

“Humor me.”

“Something totally impractical, most likely.” Komaeda hums a little to himself, turning to face Haime fully, his back to the unboxing. Souda and Nida work the crowbars at the top of the crate. “So much wrapping means it’s probably easily ruined by wet weather…”

The crate is open. Owari looks inside and gives a loud snort of disgust. Can’t be edible.

“Stationary? No, that’s too general…” Mioda picks up a something small and square and colorful. She gives it a shake.

“Origami paper,” Komaeda says brightly, smacking a fist against his open palm just as Mioda drops the packet, small perfect squares of colorful paper scattering across the floor. Collectively, class 77B groans.

Souda leads the charge, ignoring Komaeda’s protests with “it counts, it totally counts!” so Komaeda leaves weighed down with various odds and ends according to the bet book- konpeito, a seashell in the shape of a dinosaur, a seaweed based health tonic, pictures of a particularly cute dog, an alarm clock that sprays the sleeper with water, a set of mostly unbroken watercolor pencils, a peach cobbler, a tarnished silver pendant in the shape of a rabbit, slightly squashy strawberry chocolates and several hundred sheets of origami paper. Hajime, as instigator, is voluntold to help carry the items back to the first island cottages.

“For your services,” Komaeda announces at the door, dumping the candy and pastries into Hajime’s arms.

“And because you don’t like sweet things.” Hajime sighs. “You don’t have to keep all their junk, you know, Komaeda. We can find some use for the paper. It probably burns well.”

“No,” Komaeda says firmly, and while he generally does what he pleases, he is rarely so confident affirming it. “That would be a waste.” Hajime blinks.

“Oh.” He makes a note to tell the others to leave the remaining paper alone. It’s not like it’s hurting anyone. It’s nice, he decides, for Komaeda to show interest in something. Whatever reality he was living in when dead and buried under layers of code, it left him subdued. Without the fanatical desperation of his looming luck or the drive of despair, he seems a little empty. With his white hair and his pale face and his fading smile, he has become something like Hajime’s personal ghost, only scarcely glimpsed in mirrors or around corners of buildings. Hajime half expects to wake to see Komaeda in his cottage in the middle of the night, looming over the bed. He wonders why that thought is less disturbing than it should be and chalks it up to a Kamukura thing.  

Komaeda tends to work salvage shifts in the library with Sonia who reads thirty-two languages, though, she admits, her Hindi is abysmal. He sorts and cleans wonderfully, and, Sonia assures Souda regularly, is a perfect gentleman.

Two days after what Mioda dubbed <i>The Origami Incident of ‘85</i> for no discernible reason, Sonia distributes tiny metal cards to everyone at breakfast. Each is embossed with a name and a tiny scanner.

“Library cards,” she explains. “The library committee has decided to allow checking out up to three items at a time.”

“You just scan the book’s UPC code like this-” Souda aims his card at a book in Sonia’s arms titled <i>Baphomet and You! Occult Leanings in 19th Century France.</i> The card gives a little beep, a light on the side blinking green. “Blammo! You got two weeks.”

“What happens if you keep them past the due date?” Hajime wonders, holding his card up to the light. When he lowers it again, everyone in the room is staring at him in disgust.

“I know that conditions are different than what we have, in the civilized world,” Sonia says very slowly, as though talking to a child. “But we are not animals, Hinata.”

Hajime rolls his eyes, unable to summon the patience or the interest to defend himself. “Where’s Komada’s?”

“It was his idea, so, of course, he had first choice.” Sonia explains.

Komaeda, sitting at the table by the window, drinks his blackened coffee and flips through a copy of <i>Origami for Beginners</i>.

“Huh.” Hajime puts his card into his pocket and gets up. It’s his turn for dish duty.

Later, Hajime finds the origami penguin in the downstairs lobby, balanced on the bar top across from the arcade machines. The lines are a little uneven so it stands lopsided on one end, like it’s hunched over protectively from the invisible cold. He picks it up and looks it over before setting it gently back into place.

An origami fox sits on the library shelf above the DIY section. Its ears were creased in the wrong direction at first so they curl under a little, giving it a hangdog sort of expression. Hajime picks up a book on water purification systems. He scans the book jacket with his library card until he hears an approving sort of beep. Sonia waves goodbye when he leaves. She is the only one he sees.

When Hajime goes up for lunch, the bar penguin has a friend. The second penguin is a little crisper and neater.

“I haven’t seen Komaeda around much today,” he brings up to Souda over curry rice. He tries to make it seem off-handed.

“It’s probably that thing,” Souda says unhelpfully.

“That thing.” Hajime echoes.

“The paper thing.” Souda gestures with his spoon. “He’s getting pretty good. Those invitation whatevers turned out kind of neat.”

“Invitations.”

“Yeah, how they opened up like flowers? Koizumi put mine back together for me after I couldn’t cause I’m clumsy. I put it on the mirror in my room. Maybe that’s girly, I dunno.”

“Invitation to what, Souda?”

“That origami meet up on Thursdays,” Souda says like it’s obvious. “It was on the invite, man.”

“I didn’t get an invite, Souda,” Hajime explains with what feels like infinite patience.

“Oh.” Souda pauses. Hums. Takes another bite and a swig of banana milk. “Probably he just didn’t want to bother you,” he decides.

After lunch, Hajime pauses on the stairs, seeing movement. Down below, Komaeda folds a half sheet of paper, eyes narrowed in concentration, adding to his Arctic tableau. After a few minutes of careful creasing, a half-sized penguin nestles between the two bigger penguins in a little penguin family.

“Can I try?” Hajime asks and Komaeda startles.

“Ah… yes, of course.” Komaeda hands him a sheet and steps to the side, cradling the How-to book to his chest. He doesn’t offer to show Hajime the diagram and Hajime doesn’t need it. He folds a crisp and perfect penguin without even trying. He hardly ever feels like he’s trying, when it’s not people.

“Here,” he says, handing it to Komaeda, who looks over its flawlessly symmetrical lines with a neutral expression. He walks to the end of the bar top and puts it down, far away from the messy loving penguin family.

“Don’t you think they’d want to stick together?” Hajime asks lamely, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Like… don’t you think he wants to be friends?”

“He’ll be happier over there,” Komaeda says with finality, stepping back to admire his work. If he moved the penguin any further away, it would fall off the counter.

Hajime sighs again. He’s been doing that a lot lately.  

On Thursday, Hajime decides to sort through the junk bins in Electric Avenue like he’s been avoiding for the past couple of weeks. It’s better to do this sort of thing alone, he reasons. It is tedious, automatic work, and by the end he has a solid organization system going. He sets a couple of things aside, bundling them into his bag and bringing them back across to the main island via schooner.

The kitchen is dark. The meeting must still be on. Hajime makes himself a sandwich and eats it with his feet in the pool, which Koizumi hates because she’s worried about crumbs. It’s nice, in a childish sort of way.

It’s not like he’s <i>waiting,</i> exactly, he reasons. He just happens to be out here, aimlessly footing around. He plays some Gala-Omega. He plays some Pac-Man. He peeks outside periodically, feeling like a creep. Souda is the first one coming around the bend and that might be his luck working because this is probably the best possible solution.

“Hey, c’mere a second.” Hajime gestures him into the downstairs lobby.

“What’s up, soul friend?” Souda grins at him cheekily.

“Here.” Hajime shoves two bundles at him. Souda pulls open the first.

“Heck yeah, you found me one! I thought if you had your luck you might.” He pokes at the Liox Li-air battery pack with obvious glee. “What’s this other stuff?”

“Komaeda needs it for the prosthetic upgrade.” Hajime clears his throat. “Can you do that?”

“You want me to work on his robo-arm? You wouldn’t let me near it during development, like it was your damn baby. What gives?”

Hajime’s eyes focus off in the distance, toward the bar top. “I’m just… busy right now.”

“Busy.” Souda looks at Hajime, bare footed with the cuffs of his pants rolled up, still a little damp around the bottom. He then looks pointedly at the new row of top scores on their two working arcade machines.

“Really busy,” Hajime insists.

“Hey, man, if this is about-”

“Ultimate Mechanic,” Hajime interrupts. “I bet you want to do all kinds of upgrades.”

Souda shuts up, eyes gleaming at the thought. “What about-”

“Not a rocket launcher. Not with his luck,” Hajime admonishes.

“You never let me have any fun,” Souda gripes, taking the parts and heading back outside.

Hajime takes his perfect penguin back to his cottage. He thinks about crumpling it up, but Komaeda is right. It would be a waste. He puts it on his desk, the single ornament in a plain and boring room for a plain and boring person.

“Yeah,” he says to no one in particular, and he goes to bed. Even after resting, he has a hard time focusing.

“Are…. a-are you doing okay?” Tsumiki asks hesitantly during inventory at the pharmacy. They’re in the back with all the really strong stuff, checking expiration dates and carting what’s salvageable to the hospital dispensary.

“Yes. The Ultimate Pharmacist talent is an easier one,” Hajime assures her, flipping through the steroids. The Prednisone is still properly sealed. He shakes the box a little and then puts it into the usable pile.

“T-that’s not what I meant,” Tsumiki murmurs. There’s a bright green origami rabbit peeking out from her apron pocket. “You haven’t been coming around much, and w-we were worrying-”

“If no one asks me for help, it’s because they don’t need it. If they don’t talk to me, they don’t need to talk to me.” Hajime discards several thoroughly crushed blister packs of allergy medicine. “I’m helping you, aren’t I? Because you asked. If someone asks me, I’ll help them.”

“W-what if Komaeda asks?” Tsumiki asks timidly.

Hajime snorts. “Komaeda is never going to ask me for anything,” he says with finality and after that they work in silence.

~~

Nagito is in the back practicing penguins like usual when Hinata next comes to visit the library. He stays out of sight, but the open door lets him listen in as he presses folds into blue and white paper.

“Your mortal shell lacks vigor,” Tanaka notes from behind the counter where he is helping Sonia remove the unsightly relics of time lost past- his phrasing for wiping the dust jackets free of dirt and pollen. Hinata’s returned the book on electrical system hybridization, so Nagito supposes that the rewiring has gone off well. Lately, Hinata’s productivity has been at a record high. It is abominably conceited for one such as himself to take even the slightest credit for such an endeavor, but he can’t help feeling a little personal pride.

Hasn’t he kept his distance beautifully? Hasn’t he distracted the others and kept them entertained so as to not disturb Hinata’s most important work?

Origami Thursdays are a terrific success, he decides. Perhaps he’ll ask Mioda about a Karaoke Friday or something.

“We have not seen you for breakfast recently,” Sonia tells Hinata worriedly.  

“I’ve been getting an early start,” Hinata says.Nagito chances glancing up as he leans over to pick up a fresh sheet of paper off the pile. Hinata has not noticed him, or is ignoring him, perhaps. His eyes are fixed on the high shelf behind the counter. There’s a little fox family there now, too. Three little kits. They are a disgrace. The Papa Fox has to be discreetly propped up using the corner of a children’s book. Hinata should not have to look upon such trash. Nagito’s fingers fairly itch to hide them away.

“Do you like them?” Sonia asks, noticing Hinata’s gaze. “They are so very cute! Komada has been putting them around. We’ve been helping.”

“The ice-visages in the den of inequity are particularly enchanting,” Tanaka agrees.

“I do so love penguins! Though I thought I saw four, earlier. There’s only three now.” Sonia says thoughtfully.

“You must have miscounted,” Hinata shrugs.

On his way to lunch, Nagito checks.

Hinata’s penguin is gone.

Well. That’s fine.

Hinata’s origami was so obviously superior. Ultimate Handicrafts, probably, or something of that nature. To put his creation alongside Nagito’s amateurish mess was an insult. It probably had a much better place to live now. Perhaps he should check.

When Hinata goes for a run by his lonesome after dinner, along the sandy beach, Nagito takes a quick look inside his cabin. It’s not hard to jimmy the lock, with a hairpin and a bit of luck. The penguin sits on Hinata’s desk and Nagito feels a small swell of pride at that too, though undeserved. It was his paper, his past-time, perhaps even his influence. He picks it up and looks it over, admiring its perfect creases. He gives it a tiny kiss on its little beak, feeling a bit foolish and lovelorn and yet… it’s nice. Hinata made it, after all.

He locks the cabin and leaves without disturbing anything. It might be a bit creepy, but then Nagito is perfectly aware of his own glaring faults. Besides, it’s not as though he breaks into Hinata’s cabin often.

Once or twice a week, at most.

Rarely when he’s sleeping.

~~

The thing is, Hajime isn’t without sympathy. This used to be what it was like for <i>him,</i> wasn’t it? Komaeda.People just putting up with you. Of course they like Hajime, of course they do. He saved them. It’s just- he’s kind of creepy, right? And even when someone talks to him, he’s not great at it. No Ultimate Conversationalist skill, ha-ha!

It’s only fair, he reasons. Ultimate Sociologist totally gets it. Pack dynamics. Social identity approach. Secondary Interpersonal attraction. These terms apply to class 77-B, with shared history and loss and recovery. This current hierarchy, with him perched along the top, is different altogether. The Ultimate Despairs are an emergent response group. Temporary bonds formed according to external trauma. And now they are dissolving.

Because Komaeda has memories with them, memories of before, memories with Nanami. All Hajime has is shared Despair.

Hajime is helpful. He knows he’s helpful. He’s a human multitool, for crying out loud. And he keeps them in line, mostly. Keeps them from breaking anything too important. It had been annoying, all the hovering and fluttering but now it’s gone. Respect. Reverence. Not love.

But maybe that’s not good enough. Not when you’re looking for reasons to stay.

It isn’t like he sat down and planned it out, his leaving. It’s just that he looked up during dinner, in the middle of a table, in the midst of conversations that do not invite him in and realizes he is an empty chair. This would be the same either way, and wherever he goes, he will be just as hollow.

“I haven’t seen you smile like that before,” Komaeda says quietly, when he picks up Hajime’s dishes. He’s on clean up duty tonight. Hajime shrugs. It was a smile of relief. Once a problem is identified, it can be corrected.

Physical work always helps his mind clear, so it’s a few days later when Hajime takes a break from ripping the piping out of the walls outside the factory, the sweat running down his face and soaking his shirt. It’s too hot for this, just a little past noon, but he doesn’t want to sit still. Busy, he decides, is better.

He pulls off his shirt and uses it to wipe his face. When he looks up, Komaeda and Saionji have stopped where they were coming down the middle of the path. Komaeda stares.  

“What?” Hajime asks, annoyed.

Komaeda turns on his heels and heads to the warehouse.

“Good talk,” Hajime mutters, throwing his shirt to the side of the path.

“He’s probably just really grossed out,” Saionji says, voice syrupy sweet. “You’re pretty disgusting right now, bro.”

“What are you two doing out here anyway?”

“More origami paper,” Saionji grins. “I’m giving <i>private lessons.</i>”

“Gross,” Hajime says with feeling.

“Are you jelly? Lime green jelly?” Saionji crows. “I’m a master of Japanese arts, you know!” She smirks up at him and Hajime just feels exhausted.

“So go get your paper and leave me alone,” he mutters.

“Don’t have to tell me twice!” Saionji sings, disappearing from view.

By the time Hajime finishes converting his irritation into manual labor, he’s got a sky-high pile of copper pipes and two pulled muscles in his back. He hobbles into the warehouse, looking for something to use as a walking stick till he can get to Nidai’s healing hands and sees the open crate, still ridiculously full of paper. On top, haphazardly discarded, is a single paper crane.

Komaeda’s paper crane. He can tell by the way the edges overlap slightly to the right. It must be particularly hard to do, with one robot hand. He imagines Komaeda unfolding and refolding, unfolding and refolding, mouth twisted to one side in concentration, wonders what it would be like to mess that up for him, to touch that expression.

He folds one. Two. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. By the time he gets to one hundred, his breath is even and his back hardly throbs. Speedy recovery and all that. He puts them in an empty box and slides it behind the crate.

When he gets to the dining hall, the chaos is in full swing but he still feels calm and centered. Souda notices him in the doorway after a bit and waves him over to try and make room, but Hajime just grabs an orange juice and waves.

“I need a shower, I’ll eat later.” Komaeda’s eyes follow him out of the doorway.

He can’t remember the last time he was in such a clear thinking mood. Ten days, he decides. Ten times one hundred is one thousand. Ten days is plenty of time. He will prioritize the repairs, focus on the ones that require varied talents, and then he will leave a thousand paper cranes and this island behind.

~~

Nagito is suspicious.

Ever since he’d caught that peculiar smile on Hinata’s face, he’s been suspicious. Nagito is not particularly clever or capable or even useful, but he does have a head for delicate tasks like cleaning or folding origami and he is the resident expert on Hajime Hinata.

Of course the others had noticed and asked and of course he had answered them vaguely, with a reassuring smile but underneath it all, Nagito watched as he always did and waited and thought.

It was so <i>hard</i> to maintain distance, sometimes.

Hinata, sweat slicked and muscles stark as he worked outside in the unforgiving sun.

“Put your tongue back in your fucking mouth,” Saionji had sneered once she’d found him in the warehouse after their run in, hugging his own arms tightly and blinking brightly at the wall, overloading on the memory. She threw a piece of paper at him and he had caught it and folded a perfect white crane. The motions calmed him back to normalcy and he left it on the top of the crate, whimsically.

But he doesn’t like how hard Hinata is working. Like there’s a kind of deadline approaching. He goes for a walk, letting his feet carry him along. With his luck, he’ll figure it out in no time. It takes a day or two to figure out where in the warehouse his luck is telling him to look.

One hundred paper cranes.  

“I-I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Tsumiki says happily as Hinata closes the panel of the MRI, the light on the side glowing a sudden reassuring green.

Two hundred paper cranes.

“Ibuki is totally gonna write a song about this!” Mioda crows when the lights flicker on properly backstage at the Titty Typhoon and the fog machine whirs to life.

Three hundred paper cranes.  

“I thank you for your dedication,” Imposter murmurs imperiously as Hinata brings the diner oven to a steady, even flame. Imposter has a basket of oysters under one arm, ready to roast. He might be drooling a little.  

Four hundred paper cranes.

“Fuckin’ unbelievable,” Kuzuryu blinks when Hinata makes the adjustment and then his bionic eye flares to life. “I feel like a goddamn superhero.”  

Komaeda checks nightly and sees the number growing and growing, strung together in long strands. What is it for? What does it mean? Every crane is so perfect and Hinata is working so very hard. He sets up Koizumi’s dark room. He works on the desalination station. The greenhouse. The atmospheric purifier. Communication encryption.

Five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred.

“You look tired,” Nagito says nervously, running into Hinata in the the storage room accidentally-on-purpose. He takes two large steps backward.

“I’ll take a break soon,” Hinata explains, shutting down the back up generator now that it is running smoothly. “Then I’ll sleep for a week.”

“We will take pains not to disturb you, then.” Nagito assures him and Hinata just smiles vaguely in response. Nagito loves Hinata’s smiles. Not that one, though.

Nagito’s luck had fizzled out that morning during dish duty and caused a power outage for two hours, just long enough to collapse the delicate souffles Hanamura had planned for a special dinner treat. He decides that it’s better to keep his distance for now, in case there is more bad luck on the way. Nagito heads to the warehouse, to drag out the crate from under the worktables and to count the paper cranes. It’s wonderfully soothing. He wonders what will happen when Hinata reaches one thousand. Something wonderful, he bets.

In the crate, there are nine hundred perfect paper cranes. Beside the crate is a knapsack. It has dried rations, a portable water purifier, a multi-tool and a stun-gun. Crumpled in the pocket is a draft of a note. To him. To all of them.

<i>By the time you are reading this…</i>

Nagito takes a deep deep breath. His mouth twists up on one side.

What terrible luck.

~~

After Hajime finishes the last of the essential repairs, he decides to head back to his cottage to shower up and to try writing his farewell note again. All the eloquence of the Ultimate Literary Genius, unable to write a short and sweet goodbye. Pathetic. After dinner, he’ll slip over to the warehouse and finish the last hundred cranes. His one small bag is already packed and waiting there. The shower he takes is a long one, and very hot. He enjoys it- it may be the last hot shower he has for a while, the world being what it is out there. He’s still toweling his hair roughly when he walks back into his bedroom and sees it- a single, perfect crane on his bed. White.The same crane he’d first seen in the warehouse, he realizes, picking it up.  

Then someone clamps a rag around his nose and mouth from behind and everything goes black.

It is some time later when Hajime wakes up in bed. It is soft and he is comfortable. Someone has tucked him in on all sides, something he can’t remember ever experiencing before, even as a child. He blinks sleepily. Someone is banging on the door. It’s very annoying but he can ignore it, if he likes, so he does. There’s yelling now, too. What is it they’re saying… Fire? Someone is yelling <i>Fire, Fire,</i> how cliche.

He’s nearly asleep again when he recognizes Souda’s voice.

“YO!” Souda screams. “Get the fuck up, </i>Komaeda set the warehouse on fire!</i>”

Hajime blinks. He sits up.

“…Again?”

~~

Nagito whistles tunelessly as he watches the building burn. As an after thought, he pulls the origami penguins from his pocket. One, two, three from the lobby, one from Hinata’s cottage, liberated during what he likes to think of as the <i>Sleepytime Phase.</i> Mioda had been less than amused by that, actually. She’s over with the others, staring at him and the fire and him and the fire as though something will change. It will not. He wanders closer to the building and they shy away. Nagito drops all the penguins into the fire together.

“If you’re going to burn, better to burn together,” Nagito murmurs, smiling.

He’s not crazy. He isn’t.

Probably.

~~

“Wow.” Hajime crosses his arms, watching the Minimarus fighting the flames. It is both adorable and futile. The rest of their classmates huddle in a little group on the other side- as far away from Komeda as they can manage.

“The accelerant was a bit more potent in real life, I’m afraid,” Komaeda smiles cheerfully, two careful steps behind.  

“Komaeda?”

“Yes, Hinata?”

“… why did you set the warehouse on fire?”

“You only had a hundred left,” Komaeda says, like it’s obvious. “You had to be stopped.”

“You set the warehouse on fire because of <i>paper cranes</i>?” Hajime wonders sometimes if he’s actually just having some kind of aneurysm and this is all some long, drawn out hallucination sequence.

“No, Hinata,” Komaeda says very slowly and Hajime swallows back the urge to hit him in the mouth. “I set the warehouse on fire because you were leaving.”

Hajime blinks.

“I knew you were up to something when you started working yourself to death. That list,by the way, the one you keep in your desk? Not the order I would have put those tasks in, but I’m sure someone as talented as you had your reasons. When I saw you had already packed your bag last night, I knew I had to act quickly-”

“Wait, when did you-”

“When you were sleeping, obviously,” Komaeda continues, as though this is the least important detail, “But I think you were really quite unfair, you know. I’m not sure what else I could have done. I was trying to be considerate, distract the others to let you have some breathing room, and then you go and do a thing like that. Honestly, I’m disappointed, if that’s as far as your hope can take you.“

“Can we go back like… to step three? Or something? Because…” Hajime trails off.

“The point is that you’re not allowed to leave the islands.” Komaeda shrugs carelessly. “Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

“I’m not allowed?”

“Nope.” Komaeda smiles again. “No more cranes, no more leaving.”

“The two aren’t… I mean, I could just… make more paper cranes.” Hajime says, bewildered.

“Most of the origami paper was lost in the fire. Turns out it does burn well! You’re so clever, to have known that. But if you find more or you make more, that’s okay. I’ll just burn those too.” Komaeda’s face settles into a peculiar expression. “But there’s no need for that. Someone as important as you has to be here! I can help. I can stay further back, if you like? Three… no,five steps? I can stop speaking to you directly, if the sound of my voice is too unpleasant to bear. Maybe I could only come out during the night, once everyone is asleep, so no one has to see trash like me? Those are just suggestions, please feel free to direct me how you please-”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hajime runs a hand down his face in utter exasperation. With his free hand, he grabs Komaeda by the wrist and drags him over to the others.

“Tell them you’re sorry,” Hajime orders.

“I am very sorry you must all co-exist with such a garbage human being,” Komaeda chirps.

“About the fire!”

“Oh. Did you want me to lie, Hinata? That doesn’t seem very nice.” Komaeda temporizes, tilting his head to the side.

“You are such a freak,” Saionji sneers.

“Crazy son-of-a-” Souda clutches at the front of his jumper, gritting his teeth.

“Somebody oughta put you down,” Kuzuryu says darkly and Pekoyama puts one hand on her bamboo sword.

Komaeda nods and nods. “But it was necessary, you know! For hope. And now our hope will stay.” Komaeda turns huge adoring eyes on Hajime. So does everyone else.

“Wait… what is he talking about?” Koizumi asks suspiciously.

“You were gonna <i>leave?!</i>” Owari bellows.

“Where the hell d’you think you’re going, punk? Too good for us now, is that it?” Kuzuryu turns on him and Pekoyama puts her hand back on her bamboo sword.

Hajime holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Look. I thought… and I was… it doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving,” he says. “Anymore,” he adds. They look thoroughly unimpressed. And there’s Komaeda, looking friendly and gentle and sooty and only maybe one tenth as insane as he actually is, but. Also. Didn’t it… wasn’t it… sort of… working?

He isn’t leaving, is he?

“Fuck, I’m tired.” He groans, almost to himself.  

“Chloroform does that to people,” Komaeda agrees in a knowing sort of way.

“I need to lay down.” Hajime says after a solid thirty sixty seconds where he just covers his face and breathes heavily. “Now that the fire is contained, I need to <i>lay down.</i>”

Komaeda nods sagely but is then suddenly dragged up and along the path back to the bridge and the first island.

“Hinata?”

Hajime increases the pace. He can feel something building up inside of himself, as inexorably as the ocean. He just needs to get inside. If he can get back to his cabin he can sleep.  

“I can see that you’re upset with me. Completely understandable! I’m imposing upon you with my presence. The very air that I breathe is like poison around you. It would be best if I stopped my disgusting voice altogether-”

Hajime grabs Komaeda by the shoulders. “Shut up,” he orders, but the buzzing in his head is so thunderously loud that he can’t be sure the words are coming out at all. Komaeda’s mouth is still moving. Words are still pouring out.

Hajime shuts him up. He puts a hand against Komaeda’s mouth and holds it there. “Stop,” he begs. “Stop holding back. Stop putting me to the side. Stop ignoring me. Stop whatever you’re doing to make them ignore me too, Komaeda… I can’t do this. I can’t take this.” Tears of frustration are escaping but he doesn’t care. They’re still in front of the ranch, haven’t even made it back yet, but Hajime just wants to lie down in the dirt. “Pay attention to me. Be around me. Be normal, okay? Be your normal, be your regular weird fuck self, I-” his voice breaks.

~~

Nagito reaches up with his free hand and pulls Hinata’s hand off his face. He turns it around, till the fingers curl up toward the sky. He looks at Hinata impassively.

Had he always been so weak and soft? A little space and he doubts their love already. Utterly faithless. Utterly disappointing.

Nagito loves that part of him too.

He presses a kiss into Hajime’s fingers. The knuckles. The wrist. Each is a soft and reverent thing.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” He asks, between kisses. “Poor Hinata. You must be so tired.”

Hinata lets go of Nagito’s wrist and reaches up to scrub angrily at his face. Nagito takes that hand too. They’re standing in the middle of the path where anyone can see them, but if Hinata isn’t going to kick him into the dirt over it, he can’t be bothered to care what the inferior talents will think or feel. It’s Hinata’s decision, so if he chooses to have such appalling foresight as to allow Nagito free reign, well. <i>Nagito</i> won’t be the one to tell him he’s making poor life choices.

Komaeda leads, this time, their fingers laced together, and they go back to Hinata’s cottage. He makes no move to open the door; likely as not, he’d forgotten the keys in his haste. Nagito knows that fires tend to do that to even the best of people. Luckily, he has a hairpin.

“You’re too good at that,” Hinata sniffs warily.

“Thanks!” Nagito grins as he pushes open the door. He locks the door behind them. Hinata shucks his shoes and his shirt on the floor, which is a bit messy, but Hinata has had a rough day, so Nagito will let it slide this time. He tucks Hinata in on all sides and leans against the foot of the bed, head resting on his elbow, watching with a contented smile.

“You’re so goddamn creepy,” Hinata complains, throwing an arm over his eyes to keep from seeing him. “And embarrassing. And awful.” Nagito nods along. “Get off the floor,” he orders.

“The floor is too good for someone like me, but surely you don’t want to leave me unsupervised?” Nagito suggests. Hinata hauls him up by the elbow.

“Get in the fucking bed,” he says, and Nagito does, sliding happily between the sheets. He’s so warm, this steady physical presences that dips the mattress so they lay close together on the tiny bed. Nagito traces the path from Hinata’s shoulder down to his hip.  

“You smell wonderful,” Nagito sighs, face buried against Hinata’s shoulder, curled into the shape of his body from the back. He smells a little sweaty from the run, but clean and quick, and still a little like shampoo. He nuzzles the back of Hinata’s neck and Hinata shivers.

“You smell like smoke,” Hinata says flatly. “Take your clothes off.”

~~

Hajime would like to tell himself that he didn’t mean those words to come out that way. That this, like the thing about the origami, like the thing about leaving the island, was just a big mistake. It’s just that when Nagito slides back into bed, warm, soft, completely naked, and starts kissing the back of his neck with those same slow, even, deliberate kisses, he doesn’t want him to stop.

Komaeda’s hair still smells like smoke.

Hajime rolls over to face him anyway.

“You’re so fucking crazy.” Hajime murmurs, pulling him close. He holds Komaeda properly, holds him close to his chest like Komaeda might dissolve if he doesn’t. He might slip right through Hajime’s fingers and into the mattress and into the dirt. He might slip off in the night and set something else on fire. He might hurl himself off a cliff. Hajime kisses Komaeda’s cheek. His ear. The side of his nose. The corner of his mouth. “I can’t leave you alone. What the hell would you do?” He doesn’t let Komaeda answer, pressing his mouth against Komaeda’s and leaving it there, just breathing the same air. Occupying the same space. Komaeda kisses him back, gently. The wet slide of lips. Languid. Sleepy. Loving.

“You brought me back,” Komaeda reminds him, slipping his arms around Hajime too, dragging fingers down his broad back gently, making Hajime squirm. “Take responsibility.”

Hajime does.