#PUNCHES A WALL TEARS UP MY CARPET BITES KICKS BITES

[monofazz]

ouaugghhhh, tfone shattered glass D-16 learning how to harness and control his anger for better means save meeee ougghhhh, tfone sg D-16 seeing what anger and rage has done to him when he nearly kills Starscream, save meeeee, him delcaring he'll be the first to show mercy when his oppressors did not... save meeeeeeeee

[pbelfz]

His | 19 |

Pairing: Yandere Bakugou x Reader Chapter Title: Oversimplify Us Chapter 18 | Chapter 20 Story Masterlist Summary: You're a petty villain, and your new villain-career is forced to an immediate halt when none other than Ground Zero captures you. He's convinced that you're in need of his help to change your tainted lifestyle, and you're not going to tell him otherwise. WARNINGS: PHYSICAL ABUSE, SELF HARM MENTION

A/N: Hello, everyone! I just want to give another HEADS-UP that THE NEXT CHAPTER (CHAPTER 20) WILL BE THE FINAL CHAPTER OF 'HIS'! Please emotionally prepare, as I know the end of series' can cause bouts of depression.

Uraraka dropped (Y/n) off in front of Katsuki’s building soon after “lunch.” The Zero Gravity Hero was worried about her ever since she asked for one of her pregnancy tests.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Uraraka asked just as (Y/n) was reaching to open the car door, her shopping bags sitting by her feet. (Y/n) seemed dull, her eyes vacant, and Uraraka was biting the inside of her cheek.

“I’m sure. Thanks for today,” (Y/n) uttered, without so much as glancing at the other girl before she got out of the car. Her mind was fixated on the little pharmacy baggy hidden underneath all of her new clothes. She closed Uraraka’s car door, but Uraraka rolled down the window.

“You have my number now! Let me know if you need anything else!” She hollered from the driver’s seat. (Y/n) nodded.

She let out a sigh as she made her way back up to Katsuki’s floor.

Uraraka was right; she did have her number now. She had Deku’s as well. Both compacted into a second phone. She can put Mitsuki and Masaru’s numbers in there, too.

Somehow, though, it didn’t provide her with any comfort. Few things did anymore. Not the new phone. Not the new clothes. Not the silent humming of the elevator ascending to Katsuki’s floor. Nothing had substance. Katsuki had substance, but there was a rotting fear in her. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt relaxed. Every time Katsuki moves too quickly, she has to keep herself from flinching. Is this all there is for her? To be Katsuki’s sex slave? Earn her freedom back by giving her body to him? (Y/n)’s face twisted, a sob threatening to spill in her rare moment of alone time, but she quickly took a deep breath and sighed instead.

If she wanted help, then why did she tell Deku she was safe with Katsuki?

Her head ached.

Suddenly, (Y/n) dropped her shopping bags and tote, crumbling to the floor of the elevator, letting out a bloodcurdling scream as she yanked at her hair. Her shriek bounced off the mirrored walls, sounding as if she was trapped in a chamber, and even though her lungs emptied rather quickly, she continued screaming. Tears formed, but they weren’t shed as she kept her eyes shut tightly. She pulled at her scalp – the burn of yanking her hair reminded her she was real – before standing, frantic and glaring around at her reflection in the mirrored walls of the elevator. She began punching, kicking, screaming at each reflection, her frenzied state prohibiting her from doing any actual damage. She dropped once more, her forehead meeting the floor as she sobbed into her knees and pulled her hair harder.

When the elevator dinged, announcing the arrival to Katsuki’s floor – the top floor – (Y/n) silently stayed in her position as the elevator doors slowly opened.

After a few moments, she calmly stood, smoothening her hair and brushing her new jeans off. She reached down to pick up her bags, the back of her other hand wiping her face. She checked her reflection once more. Messy. Suitable.

And with that, she left the elevator and continued on to Katsuki’s.

Katsuki was vacuuming, glaring at the carpet. That was his normal face, though. (Y/n) quietly shut the door behind her, locking it and setting her bags down. Something in her sunk seeing him still here, but another part of her felt comforted by the familiarity of their now-shared home.

Katsuki glanced up at her before turning off the vacuum. “You been crying?” He stated plainly. He barely gave her new outfit a once over, as his attention was pulled by (Y/n)’s red eyes and swollen lips. (Y/n) huffed a sigh, reaching up to hook her tote on the coat hanger. She pulled Katsuki’s credit card from her back pocket.

“No.”

“(Y/n).”

Katsuki’s tone was even; it could have been a warning, but (Y/n) was tired. He observed her, trying to decide where to go from here. (Y/n) held out his credit card, returning it back to him as she walked past.

“Thank you, Katsuki.”

Trained. Routine. Appraisal was deserved for her punctuality, but Katsuki had a problem with her lie.

(Y/n) was quiet as she trudged to the kitchen, avoiding him and his testing glare. He followed behind her, though, leaving the vacuum in the middle of the living room.

“The fuck is up with you? What happened?” He questioned, his rough voice doing little to calm (Y/n)’s nerves. She was surprised he wasn’t already knowledgeable about the details of her interaction with Deku. Perhaps he trusts her more than he lets on.

(Y/n) took a seat at the island, burying her face in her arms, as Katsuki loomed over her.

“Hello?” He pressed after a moment of silence.

He wasn’t mad. She knew that. Or rather, that’s what she tells herself each time he gets a little abrasive. He’s not mad at me, he’s mad at the situation. He’s reminded her of that many times, and even still, he manages to make her feel at fault for his damaged mood. (Y/n) inhaled, masking herself as she prepared to deal with the Explosion hero. She sat upright.

“I just,” she sighed, “got overwhelmed.”

Katsuki scoffed, eyeing the bag of new clothes sitting by the front door. “Yeah, I’m sure you fuckin’ did.”

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. (Y/n) kept her back to him as she sat in her seat. She didn’t think she could stomach looking at him right now.

“What’d Deku talk to you about? I know he was there,” he pressed. There wasn’t a point in lying to him if he already expected the Number One Hero’s involvement. (Y/n) rubbed her hands over her face, an emphasis of her exhaustion and an attempt to hide her rolling eyes.

“He wanted to know if I felt safe with you.”

Katsuki was quiet as he waited for her to continue, but his stare was loud. (Y/n) felt his suffocating gaze on her back.

“I told him yes.”

Still, Katsuki said nothing. (Y/n) felt the need to fill the silence between them. If she doesn’t talk, then it’s unlikely they’ll communicate regularly at all.

“He also said he’s sorry for sending the police.”

Katsuki snorted at that, adjusting his weight to the other leg. “Anything else? Uraraka say anything? They give you anything?”

“No.” Her answer was automatic, and she felt like she was on autopilot. “I told them we’re fine.”

Katsuki stared at (Y/n)’s back with a frown. Something felt off. (Y/n) felt off. Different from how she’s been the past few weeks. She’s not telling him the whole truth.

With the growth of their relationship, with the softening of rules, his trust for (Y/n) has strengthened. But was it trust for (Y/n) as a person, or just trust that she wouldn’t leave him? Months ago, he would have been anxiously texting (Y/n)’s phone, demanding for her to update him on every single detail of her outing. But now he felt no need to.

It was because he doesn’t believe (Y/n) had the courage to betray him, even if she was given the chance to. Even if the chance came in the form of Deku, Uraraka, or whoever else. He knows she wouldn’t take it. No, not after seeing just how good she has it here with him.

So, Katsuki left it alone.

“Okay,” he said simply, grabbing an apple from the fruits basket on the counter. (Y/n) listened to him bite a chunk out of the fruit as he left her sitting alone in the kitchen.

Katsuki didn’t go through her shopping bags. (Y/n) removed the confidential items before he even attempted to, so it wouldn’t matter if he scavenged through them. All he would have found was clothing and makeup.

Now, she sat in the bathroom behind a locked door (already breaking a rule, but Katsuki was too preoccupied with chores to notice or care), peering down between her legs as she urinated on the tip of the plastic stick.

She repeated this with a second test.

She didn’t feel as if she was really there, sitting on the toilet, inside of a bathroom, in Katsuki’s penthouse at the moment. It was as if her mind was refusing to absorb her surroundings, and everything was becoming muddled together. The drone of the vacuuming outside almost lulled her, and when she was finished peeing, she continued sitting on the toilet, staring blankly ahead at the expensive towels hanging on the rack in front of her.

(Y/n) sat curled up with her back against the bathroom wall. She didn’t even realize it had been five minutes, but she was dreading looking at the tests. They were on the sink counter, the results unknown to her but still glaring at her all the same.

(Y/n) ran her hands through her hair, tugging. Still alive. She still had a feeling. She swallowed the saliva that had been gathering in her mouth. Her breath was shaky, her lungs threatening to give out at any moment. She closed her eyes, trying to find grounding in the darkness behind her eyelids. When she opened them again, she was staring at the ceiling, her arms still covering her head as she peered through the crack between them. Was this when people prayed to a god? Is that even an option for (Y/n) at this point? (Y/n) found the only religion that’s ever helped her was the one she found in a quiet room, alone with her reflection and a knife.

The closet drew her close to a religious experience. To be locked away for days only for Katsuki to reveal himself again once more, casual and indifferent. Prophets came in many forms, it seems.

She wiped the stray tears that fell and stood. Even if she told herself she didn’t want to know what the tests said, her gaze still fixated on both plastic sticks as soon as they came into view.

Both tests had double lines.

(Y/n)’s breath caught in her throat, and while she wanted to throw a tantrum, or just throw something, she didn’t. She stood straight. She remained standing there for a few more minutes, staring down at the two pregnancy tests. The vacuuming outside of the bathroom door became white noise. Everything was white noise. (Y/n) hadn’t been in her body for some time now.

She picked up the tests, staring at them each in her hands, before snapping them both in half.

She shoved them into the trashcan – deep – hiding them underneath the used tissues and empty soap bottles. She then calmly washed her hands, dried them, and left the bathroom as if nothing occurred.

Katsuki didn’t inform (Y/n) they were having guests the next day until there was a knock on his door.

She hadn’t slept well the night before, and it was apparent in the way her feet dragged across the polished wooden floors. The knock on the door made her straighten, and she almost instinctively moved to appear to be busy. Katsuki’s coached her on how to act when people come over; if she behaves, he rewards her with attention – not sexual. Actual, proper attention. Gentle touches. Kisses. A fucking conversation for once. What kind of world did she find herself in where she was silenced in order to be spoken to?

Still, nothing could have prepared (Y/n) for the sheer chaos that was Katsuki’s friends. She could only turn and stare wildly at the loud group of individuals as they entered through the door.

“Ka-acchan!” A blonde man exclaimed, a black lightning bolt streak in his hair. He was the one in Katsuki’s old school photos. He wrapped an arm around Katsuki’s neck, which was apparently a much too friendly gesture, as the Explosion Hero grimaced, shoving the other man off of him, resulting in a fit of laughter.

The unknown man met (Y/n)’s eye, and he immediately froze.

“Hey, wait…,” he started, as he approached (Y/n). (Y/n) swallowed, unsure whether to stay put, as she glanced at Katsuki. He was watching Denki from the corner of his eye, a stern expression on his face, as his other friends entered.

Denki was ogling (Y/n) before he pivoted around to face Katsuki once more.

“No way! I thought she was just a one-time thing for the Gala!”

Kirishima butted in, accompanied by a pink woman. She was very toned.

“No, dude. I told you to keep it cool.”

“I just didn’t expect her to actually, you know, be here–!”

Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Both of you shut the fuck up. Beer’s in the fridge.”

“I’m Denki Kaminari,” he told (Y/n) as he padded over to the kitchen. “Or Chargebolt, if you prefer!” He called. Kirishima seemed to be keeping a wary eye on his blonde friend. The pink girl waved at (Y/n) with a friendly smile, her other hand was intertwined in Kirishima’s. Kirishima left to go get a drink himself, leaving the two women alone.

“I’m Mina Ashido! I’ve been wanting to meet you for so long! You’re much prettier in person!”

“Uh, thanks…,” (Y/n) mumbled, her gaze still lingering on Katsuki he brushed past to accompany the other men in the kitchen. He must have noticed the questioning look on (Y/n)’s face because he grumbled an explanation as he passed.

“Fuckers wanted to celebrate my return from the hospital. Like it won’t be the last time I get admitted. Anything to get drunk.”

It all felt… Very normal. It felt normal to be squished on the couch between two people as they played another round of a first-person shooter game. (Y/n) didn’t play, but she watched, feeling both Kirishima and Denki shove against her with each shot they fired. Everything was loud. The laughter, the yelling. All of it. (Y/n) was feeling drained by the moment, and Katsuki was drifting in and out of the room, getting more alcohol for everyone. (Y/n) didn’t touch a bottle, but nobody noticed except for Kirishima. He figured they must still have the alcohol double-standard going on.

The air was always vibrant, especially with Mina. (Y/n) was glad she came with Kirishima because otherwise this would’ve been a sausage fest with (Y/n) as the only female. She sat on the arm of the couch, eccentric and knowing how to keep conversations going. (Y/n) actually saw Katsuki laugh for a change.

(Y/n) might have actually begun enjoying herself a little. She smiled more openly. Katsuki at one point left to go to the bathroom.

“So…,” Denki started, his eyes still fixated on the screen as his fingers moved methodically on the controller in his hands. “Didn’t realize Bakugou could pull a girl like you.”

Kirishima snorted, his own focus now split between the battle royale and the conversation. “Oh, c’mon. You know he has no trouble pullin’ ‘em.”

Denki sighed. “Yeah…”

“Guys, stop. You’re being disrespectful,” Mina scolded, her gaze still trained on the television. Denki rolled his eyes, while Kirishima didn’t react.

The trio was preoccupied with the game, but (Y/n)’s attention faded in and out.

“(Y/n).”

Katsuki’s voice suddenly called for her, and (Y/n) noticeably tensed.

“C’mere.”

He was in the kitchen. (Y/n) couldn’t see him from her spot on the couch. Katsuki’s friends didn’t seem bothered; they were too busy with their game.

(Y/n)’s gut twisted in on itself as she stood, slowly making her way to the kitchen. Things were so much more stressful when there was actually something to hide, weren’t they?

In the kitchen, Katsuki’s glower was hard and low, his jaw clenched tightly. (Y/n) swallowed, her eyes flickering to his hands. A precaution – that was the most dangerous part of him, wasn’t it? But also…

Katsuki licked his lower lip, his glare steeling by the second.

He held the broken pregnancy tests in his hands.

(Y/n) hadn’t let out a breath since she stepped into the kitchen.

“What the fuck is this, (Y/n)?” He demanded lowly, his voice strict and quiet as he held up the broken plastic sticks.

(Y/n)’s fingers were fidgety. Her voice was gone. She only stared at him, dumbfounded and terrified.

“Are you going to fucking answer me or not?” He pressed, his brow ridge crinkling more as his scowl worsened. The others in the living room hadn’t noticed the situation.

“I, um–! I–!” (Y/n) tried to spit out, but Katsuki cut her pathetic attempt off.

“I–! I–!” He mocked her. “Just tell me what the fuck this is, (Y/n).” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, still holding up the broken sticks. (Y/n)’s fists clenched and unclenched, and her body was rigid.

“They’re pregnancy tests,” she breathed; it was hardly even a whisper.

“Louder.”

“They’re pregnancy tests,” she said more affirmatively, looking back up to meet his eye. She regretted it the moment she did. She’s never seen him look so vicious.

“Tell me why they were in the trashcan. Tell me why they were in the trashcan and not given to me. I wanna hear you say it.”

(Y/n) averted her gaze at that, looking back down at the floor.

“I didn’t want you to know.” The truth. She told him the truth. The truth was that she lied to him.

Katsuki backhanded her.

The sound echoed throughout the house, and (Y/n)’s neck snapped in the other direction. The pain was hot, stinging her skin, and she almost forgot just how blinding everything would become each time he used to hit her. She clamped her eyes shut, her teeth clenching as she anticipated another smack, but she heard the rushing of other people in the kitchen instead.

Kirishima had intervened, and (Y/n) could only get a glance of him shoving Katsuki back, blocking him from going after her anymore, before Mina came and quickly pulled her out of the kitchen. (Y/n) didn’t even realize she started crying until she got a blurry look at Denki, who was still sitting on the couch with the controller in his hand, staring wildly at her and Mina. The game had been paused, and all that could be heard was shouting between Kirishima and Katsuki.

Everything was so fast, (Y/n) didn’t even process Mina giving her tissues or helping her dab her eyes when she didn’t take them. She was shaking. So was Mina.

“Do you want to tell me what the fuck that was?” Kirishima belted, his body taut as his temper began to rise at what he just witnessed. Katsuki almost ignored him, his heated glare going into tunnel vision and fixating on (Y/n) in the other room. He glanced back at his best friend, who stood defensively right in front of him.

“Get the fuck out of the way.”

Kirishima, who had a frame size similar to Katsuki – perhaps even a bit bigger – wasn’t intimidated by him. Both men refused to back down, but neither of them wanted to fight the other. Katsuki knew who his anger was directed at. Kirishima knew it as well.

“No, I don’t think I will. Not until you calm down first,” the Hardening Hero asserted.

Katsuki attempted to side-step him, but Kirishima stepped in front of him, his scowl testing him to go further.

“Look, just,” Kirishima sighed, his glare not lessening any. Neither was the tension in his muscles. “Just take a moment to chill out.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched, and he looked like he wanted to argue with him. But he reluctantly backed up, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. He averted his glare to the floor, his head almost beginning to spin. Kirishima still didn’t deem the situation as safe, so he remained guarding the door, almost caging Katsuki in.

“So, what was that, huh?” He pressed, his rage not settling the way he wanted it to. Katsuki glanced up at him before scowling back at the floor.

“A slip-up. Won’t happen again.”

“Some fucking ‘slip up’,” Kirishima scoffed, letting his anger seep out between his teeth. “A slip-up is when you forget your keys or some shit. Not smacking your girlfriend. You forget that?”

Katsuki didn’t reply, but he looked to check and see if (Y/n) was still in the living room with Mina and Denki. She was. Kirishima stepped in his line of vision, though.

“Is this what’s been going on between you two?” He asked, and Katsuki dragged a hand down his face.

“No. First time.”

Kirishima didn’t look like he believed him. His sour expression shifted into something slightly sadder, and Katsuki actually felt a little guilty – to be lying to his best friend like that. Only for a second, though, because his anger sparked once more.

Pregnant.

Fuck.

“What happened?” Kirishima asked, and of course he would. Katsuki shook his head, trying to find the words himself.

“She forgot to tell me something.”

Kirishima looked as if he saw red, shoving Katsuki once more.

“So you fucking hit her?! For that?!” Kirishima backs up to keep himself from going at Katsuki. “I know you have a short fuse, man, but do you ever think before you act?”

Katsuki took the scolding. He knew it was well-deserved and long-past due. So, he took it without complaint. If was anyone other than Kirishima, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so unresisting.

Kirishima, though, was familiar with Katsuki’s silent anger.

“Fucking stay in here and cool off before you go back out there. I’m not letting you near her until you’ve calmed down.”

Kirishima remained in the kitchen with him for thirty minutes.

(Y/n) had spent those minutes still and silent on the couch next to Denki and Mina. Neither really knew what to do. Denki offered the extra controller to (Y/n) and turned the television volume up louder, hoping to drown out Kirishima’s yelling. Mina was cuddled up to her, rubbing her shoulders soothingly.

(Y/n) took the controller and played the game with Denki, but she wasn’t very focused on the game, making their team lose each match. Denki didn’t care; he was gentle in his cheering for her.

Katsuki returned to the living room with a neutral expression, Kirishima following close behind. Each of their gazes turned to the two men, and (Y/n) couldn’t help but flinch when Katsuki leaned down, picking up the TV remote and turning the television off.

“Party’s over. Get the fuck out.”

Everyone was hesitant to move, including Kirishima, who had been eyeing Katsuki.

Denki quickly scrambled to his feet, but Mina was more reluctant to move, as she briefly exchanged eye contact with Kirishima. Kirishima gave her a slight nod, letting her know it was best for her to get ready to leave.

Mina sighed, unlatching herself from (Y/n), whose side she’d been stuck on since the incident. (Y/n) hardly even looked at the two of them as they went to put their shoes back on.

Kirishima seemed stiff, muttering to Mina that he’ll meet her in the hallway.

Once Denki and Mina left, Kirishima turned to (Y/n), almost ignoring Katsuki altogether.

“Are you okay?” He asked her. It took her a moment, but (Y/n) glanced up at him from her spot on the couch. She was sitting so rigidly; it was hard to believe she was smiling with the group just an hour or so ago.

“Yes, I’m okay.”

Her answer was controlled and emotionless. Katsuki was watching her. Kirishima pulled out his wallet, taking out a piece of scrap paper. He scribbled something down on it, passing it to her. He made direct eye contact with Katsuki while (Y/n) took the small piece of paper.

His number. And Mina’s.

“Call me if you ever need anything,” he told her. He didn’t say it with a smile. It must have been the circumstances.

(Y/n) didn’t nod. She hardly even looked at the paper for longer than a few seconds. Katsuki is watching her right now.

Kirishima left without saying goodbye to Katsuki.

As soon as the house was quiet again, Katsuki came over to where (Y/n) was sitting. He stood in front of her with an outstretched hand.

“Give me that.”

(Y/n) did so without a fight.

Katsuki took the piece of paper in his palm and activated his quirk. Nothing but residual ashes were left behind.

He continued silently standing in front of her, almost like he was trying to decide what to say now. (Y/n)’s cheek was still throbbing, and the ache was the only thing really keeping her present.

“You couldn’t have hid that from me forever, you know,” he mumbled, looking down at her.

“I know.”

“You’re a fucking idiot for trying.”

“I know.”

“I should’ve been the first and only one you asked for a pregnancy test from.”

“I know.”

It was hard to continuously shoot criticisms at her when all it was met with was impassivity. He was getting bored of it, so he looked to the floor with a frown. (Y/n) wasn’t looking up at him. It bothered him, but his mind was preoccupied with other things at the moment.

“I,” he began, his voice a little softer than before. “I want it, you know.”

(Y/n) was staring at the ground, and Katsuki glanced up at her. She knew by now that her opinions didn’t hold any weight in this relationship, so there was no point in arguing otherwise. Even if it involved her body. No, especially if it involved her body.

“Okay,” was all she said.

Katsuki slept that night engulfing (Y/n) in his embrace, his hands resting on her stomach. (Y/n) didn’t sleep. She noticed when he would wake occasionally throughout the night, feeling him gently stroke her skin as he let out a sigh and give a kiss to her shoulder. Like he was making sure she was still there.

Though, he almost didn’t question when (Y/n) pulled herself out of his grip in the middle of the night. He awoke, but (Y/n) diffused it.

“Gotta puke,” she told him. He put his head back down on the pillow, humming in response.

(Y/n) would then tiptoe all through the hallway, carefully making her way to her tote bag on the coat hanger by the front door. Katsuki was very sensitive to noises, so she had to be quick.

She reached in, pulling out the second phone along with baby wipes and stomach medicine. She strategically hid the phone from the cameras – she’s been in here long enough to memorize their lines of vision – opting to pretend she was retrieving the wipes and medicine instead. She wasn’t sure Katsuki even reviews the security footage anymore, but she wanted to be safe than sorry.

She scampered to the nearest bathroom, her heart pounding in her ears. Something else was driving her right now, pushing her to keep going. Just make it to the bathroom. Maybe it was a breaking point.

She sat on the toilet, her fingers shaking as she unlocked the phone and began typing frantically.

To : Deku

(01:27) (Y/n) : It’s (Y/n) (L/n).

(01:27) (Y/n) : Get me away from him.

[wearywinchester]

Take Care of You

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: After a hunt gone wrong, Dean is always there.

Requested by Anonymous: ““Here. You look hungry.” because I feel like this is Dean's love language”

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: bit of angst, self doubt, mentions of injury, food, fluff

A huff fell past your lips for what had to be the millionth time within the last hour and a half, the motel door closing roughly behind you from the force you pushed it shut with. You were tired, you were frustrated, you were miserable. The hunt couldn’t have gone any worse in your eyes, it was one thing after another with seemingly no end in sight at the time. You were sure you’d never been off your game quite like that in all the hunts you’d done.

You felt like you failed.

It wasn’t until the sound of that familiar engine sounded and grew distant, signaling they’d left, that it felt like the tension in your chest was starting to break loose. You were sulking the entire way back to the motel, tucked away in the back seat with tears fighting desperately to spill down your cheeks. It was a battle you gave up trying to stifle eventually, those very tears rolling down heated skin before collecting on your shirt.

You were quiet the entire drive save for the occasional sniffle you muffled with your sleeve, having gone unnoticed, at least you thought you did. Because you were so wrapped up in picking apart how you did that night, about everything that had gone wrong rather than the things that went right, that you missed the way Dean glanced in the rear view on more than one occasion. You hadn’t seen the clench of his jaw and the tightening of his grip on the wheel at the mere sight of your obvious anguish over it.

He knew there was nothing he could say to make it better in that moment and that was something he hated amongst other things.

You had passed up dinner when he’d asked, as kind as ever despite your shortness with him, simply asking him to drop you off at the motel so he could grab a bite to eat with Sam. Teary eyes and a frown wasn’t something you wanted them to see, nor did you want to dampen their mood that surely was already soured at that point.

So he did just that, dropped you off in front of the room the three of you had reserved for the past two nights. Even though you could hold your own, he still waited for you to go inside before he left.

You turned on the faucet at the sink in the small bathroom, cupping your hands under the tap before bending down and splashing the cold water over your face. It was an icy jolt, one that soothed the heat in your cheeks and the clutter of thoughts in your mind. You repeated the action at least three more times before swiping the hand towel from its hook, patting your face and hands dry. It grounded you a bit more than you were just moments before, and you switched the light off and tossed the towel on the counter before making your way back to the bed you shared with Dean.

It was unmade from where the two of you had left it when you woke up that morning, two duffel bags sitting on the carpeted floor unzipped and rifled through from your change of clothes. The mattress bounced when you took a seat on it, boots kicked off and jacket folded over top of your back before you leaned back against the headboard. It was among the nicer motels you’d stayed in as of late, certainly better than the disco themed room you resided in on a hunt in Las Vegas just weeks before, and definitely better than the room with no heat the time before that.

You swiped the remote off the nightstand seated between the two beds, switching the tv on to whatever reality show you could find first. It wasn’t until then that you realized just how much your feet ached, just how sore your back had been. It didn’t help that you’d been thrown against the wall by a rogue spirit—not the first time nor the second time.

It left you feeling like the human equivalent of a punching bag and the tub back at the bunker never felt more enticing than now. The tub that sat miles away just waiting for you to come back home.

There have been worse hunts you’ve been on, ones that you’ve come out of in a lot worse shape than this. Ones that left your cheeks burning with embarrassment over a clumsier mistake than the ones you made a mere hour before. Ones that ended in arguments with Dean, most of which you hadn’t recalled what they were about but a few that you do.

There were worse hunts, but the events that unraveled that day were ones that you couldn’t shake. The built up tension and frustration before that point having been too heavy for you to let it go. You know sitting and stewing on it will do nothing but sour your mood even further, will make it all the more difficult for you to go back out on another hunt with a positive outlook. But you were too tired to do much else other than that very thing.

You weren’t sure how long it’d been that you’d been in your own company, using the time to do nothing but think about the day you wanted so desperately to come to a close. It was a nightmare, one that left you feeling tired and embarrassed.

But what you did know was the sound of two thuds, shortly paired with the jiggle of the doorknob and the whistle of the older Winchester as he stepped into the room. You heard Sam mention something about showering before he disappeared into the bathroom with a change of clothes, promptly closing the door behind him.

“Hey sweetheart,” he greeted, upbeat despite your mood displaying the opposite.

You nod, waving in his general direction as you flip through the channels in search of something else to watch even though you hadn’t really been paying much attention to the tv. You’d been watching the same show for the last who knows how long and you couldn’t even begin to grasp what it was about. It wasn’t long before the light of the lamp had dimmed, Dean standing in front of it as he nudged you lightly.

When you turned your head to look up at him, you spotted a brown paper bag in his hand with a grease stain or two on it. “Here. You look hungry.”

You purse your lips as your gaze went back to him. “Am not.”

“Are too. Your stomach was rumbling louder than my car the whole trip back, sweetheart.”

After a moment of squinted eyes and raised brows in a defeated attempt to prove your point you sighed, taking the bag from him with a small but appreciative smile as he pressed a kiss to your forehead before rounding the bed to sit with you. It was the littlest of things that made moments like this all the more better, softening the blow you felt you’d taken after the day you had. It was the little things Dean did that showed you just how much he cared. He wasn’t one to express his emotions through words as much as he did through actions.

He took his rightful spot next to you, the bed jostling around a bit before stilling once he had gotten comfortable by your side. He snagged the remote from you with a smile, one that grew fonder as he watched you enjoy your food no matter how much you tried to say you didn’t want it. By the very smile on your face, even if it’s small, he knows he’d made you feel better. He’d much rather see a hint of a smile than the frown you were sporting the majority of the day whether you had realized it or not.

The tv was changed to a movie, the title slipping your mind but seemingly it’d been one that wasn’t too bad judging by the way Dean had laughed, tossing the remote down in favor of tugging you closer with an arm around your shoulders and a kiss to your temple.

“You did good out there, you know,” he murmurs, pulling a scoff from you.

“Did not,” you say, stuffing another fry in your mouth.

“I’m serious, you did good today, Y/n.”

“Dean, I nearly face planted at Casper the friendly ghost’s feet today, not to mention that spirit tossed me around like a chew toy. I wouldn’t call that a win,” you grumble, feeling his eyes on you.

It was confirmed when you turned your head to look at him, his gaze on you as his lips pursed in disapproval. That and it was topped off with the raise of his brow, a huff puffing out from his nose. You knew he wouldn’t agree with you, not in a million years, and you didn’t see how he couldn’t. You made a fool of yourself today and if no one knew any better, they would have thought it’d been your first ever hunt of your life.

“Stop that,” he says with furrowed brows.

“Stop what?”

“That thing you always do where you get all wrapped up in that pretty head of yours. Stop that.”

“You mean the thing you always do?”

The crease between his brows deepens and the dimples sitting at the corners of his mouth do the same, his boot nudging your foot. You raise your eyebrow and smile softly, turning away as you finish up your food. You may have won that argument, if you’d even call it that, but he knew he was right. You knew he was right.

He chose to say nothing more on the subject, knowing full well you’d have a counter readily on the tip of your tongue to just about anything he could say about it. Instead, he settled for pulling you closer after you put the wrappers in the bag, putting it on the nightstand. You tucked into his side, the place you wanted to be most after the day you’d had. He was warm and solid and there, he was there and he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Dean Winchester might not have been a man known to show big acts of affection with frequent I love you’s and grand dinners to fancy restaurants, he might not buy you expensive gifts or pretty flowers to show you his love for you. But he didn’t really need to, he never needed to do that. He was your rock, the one you could rely on in anything that bothered you. He was safe.

You weren’t quite sure how much time had passed and you still hadn’t known what exactly was going on in the movie that Dean had put on to watch. You were far too caught up and distracted with the beat of his heart as you lay your head over it, or the way he’d been absentmindedly dragging the tips of his fingers along your shoulder as he watched the tv. At the occasional chuckle rumbling in his chest and jostling you around a bit but you didn’t mind. You were finally comfortable, finally able to relax after tracking down the same spirit for the past two days.

Now it was over and done with, and now you could put it behind you.

“Thanks for thinking of me, De,” you murmur, gesturing to the now empty paper bag.

He laughs softly, lips pressed to your forehead. “I’m always thinkin’ about you.”

You smile then, looking up at him with a certain fondness that never fails to make his heart flip in his chest now matter how much he tells Sam that it doesn’t. It always does when you look at him like that. But for the first time that day you felt better, felt at ease that maybe everything hadn’t gone quite as badly as you’d envisioned it had.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.

You bumped his freckled nose with yours, a soft sigh falling past your lips and fanning over his own. But the exasperation you felt had quickly melted into an even softer smile, one he couldn’t see but he knew was there when it pressed into his lips. “I know you do, De.”

He kissed you again, and again, the smile on his lips brushing over yours just like you had done.

“You taste like a burger, sweetheart,” he chuckled, even more so when you swat at his chest.

“Yeah, and you taste like pie,” you counter, shaking your head.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he adds, sweet enough to smooth it over with you. He tugged you in again, his lips meeting yours in a kiss even sweeter than the last, his breath warm against your lips as his kiss lingered more than a few moments before he went in for another. “Yeah, totally not a bad thing.”

You laugh softly at his hum, any remaining upset that you felt simmering in you now dissolving at that point and replacing it with something happier.

—

Tags: @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @dean-is-sams-apple-pie @elegantbutedgy @humanmistakes

[midday0nightmares]

4 - betrayed by god (m).

previous chapter life passes you by.

m.list.

warnings: this series contains themes of yandere\mafia, blood, violence, mental health, drugs, non-con.

author note: this is pure fiction and it is not intended to romanticize any of the situations mentioned bellow.

Your tears haven’t dried yet.. you wondered if they ever will? You tried time after time to make sense on your situation, you tried to compromise .. maybe if you do what they say, they will let you go or at least be kinder to you? That was your plan. 

This dark closet felt like your safe island, a place to isolate you from the monsters outside, you were thankful for the thin door, to the cold wall and to the dusty carpet.. 

“Sera, when you are done.. come to my room” .. 

Your heart dropped at his request .. 

Jeno awed and flicks his eyebrows to jaemin, smirking with excitement knowing what’s about to happen..

you prayed to whatever god that was up there to safe you from what you know that is coming.

You dragged with the dishes and rubbed them extra hard and washed them twice just to make sure they are clean and maybe when you are done jaemin would have fallen asleep.. 

After you finished and done and redone everything you could do in the kitchen you dried your shaken hands and walked towards his room, you knocked ..

“It’s open” ..

you heard him.. he’s still awake 

You opened the door .. his room dime lighted and a rented candle lighted next to his bed.. 

“it’s ok come in.. I don’t bite” he joked..

You step in “lock the door” ..

 no no this can’t be happing, god’s ears were deaf to your pleads and prayers.. 

He laughed ..“why the sad face? I just want you to give me a massage my back has been killing me.. can you do that?” 

He asks you like you have a choice .. 

“sure” 

He stands, his tall figure looks more scarier .. he pulls his sweatshirt over his head and turns to lay on his stomach .. the large dragon tattoo covering his entire back side  sending cold chills down your spine.. 

You walk over against every instances in your body telling you to run the other way..

Your hands are timid when they make the first contact to his bare skin.. 

“harder” he groans 

You press harder but it doesn’t seems to satisfy him .. 

“just get on top of me and put your weight in it” .. 

The shakes breathe betrays you.. tears sting your eyes.. 

You do as he asked, you put one knee next to his hip and throw the other leg over him.. you resume the massage, he seems to be enjoying it.. he moans every once in a while.

Finally he had enough, you move off of him wanting to walk out as fast as possible.. but his hand on your arm stops you.. of course this isn’t done..

“Let’s cuddle.. come here” ..

 he pulls you down into his bed forcing you to lay down beside him.. your back stuck to his bare chest.. his face buried into your hair..an arm thrown over your waist..

You still have hope, that he would just go to sleep.. you breathed as quietly as you can to not disturb him .. that hope was shattered yet again when his hand started rubbing your stomach.. trailing the dip of your waist to the hight of your hip until he moves to in between your legs, you flinch.. jerking your hips away from his hand only to push them into his crotch, feeling what he was feeling.. 

His fingers rubs you aggressively .. your hand grabs his wrist to try to stop him, but his hands over power yours .. twisting your fingers in his rough hand ..

“its gonna happen wither you like it or not.. I suggest you do honey”..

 he whisper into your ear before he lets go of your hand and dips his hand under the sweatpants you were wearing and pulls them down.. he turns you on your back and get on top of your crumbling body.. your try to regulate your breathing, maybe if you go along it won’t hurt..

He gathers your top over your chest and gets his mouth on one of your nipples while he rubs your clit to get you wet, you can’t stop your body natural response to stimulation .. but god you wish you could, to his satisfaction he start to feel the wetness ozing out of you.. he hums in delight, and moves up to your neck, kissing and sucking on it.. 

The tears fill your eyes and you try to blink them away.. 

His fingers circle your opening.. and he pushes in one finger making you flinch trying to close your legs in attempt to fight him ..

 he only laughs “hmm sensitive” .. 

he push them deeper and you wince at the pain trying your best to relax your muscles.. he give couple of thrust and take them out,  you open your eyes at the feeling of his body letting off of you.. 

is he letting you go? ..

No.. he’s taking his pants off .. he pumps his half hard member in his hand making it grow harder.. you try to close your legs once again but he forces the open and aligns himself .. you panic, tears falling to the side of your face .. your fight or flight response finally kicks in, and you fight him.. 

punching, scratching, pushing him off.. 

“on.. please don’t!” .. 

But it all comes to an end when you feel the stinging burning sensation on your face.. he slapped you, making your vision blur and your ear ringing .. the same hand claw your jaw turning your face back at him 

“no? No?! You are mine.. your body is mine you stupid little bitch.. who do you think you are telling me no?!” 

Another slap .. it was enough to break you will.. enough to put your strength and his back into perspective, he will always win and god has betrayed you once again.  

[kingandfireheart]

YOUR MATING BOND IS SHOWING: Some underrated Nessian scenes pre-ACOFAS

alternatively titled: how did no one in the Inner Circle accidentally tell Nesta?

I didn't include the big moments (the Cauldron, the Bone Carver, Next Time, Emissary, I'll Come Say Hello, CASSIAN, and Hybern) because they are longer scenes, but these are some small and medium sized moments.

When Cassian can't stop staring at Human Nesta:

Cassian was sizing up Nesta, a gleam in his eyes that I could only interpret as a warrior finding himself faced with a new, interesting opponent.

...

Nesta didn’t bat an eyelash as she studied the handsome features, the muscled torso. Then turned to me. Dismissing him entirely.

Cassian’s face went almost feral. A wolf who had been circling a doe … only to find a mountain cat wearing its hide instead.

...

Rhys gave me a warning look. I gripped Nesta’s arm, drawing her attention to me. “Can we just … start over?”

I could almost taste her pride roiling in her veins, barking to not back down.

Cassian, damn him, gave her a taunting grin.

But Nesta merely hissed, “Fine.” And went back to eating.

Cassian watched every bite she took, every bob of her throat as she swallowed.

...

“That’s very beautiful,” she said. “Is it not—frightening, though? To fly so high?”

“It is sometimes,” Azriel said. Cassian tore his relentless attention from Nesta long enough to nod his agreement.

When Nesta gives Cassian the finger:

He’d given Nesta a mocking bow, and she’d given him a vulgar gesture I hadn’t realized she knew how to make.

Cassian had merely laughed, his eyes snaking over Nesta’s ice-blue gown with a predatory intent that, given her hiss of rage, he knew would set her spitting. Then he was gone, leaving my sister on the broad doorstep, her brown-gold hair ruffled by the chill wind stirred by his mighty wings.

When Cassian comes back from Wings & Embers:

I assumed seeing Nesta went about as poorly as could be imagined, because my lesson the following morning was longer and harder than it’d been in previous days. I’d asked what, exactly, Nesta had said to him to get under his skin so easily. But Cassian had only snarled and told me to mind my own business, and that my family was full of bossy, know-it-all females.

When Cassian declares he'll defend the humans (ACOMAF version)

His voice was rough as he said, “Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike, bled beside them. I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.”

I watched a tear slide down Nesta’s cheek. And I watched as Cassian reached up a hand to wipe it away. She did not flinch from his touch.

When Feyre notices the mating bond:

When I looked ahead, I found Cassian staring back at Nesta as well.

I wondered why no one had yet mentioned what now shone in Cassian’s eyes as he gazed at my sister.

The sorrow. And the longing.

When Cassian tells Nesta exactly what is going to happen to Briallyn:

“You come between a male and his mate, Nesta Archeron, and you’re going to learn about the consequences the hard way.”

When Cassian speaks of his own intentions:

I blew out a breath. “Who else thinks it’s a terrible idea to leave the three of them up at the House of Wind?”

Cassian raised his hand as Rhys and Mor chuckled. The High Lord’s general said, “I give him an hour before he tries to see her.”

...

Cassian’s hazel eyes shuttered as he crossed a booted ankle over another, stretching his muscled legs before him. “I go up there every other day. It’s good exercise for my wings.” Those wings shifted in emphasis. Not a scratch marred them.

When Cassian wants revenge:

Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she was trying her best not to say anything. Azriel was trying his best to shoot a warning stare at Mor to remind her to indeed keep her mouth shut. As if they’d already discussed this. Many times.

“I don’t blame her,” Cassian said, shrugging despite his words. “She was—violated. Her body stopped belonging wholly to her.” His jaw clenched. Even Amren didn’t dare say anything. “And I am going to peel the King of Hybern’s skin off his bones the next time I see him.”

His Siphons flickered in answer.

Rhys said casually, “I’m sure the king will thoroughly enjoy the experience.”

Cassian glowered. “I mean it.”

When Cassian realizes how beautiful his mate is:

Yes, devastating was a good word for how lovely she’d become as High Fae. And in a long-sleeved, dark blue gown that clung to her curves before falling gracefully to the ground in a spill of fabric …

Cassian looked like someone had punched him in the gut.

When Cassian got out of an uncomfortable situation:

Mor blinked, but confided to me with a wince, “I think we’re going to need a lot more wine.”

Nesta’s spine stiffened. But she said nothing.

“I’ll raid the collection,” Cassian offered, disappearing through the inner hall doors too quickly to be casual.

Nesta stiffened a bit more.

When Nesta wants revenge

“Were they made immortal?” This question went to Azriel.

Azriel’s Siphons smoldered. “Reports have been murky and inconsistent. Some say yes, others say no.”

Nesta examined her wineglass.

Cassian braced his forearms on the table. “Why?”

Nesta’s eyes shot right to his face. She spoke quietly to me, to all of us, even as she held Cassian’s gaze as if he were the only one in the room. “By the end of this war, I want them dead. The king, the queens—all of them. Promise me you’ll kill them all, and I’ll help you patch up the wall. I’ll train with her”—a jerk of her chin to Amren—“I’ll go to the Hewn City or whatever it is … I’ll do it. But only if you promise me that.”

When Cassian is mad at Feyre and lies:

I studied him, the wings tucked in tight, the shoulder-length dark hair. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He stalked past me to the ring.

“Is it Nesta?”

“Not everything in my life is about your sister, you know.”

I kept my mouth shut on that front.

When Nesta shows up to training:

Something drew Cassian’s attention behind me. And even as his body remained casual, a predatory gleam flickered in his eyes.

I didn’t need to turn to know who was standing there.

“Care to join?” Cassian purred.

Nesta said, “It doesn’t look like you’re exercising anything other than your mouths.”

I looked over my shoulder. My sister was in a dress of pale blue that turned her skin golden, her hair swept up, her back a stiff column. I scrambled to say something, to apologize, but … not in front of him. She wouldn’t want this conversation in front of Cassian.

Cassian extended a wrapped hand, his fingers curling in a come-hither motion. “Scared?”

I wisely kept my mouth shut as Nesta stepped from the open doorway into the blinding light of the courtyard. “Why should I be scared of an oversized bat who likes to throw temper tantrums?”

...

Cassian was saying to Nesta, “Seems like you’re a little on edge, Nesta. And you left so abruptly last night … Any way I can help ease that tension?”

When Cassian has manners: (and realizes his mate may never fly)

Mercifully, or perhaps not, Nesta’s retching filled the silence. Cassian gaped at Rhys. “What did you do?”

“I asked him the same thing,” I said, crossing my arms. “He said he ‘went fast.’ ”

Nesta vomited again—then silence.

Cassian sighed at the ceiling. “She’ll never fly again.”

The doorknob twisted, and we tried—or at least Cassian and I did—not to seem like we’d been listening to her. Nesta’s face was still greenish-pale, but … Her eyes burned.

When Cassian helps her calm down:

There was no way of describing that burning—and even painting it might have failed.

Her eyes remained the same blue-gray as my own. And yet … Molten ore was all I could think of. Quicksilver set aflame.

She advanced a step toward us. All her attention fixed on Rhys.

Cassian casually stepped in her path, wings folded in tight. Feet braced apart on the carpet. A fighting stance—casual, but … his Siphons glimmered.

“Do you know,” Cassian drawled to her, “that the last time I got into a brawl in this house, I was kicked out for a month?”

Nesta’s burning gaze slid to him, still outraged—but hinted with incredulity.

He just went on, “It was Amren’s fault, of course, but no one believed me. And no one dared banish her.”

She blinked slowly.

But the burning, molten gaze became mortal. Or as mortal as one of us could be.

When he calls her "Nes" for the first time:

Both males went a bit still. But Azriel sketched a bow—while Cassian stalked for the dining table, reached right over Nesta’s shoulder, and grabbed a muffin from its little basket. “Morning, Nesta,” he said around a mouth of blueberry-lemon. “Elain.”

---

Cassian finished the muffin, licking his fingers. I could have sworn Nesta watched the entire thing with a sidelong glance. He grinned at her as if he knew it, too. “Ready for some flying, Nes?”

“Don’t call me that.”

The wrong thing to say, from the way Cassian’s eyes lit up.

When she flies with him for the first time:

My sister’s face was wind-flushed as Cassian gently set her down. Then she strode for the glass doors without a single look back.

“You’re welcome,” Cassian called after her, more than a bite to his voice. His hands clenched and slackened at his sides—as if he were trying to loosen the feel of her from his palms.

When he rescues her and can't hide his disappointment the she didn't hug him:

He said nothing as Nesta launched herself toward him, her dress filthy and disheveled, her arms stretching for him. He opened his own for her, unable to stop his approach, his reaching— She gripped his leathers instead.

...

Cassian only stretched out an arm for her. As if in a trance, she walked right to his side. His arms tightened around both of us, Siphons flaring, gilding the darkness with bloodred light.

When Nesta is recovering from the library attack and he's an attentive mate:

Nesta looked like she was going to be sick. Cassian wordlessly refilled her glass.

When he's protective and we find out about their height difference

Cassian was staring at Nesta—hard enough that my sister at last twisted toward him. Met his gaze. His head tilted—slightly. A silent order.

Nesta, to my shock, obeyed. Drifted over to Cassian’s side as Amren replied to Rhys, “No.”

...

Cassian casually slid Nesta behind him, his fingers snagging in the skirts of her black gown. As if to reassure himself that she wasn’t in Amren’s direct path. Nesta only rose onto her toes to peer over his shoulder.

When Cassian still isn't back from Adriata:

Nesta was waiting at the breakfast table the next morning. Not for me, I realized as her gaze slipped over me as if I were no more than a servant. But for someone else. I kept my mouth shut, not bothering to tell her Cassian was still up at the war-camps. If she wouldn’t ask … I wasn’t getting in the middle of it.

When Cassian is proud of Nesta:

“I would.” Nesta surveyed us all, her gaze jumping past Cassian. Not to slight him, but … avoid answering the look he was giving her. Approval—more. “It was some distant thing,” she said. “War. Battle. It … it’s not anymore. I will help, if I can. If it means … telling them what happened.”

When Nesta defends Cassian for the first time:

Beron only sneered. “I don’t take orders from the bastards of lesser fae whores.”

...

“That bastard,” Nesta said with utter coolness, though her eyes began to burn, “may wind up being the only person standing in the way of Hybern’s forces and your people.”

She didn’t so much as look at Cassian as she said it. But he stared at her—as if he’d never seen her before.

When Feyre dismissed Nesta but Cassian doesn't:

The door opened, and Cassian stalked in, face grave. The sight of the wings, the Illyrian armor in this opulent, pink-filled room planted itself in my mind, the painting already taking form, as he said, “What’s wrong.”

He studied every inch of her. As if there were nothing and no one else here, anywhere.

But I said, “She senses something is off—says we need to leave right away.”

I waited for the dismissal, but Cassian angled his head. “What, precisely, feels wrong?”

When the Cauldron made Nesta barf and Cassian is an attentive mate

“What’s wrong?” Mor demanded, holding my sister upright as her face contorted in what looked to be—pain. Confusion and pain.

Sweat beaded on Nesta’s brow, though her face went deathly pale. “Something …” The word was cut off by a low groan. She sagged, and Mor caught her fully, scanning Nesta’s face. Cassian was instantly there, his hand at her back, teeth bared at the invisible threat.

“Nesta,” I said, reaching for her.

Nesta seized—then twisted past Cassian to empty her stomach into the reflection pool.

When he touches her forehead:

Cassian stepped in Nesta’s path when she tried to walk past him. Put a tan, callused hand on her forehead. She shook off the touch, but he gripped her wrist, forcing her to meet his stare. “Any one of those human pricks makes a move to hurt you,” he breathed, “and you kill them.”

He wouldn’t be coming—no, he’d be mustering the full might of the Illyrian legions. Azriel would be joining us, though.

Cassian pressed one of his knives into Nesta’s hand. “Ash can kill you now,” he said with lethal quiet as she stared down at the blade. “A scratch can make you queasy enough to be vulnerable. Remember where the exits are in every room, every fence and courtyard—mark them when you go in, and mark how many men are around you. Mark where Rhys and the others are. Don’t forget that you’re stronger and faster. Aim for the soft parts,” he added, folding her fingers around the hilt. “And if someone gets you into a hold …” My sister said nothing as Cassian showed her the sensitive areas on a man. Not just the groin, but the inside of the foot, pinching the thigh, using her elbow like a weapon. When he finished, he stepped back, his hazel eyes churning with some emotion I couldn’t place.

When Nesta watches Cassian in Battle:

Only Nesta strode toward the edge of the tents to watch the battle on the valley floor below. Mor joined her, then me.

Nesta did not flinch at the clash and din of battle. She only stared toward one black-armored figure, leading the lines, his occasional order to push or to hold that flank barking across the battle

...

Cassian was trying. Azriel had lunged into the fray, nothing more than shadows edged in blue light, battling his way toward where Cassian fought, utterly surrounded.

“Mother above,” Nesta said softly. Not in awe. No—no, that was dread in her voice.

...

By the time I strode away, Nesta had already faced the battle once more, rain plastering her hair to her head. Resuming her unending vigil of the general battling on the valley floor below.

When she wraps up his wrist (and when he's an idiot and focuses on Mor)

But Nesta had jolted to her feet, staring at Cassian....But she surveyed his seven Siphons, the dim red stones. And then she said, “You’re hurt.”

Cassian’s face was grim—his eyes glassy. “It’s fine.” Even the words were laced with exhaustion.

But she reached for his arm—his shield arm.

Cassian seemed to hesitate, but offered it to her, tapping the Siphon atop his palm. The armor slid back a fraction over his forearm, revealing—

“You know better than to walk around with an injury,” Rhys said a bit tensely.

“I was busy,” Cassian said, not taking his focus off Nesta as she studied the swollen wrist. How she’d detected it through the armor … She must have read it in his eyes, his stance.

I hadn’t realized she’d been observing the Illyrian general enough to notice his tells.

“And it’ll be fixed by morning,” Cassian added, daring Rhys to say otherwise.

But Nesta’s pale fingers gently probed his golden-brown skin, and he hissed through his teeth.

“How do I fix it?” she asked ...

Cassian slowly sat on the log where she’d been perched a moment before, groaning softly—as if even that movement taxed him. “Icing it usually helps, but wrapping it will just lock it in place long enough for the sprain to repair itself—”

She reached for the basket of bandages she’d been preparing, then for the pitcher at her feet.

I was too tired to do anything other than watch as she washed his wrist, his hand, her own fingers gentle... Cassian seemed too weary to speak as well while she wrapped bandages around his wrist, only grunting to confirm if it was too tight or too loose, if it helped at all. But he watched her—didn’t take his eyes off her face, the brows bunched and lips pursed in concentration.

And when she’d tied it neatly, his wrist wrapped in white, when Nesta made to pull back, Cassian gripped her fingers in his good hand. She lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

Nesta did not yank her hand away. Did not open her mouth for some barbed retort.

She only stared and stared at him, at the breadth of his shoulders, even more powerful in that beautiful black armor, at the strong column of his tan neck above it, his wings. And then at his hazel eyes, still riveted to her face.

Cassian brushed a thumb down the back of her hand. Nesta opened her mouth at last, and I braced myself—

“You’re hurt?”

At the sound of Mor’s voice, Cassian snatched his hand back and pivoted toward Mor with a lazy smile. “Nothing for you to cry over, don’t worry.”

Nesta dragged her stare from his face—down to her now-empty hand, her fingers still curled as if his palm lay there. Cassian didn’t look at Nesta as she rose, snatching up the pitcher, and muttered something about getting more water from inside the tent.

Cassian and Mor fell into their banter, laughing and taunting each other about the battle and the ones ahead.

Nesta didn’t come back out again for some time.

When Cassian almost dies, and she's worried sick, and then she looks him over to make sure he's okay:

Nesta stood by the nearest tent, an empty water bucket between her feet. Her hair a damp mess atop her mud-flecked head. Watching us emerge, grim-faced—

“He’s fine. Healed and awake,” I said quickly.

Nesta’s shoulders sagged a bit.

...

Still coated in mud up to her shins, my sister paused on the other side—away from where Cassian now sat. Looked him over. Her face revealed nothing, yet her hands … I could have sworn a faint tremor rippled through her fingers before she balled them into fists and faced Amren. Cassian watched her for a moment longer before turning his head toward Amren as well.

...

Your sister came immediately when I explained what we needed, Rhys said. I think seeing Cassian hurt convinced her not to pick a fight today.

Or convinced my sister to pick a fight with someone else entirely.

When Nesta Scries: No harm no harm no harm

Nesta still didn’t move. She could not use the bathtub, she’d told me. Because the memories it dragged up—

Cassian said to her, “Nothing can harm you here.” He sucked in a breath, groaning softly, and rose to his feet. Azriel tried to stop him, but Cassian brushed him off and strode for my sister’s side. He braced a hand on the desk when he at last stopped. “Nothing can harm you,” he repeated.

Nesta was still looking at him when she finally shut her eyes. I shifted, and the angle allowed me to see what I hadn’t detected before.

Nesta stood before the map, a fist of bones and stones clenched over it. Cassian remained at her side—his other hand on her lower back.

...

With a gasp, Nesta’s fingers splayed wide, scattering stones and bones over the map. Cassian caught her with an arm around the waist as she swayed. He hissed in pain at the movement. “What the hell—”

When Cassian makes an offer most women would not refuse:

“Eat or bed?” Cassian had asked Nesta, and I honestly couldn’t tell if he’d meant it as some invitation. I debated telling him he was in no shape.

Nesta only said, “Bed.” And there was certainly no invitation in the exhausted reply.

When Elain is taken:

“We’ll get her back,” Cassian rasped from where he perched on the rolled arm of the chaise longue across the small sitting area, watching her carefully...

Nesta lowered her hands, lifting her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, lips thin. “No, you will not.” She pointed to the map on the table. “I saw that army. Its size, who is in it. I saw it, and there is no chance of any of you getting into its heart. Even you,” she added when Cassian opened his mouth again. “Especially not when you’re injured.”

When Cassian declares he'll defend the humans, pt. 2 (ACOWAR)

“Good,” Cassian said, glancing at Nesta. “If I end my life defending those who need it most, then I will consider it a death well spent.

When Cassian was going to say something before the last battle:

Rhys only asked, “How long do you think we have?”

Cassian clenched his jaw, glancing at my sisters. Nesta was watching him keenly; Elain monitored the army from our minor elevation, face white with dread....

Cassian took a step away, but looked back at Nesta. Her face was hard as granite. He opened his mouth, but seemed to decide against whatever he was about to say. My sister said nothing as Cassian shot into the sky with a powerful thrust of his wings. Yet she tracked his flight until he was hardly more than a dark speck.

When they decide to lure away Hybern:

Nesta stared toward that armada, toward our father fighting in it. “Use me. As bait.”

I blinked at the same moment Cassian said, “No.”

...

“He will kill you,” Cassian snarled.

Her hand clenched on his arm. “That’s—that’s where you come in.”

To guard her. Protect her. To lay a trap for the king.

...

Cassian said steadily, “It’s the only shot we have of a diversion. Luring him away from that Cauldron.” His hands tightened on Nesta.

...

But Cassian asked Nesta, “Do you have what you need?”

Nesta nodded. “Amren showed me enough. What to do to rally the power to me.”

And if Amren and I could control the Cauldron between us … That distraction they’d offer …

Nesta looked down to Elain—our sister monitoring the bloodbath ahead. Then to me. She said quietly, “Tell Father—thank you.”

She wrapped her arms tightly around Cassian, those gray-blue eyes bright, then they were gone.

[shhh-no-ones-home]

tantalizing* bucky barnes x reader

+++++++++ Holy shit this is so long (wc: 2011) I'm so sorry 😅 worth it tho 👀

* - Convincing him to let off some steam after a very stressful mission in which he is frustrated and agitated over and in need of some relief. god i havent written smut in so long, i hope its not too bad lmfao

Song: sick from the melt by motionless in white 

tag list: @cynic-spirit +++++++++

"can you calm down?"

i said, venom barely dripping from my tone.

"No! I'm just frustrated. And angry. And pissed off!"

He seethed, pacing in front of me.

"God you need to get laid."

I said annoyed, rolling my eyes. I noticed he had stopped pacing now, looking at me like I was crazy.

"What?"

I asked innocently and he shook his head, continuing to wear a hole into the carpet of our shared hotel room. His bed was still made, his duffle bag sat neatly atop it like he hadn't even touched it since we had arrived.

"I just. God I want to punch his face in. I can't believe I was so stupid."

He lamented and I sighed, sitting back on my hands and crossing one leg over the other.

"I'm telling ya, it's a really good way to let off some steam."

I pointed out but he just kept going.

"Who does he think he is? And don't think I'm ranting, because I'm not. I'm quiet and reserved and-"

"Need to get laid."

I repeated and he sent me a look.

"Okay, what is with you?!"

He asked and I shrugged.

"You have a lot of pent up emotion and I just think it would help. Forgive me for trying to be a real one."

I said and he just stared at me, a darkness to his features.

"I'm not that kind of guy."

He said, moving to pace again and I snorted.

"What?"

He asked irritated and I shook my head.

"Nothing, you keep wearing the carpet down trying to solve the world's problems."

He rolled his eyes at me.

"When you're ready to get some let me know. Either I'll help you get it done or I'll call someone for each of us cause lord knows I could use it too."

I said, pulling my arms out from under me and falling on my back, staring at the popcorn ceiling.

"Did you just offer to get me a call girl?"

He asked and I snorted.

"Call girl. God you are old."

"I don't need a prostitute."

I shrugged, my t-shirt moving and holding against the white sheets folded over on my own bed.

"Maybe you don't but if you don't stop complaining I'm gonna."

I torted back.

"Surely you are not that shallow."

He said and I laughed, sitting up on my elbows.

"You wanna come over here and help a girl out instead? It'd save me a couple hundred."

He sent me a look and I just stared at him.

"I'm being serious."

I said after a minute. When he still didn't say anything or move I stood up, walking to him and staring him down.

"What's it gonna be sergeant Barnes?"

I said lowly, taunting him. I watched as his jaw clenched, staring back down at me like he'd die if he didn't.

"You want it that bad?"

He growled and I could feel a wave of desire wash through my body.

"Dont you?"

I challenged. There was a long pause, making sure we understood each other, before he slammed his lips into mine. In the moment it felt like my brain short circuited, slinging my arms around his neck as he held my hips for dear life. And before I knew it we were fighting for more kisses, the air barely staying in my lungs as his hands roamed my body, tugging at clothes I wish would vanish.

"Just rip it."

I said against his mouth as he tried to undo my bra from under my shirt. It was old and I had brought a back up for the trip so I wasn't that worried about it, I just wanted this to happen.

"This is harder than you'd think, not being able to actually feel it."

He said. And just as it clicked what he meant it didn't matter. In a second my shirt was over my head and he was tearing the front of my bra open like an animal. He groaned as he came back to kiss me, finally trailing down my neck as he undid my pants, moving long enough for me to get rid of his shirt too. What I wasn't ready for was, once naked, he picked me up and tossed me onto the bed, kicking off his own bottoms and crawling up between my legs.

"God I want this so bad."

He said a little breathlessly, kissing down my chest, his hands roaming my thighs.

"I need you."

I whined, my fingers pressing hard into his shoulder blade as he went further and further down my body.

"Beautiful."

He said, kissing the inside of my thigh, hoisting my leg onto his shoulder as he sucked a hickey into it.

"Bucky."

I moaned, closing my eyes as he leaned down, getting closer and closer to my core.

"Use your words gorgeous."

He sang, his hot breath sending a shiver down my spine.

"Just fuck me."

I sighed out, digging my head into the mattress as he licked a stripe up my folds. Needless to say I wasn't ready for what he had to offer, his tongue pressing figure eights against my clit as he brought his hand up to tease me. It was soft touches for a moment but then it was two fingers, pumping in and out of me slowly. When he moved to suck my clit instead i gripped the sheets tightly with one hand, the other going to the back of his head as I panted.

"Please. Bucky."

I sighed out, scratching the back of his head. When he slowed his hand I couldn't help pushing my hips further into his face. my mouth dropped open when he added a third finger, pumping quickly until I felt butterflies in the pit of my stomach.

"Jesus Christ!"

I yelled, him curling his fingers up and making my legs quiver against him as I came hard. I breathed heavily while he licked me clean, making me seize every time his tongue ran over my clit again. When he was done I pulled him to me, slamming my lips against his and kissing him hungrily.

"How was that?"

He asked and I nodded against him, placing open mouthed kissed along his jaw.

"Otherworldly."

He just smirked at me.

"That's good, cause I'm not done yet."

He said and I sent him a worried look.

"Don't worry, it's nothing you can't handle."

He reassured. I couldn't think straight so I settled on nodding, tracing my fingers down his torso. As I reached his erection I touched it gently, watching it jump before I grabbed it and pumped him a few times. He moaned loudly, closing his eyes as I swirled my thumb around his tip, smearing his precum across it. He half opened his eyes to watch me but as I went to go down on him he stopped me.

"No, I want to be inside you."

He said darkly, pulling me into his lap instead. I looked down at him with lust filled eyes as he began kissing across my chest, taking one of my nipples into his mouth and biting it. I moaned at the sensation, bucking my hips against him. As his mouth moved he pulled me closer, helping me line up above him and pushing my hips down. We both moaned at the feeling, him dropping his head back as I sat back up and sank back down onto him.

"Y/n."

He groaned, pressing his finger tips into my hips as I began riding him. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced. He guided me more than anything though, holding me so firmly I was sure there would be bruises later. But God it felt so good I didn't even care. I just wanted to be closer to him.

"Switch?"

I asked and he looked almost nervous.

"I don't want to break you."

He said, his brows knitted together and I laughed.

"Please do."

He sent me a look as I sank back down onto him. He moved to place one hand at my back and flipped us over, making me gasp as he managed to bury himself ever further in me.

"Bucky."

I moaned, him pushing the hair out of my face as he began pounding into me. It was so hard the bed was beginning to creak, the headboard now hitting back and forth into the wall. It was now the more prominent sound in the room, overtaking the sound of skin on skin or breathing or even the soft moans escaping his lips as he bit and sucked at my neck. I couldn't help the whine that made it's way through my body as I pressed my nails into his back.

He was fucking me so hard I was sure the bed would break, but so far it was holding up pretty well. He grunted harshly, pressing his fingers down between us and circling my clit a few times. I closed my eyes at the sensation, letting out breathy moans as he continued to take all his frustrations out on me. As he got faster though I got worried and suddenly I had spoken too soon. The next thing I knew the legs at the foot of the bed snapped, the two at the head following shortly after, making me scream in surprise. He looked at me with a worried expression until I shrugged, pressing my hips up against him and urging him to keep going. He just laughed a little and kissed me, slamming into me again. And with that I was done for.

"Bucky!!"

I screamed, feeling another rush of pleasure flood my body. But he kept going.

"So close."

He managed, tilting his head up and squeezing his eyes shut. He pushed into me a few more times before his mouth dropped, a deep moan escaping him as he came hard into me. He stayed there for a second, breathing deeply until he opened his eyes, pushing into me one, two, three more times before pulling out. I felt so empty as he rolled onto the bed beside me, it squeaking at the weight shift. I just laid there, staring at the ceiling, feeling his hot cum drip out of me and onto the sheets.

"I guess you were right."

He said after a long pause, taking my hand in his and bringing it up to kiss the back of it. I turned my head to look at him and he sent me a lazy smile.

"I don't think anything in my life could have ever prepared me for that."

I said seriously before cracking a smile and laughing, rolling over and him bringing me into his side.

"Are you okay though? Sometimes I don't know my own strength. I mean you weren't protesting during, but still. id feel bad if i hurt you."

He said and I kissed his chest lightly.

"Oh, don't worry about me. I think that's the best sex I've ever had. If I can't walk later it was totally worth it."

He laughed, kissing the top of my head. then he froze, his body tensing against me as he looked down at me.

"shit. I didn't even think about a condom. Do we need to go get something... Or?"

I looked up at him, blinking slowly, the tiredness hitting me like a train.

"We can go get a plan B pill when we leave in the morning. Right now I think we deserve a nap."

i said through a yawn. He smiled at me and nodded, watching my eyes flutter shut. I hummed as he pulled one of the blankets up over me, kissing my temple lightly.

"Sounds like a plan to me."

[cherrywoes]

liar's dice. (gojo x f!reader)

title: liar's dice.

pairing: gojo x f!reader

rating: nsfw (18+)

a/n: nie! i did my best! i hope you like it! <3 i struggled a bit but i think it turned out okay. :) @sixeyesgojo

GOJO NEVER STAYED—not like he was now, indulgently tracing tiny little circles over your abdomen. Circles that turned into letters that turned into numbers that turned into words that turned into phrases; ones you couldn’t read, because he was perceptive, and ones you could only guess at the meaning of. He was tender, soft, casual where he normally wasn’t; bruises littered your throat and body as proof, rough imprints of his fingers into your soft skin, livid and visible, deep from the force. Not even your legs had escaped his destruction, teeth marks and the crescent indents of fingernails in your calves, your knees carpet burned to hell, and your scalp aching pleasantly from where he had wrapped those long fingers in the hair at the base of your neck and pulled, the agony oh so pleasant. He never paused to give you a tender embrace, like he was now, nor did he ever stop to lie with you and bask in the afterglow that you usually experienced alone. You didn’t think he knew the gentleness he was showing you, not with the way your jaw still ached and your core throbbed to the point of unpleasantness.

“What’s changed?” you asked him quietly, voice hoarse and cracking from overuse. You didn’t dare turn your head to look at him, wary to catch those gorgeous blue eyes filled with emotion—or anything at all that wasn’t pure lust. You weren’t sure if you could handle that. “Why are you staying?”

His fingers followed a sinuous path over your hip bone. “Is it bad of me to want to stay with you, [Name]?”

Not [Name]-chan, [Name]-san, or even [Surname]—just… [Name]. It sounded so strange, so wonderfully odd coming out of his mouth without an honorific. You twisted in his grip, sitting up, the sheet you’d thrown over yourself falling to your hips. Gojo’s fingers fell to your thigh, questing, and squeezed your knee in inquiry; once, twice, thrice, a queue he hadn’t used since you’d first started hooking up with him. A queue to feel you out, gauge your emotions when you couldn’t speak.

Cautiously, you reached down and covered his hand with yours, lips twisting, working out the right way to tell him that you didn’t trust this.

“Yes.” Your [color] eyes, red and swollen from tears of ecstasy and overstimulation, darted to him, something fierce and angry within. “Yes, it is bad—because you never stay, Gojo. You always leave and it’s cruel of you to stay, knowing that you’ll leave anyway for someone else—that I can never be good enough for you, not completely, because you go to others! And yes, I know it’s shitty of me to back out on an agreement I proposed, but I—if you do this, I can’t deal with it anymore. I just can’t. Lingering, staying, making me think you might have a smidge of something in that heart of yours for me, and just crushing me when I realize you never felt anything at all. That I’m a convenience when you want to get your dick wet.”

Tears, hot and stinging, welled up in your eyes unbidden and you brushed them away with a harsh stroke of your hand. Your mouth quivered and a knot formed in your throat; your lungs constricted; your chest felt heavy. You wanted to take an inhale, but you knew it would only produce a choked up sob, so you smothered it as far down as it would go, pressing your lips together so hard between your teeth that you knew they had to be bleeding.

“Oh.”

You scoffed, feeling a bead of blood dribble down your chin when your lips parted. “‘Oh’ is right.”

Unable to bear his touch, the firm hand on your knee, you swung your legs over the edge of your bed and ripped the sheet off of your body. You trembled, but you didn’t fall, the muscles in your legs reliable after a moment’s rest. Not waiting to see if he reached out to you, you slung on a vintage silk robe you’d picked up at an estate sale, tying it into a hasty knot around your waist. You didn’t want him seeing you naked again, so vulnerable after that confession, even though he had seen you nude beneath him just half an hour ago, writhing in the throes of your orgasm. You felt that if he said the words to break your heart, you might just shatter to his feet.

Your balcony had a perfect view of the city, and you used it to your advantage, picking out the silhouettes of those still awake even in the early hours, walking past the windows, either on the phone or cleaning. You tried and failed to swallow the knot in your throat as sheets rustled behind you and Gojo stepped behind you, never touching but hovering, his very aura an oppressive presence crawling over your skin. You were tempted to press yourself against the tempered glass to get away from it.

“I can’t lose you, [Name].” His fingers touched the back of your elbow gently, testing. When you didn’t pull away like he expected, he carefully slid his palms up to your shoulders, following the subtle curve of your collarbone. You closed your eyes, squeezed them tight, as his fingers moved over your pulse and rested there. “I realized it a few days ago, because in every girl I slept with, I looked for you in them. It also probably didn’t help I said your name instead of theirs, but… Besides the point! I’m not leaving you, [Name]. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“Right.” You gently wormed out of his grip and stepped around him. The truth of the matter was, you didn’t believe him—not one bit. Not with how he was. To be so flippant, so ridiculous about something so serious to you… It was like him. But you didn’t appreciate it. You padded towards the kitchen, reaching for the doorknob to escape the confined space you both stood in. You twisted, hearing the click of the lock. “Whatever you say, Gojo—”

You were ripped away from the doorknob so quickly you had whiplash. Your mind spun as you were pressed against a wall opposite your bed, quite harshly, the back of your neck and shoulderblades digging into hardened plaster. Gojo placed a hand beside your head, the other palm pressed flat against your stomach, pinning you to the wall with nowhere to go. You knew what he was capable of; you had even witnessed in on one occasion when you were stupid enough to get too close to a curse.

“I’m not lying.” His breath crested over your face and throat, a warm wave as he exhaled. “[Name]... You have to believe me.”

“I believe you.” Your eyes narrowed dangerously. You were tempted to punch him, kick him, something to get him to stop pinning you down like this. “The fact is I don’t trust you, Gojo. You’ve given me no proof—”

A kiss, harsh and splitting your lips more than they had been, blood smearing across your mouth, silenced the growing argument brewing in your lungs. You felt him swipe his tongue over the laceration when he tasted blood, pulling his head back and regarding you with pleading eyes.

“You’ve never given me a chance to try,” he whispered, reaching over and wiping a bead of blood from your bottom lip. You allowed him to do so, resisting the urge to bite down and sink your teeth into his skin for causing you so much heartache. He’d probably enjoy it, knowing him as you did. “Let me try.”

He was unraveling your robe tie before you could say no, pushing the silk off of your shoulders. It slipped down your arms and body and puddled at your feet, leaving you feeling raw, exposed, and vulnerable in a way you had never felt before. He had cut a lamp on somehow, exposing the flaws of your body and skin to him even more prominently, even the wicked bruises and bites he had left on you—you immediately went to sweep the robe back into your arms, but he stopped you, knocking your arm away.

“Stop fighting it,” Gojo advised, slowly settling down to his knees. You watched the muscles in his legs and abdomen twitch and quiver, balancing his weight out, and the peculiar way he almost seemed reverent as he knelt at your feet, palm sliding up from your belly to grip your chin, forcing you to look down at him like an indolent god. “Let. Me. Try.”

The words shriveled up and died in your throat as he lifted your leg over his shoulder, pushing the rest of your weight against the wall, and pressed his lips to your thigh, feeling out the pulse there with his mouth. You flushed fresh with heat, new coils winding around in your abdomen despite your anger, and watched as he trailed his lips up your leg towards the apex of your thighs, never breaking eye contact with you.

He waited for you to stop him, breath cresting over your swollen lips, but you never did.

Your hands came down into his hair, already mused and messy, as his tongue slid across abused flesh. Slow and with no immediate goal in mind, he enclosed his mouth over the slick folds already growing wet for him, and gave gentle nips and licks to already sensitive and overused flesh. Each time he passed over a tiny bruise, your breath hitched, and he moved on, fingers pushing up and spreading you apart for his pleasure. You felt a well of embarrassment come up as he admired you in the light of the tiny lamp by your bed, but before you could manage a biting quip, he was pushing his tongue between his fingers and sucking your clit into his mouth. Tired and wrung out, you could barely produce more than a breathy moan, but for Gojo, that was perfect—he moved his fingers in perfect strokes to accommodate the harsh attention he gave your clit, feeling the muscles inside your pussy clench around air as you grew closer and closer to your peak. He could pick up on the little halts in your breath, the way you tensed and froze up, hips pushing against his face, and before you could release on his tongue, he parted from you, a string of spit and your wetness webbing between you.

“Gojo,” you hissed, watching him rise from his knees and hook a hand behind your head, supporting your neck. He was always like this, teasing you; but something felt different, something had… changed. “Why’d you do that?”

“I wanted to.” He pressed a kiss to your mouth and you were helpless but to return it, tasting yourself on his tongue. “Legs up, [Name].”

[Name] again—no variation. You were a lost cause, complying easily, sliding your legs up and around his hips. His length pressed against you, hard and leaking already, as he pushed you further into the wall until he was flush against you, staring into your eyes as if he could drown in them.

“Gojo,” you whispered, partly a whine, tightening your legs and simultaneously grinding your pussy against the length of his shaft, hot white heat jumping up your belly at the sensation. “Please…”

He reached down and, in one smooth motion, entered you at your plea. You moaned at the stretch, fingers digging into his shoulders, and he was torturous as he set a slow pace, intentionally hitting every spot you could think of with each stroke; you could feel another orgasm building behind your navel, faster than you had ever had before, and you wanted to close your eyes, but found yourself mesmerised by his instead, the blue jewels riveted upon your face in fascinated observation.

You realized, belatedly, that you could actually see how he looked at you in the dark because the lights were on. And he could see you, in full form—and somehow, not even your orgasm could rip the intense focus between you apart, though you tried, your exhaustion catching up with you.

“You’re not leaving,” you affirmed, barely a whisper.

“I’m not,” he affirmed.

And so, from then on—he stayed. Just like he promised.

[marsbutterfly]

The Infected

Chapter 4: Dear Mom and Dad

AO3 Version! | Wattpad Version!

← Chapter 3 | Chapter 5 →

Word Count: 2.6K

At Your Parents’ House

Blood. On the walls, on the floor, on the ceiling. Redness covers the white paint of the living room walls as bloody footsteps form a path to the kitchen. Your father is slumped over with his head propped on the marble counter, a shotgun by his side. 

As you take a step backwards, you now notice your mother’s body laying on the carpeted stairs. Her veins are popping out of her face and her eyes are cloudy. Upon taking a closer look, you notice the bullet hole on the side of her head.

Your hand trembles as you place it before your mouth, shoving down a scream. The smell of blood and brain matter has filled your house and you hold back a gag. 

Quickly, Levi wraps his arms around you and physically turns your body so that you’re facing away from the carnage. Once he places you down, his hand carefully rests on your back as he tries to give you some kind of comfort.

“I’ll go look, ok?” He says and you simply nod. From behind, you can hear as the soles of his shoes begin to fill with liquid as each step he takes squeaks. He quietly nods at Erwin who puts a still-unconscious Hanji on the couch before making his way past you.

They whisper to each other so you won’t hear them as they now walk from the kitchen to the hall, carefully examining your mother’s body from afar. You decide to take the opportunity to get a closer look at your father.

You touch his head, which is matted with blood, and push his hair aside in search of a bullet hole. As soon as you realize there isn’t one, his hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you closer to him and all you can do is scream while trying to set your arm free.

His skin is so pale that it seems like all his blood is drained. His mouth hangs open while saliva drips onto your arm, his once caring eyes now filled with an insatiable need to take a bite out of your flesh.

Your feet slip on the mixture of blood and saliva beneath him and you fall, pulling him with you. It takes every ounce of your remaining strength to push him off of you and push his head off to the side in the hopes of keeping his mouth away.

Not five seconds pass before Levi rushes back into the room, pulling a knife out of his pocket and stabbing the man right in the head, a few splatters of blood landing on your face.

With a kick, he frees you from your father’s grip and extends his hand to help you back on your feet.

No tears form in your eyes, and instead you burst into laughter. Both men look at you with concern in their eyes. 

“My dad just tried to kill me!” You cackle, as if it was the funniest thing anyone has ever said. “I’m his baby and he tried to KILL ME!”

Your body slumps forward and you place your hands on your knees, trying to balance yourself as you keep on laughing. You laugh until your lungs and stomach hurt, until you’ve been laughing for so long that you forget for a second why you were laughing at all.

You laugh until you fall to your knees, punching the floor before Erwin and Levi wrap their arms around you, pressing you in between their bodies. The laughter dies in your throat and you close your eyes, hoping to smell your mother’s cooking instead of blood.

“I’m fine.” You whisper after a few minutes.

“You’re not and that’s ok.” Erwin says, a caring tone in his voice. “Why don’t you sit on the couch with Hanji while we get things ready?”

“No, I want to help.” You say, pushing your arms up and releasing yourself from their grip. “There are a few backpacks in the closet down that hall.”

“Alright, how about we separate and go through the house faster so we can leave soon?” Levi suggests and Erwin nods in agreement.

“Levi, go through every room and get all the medicine and medical supplies you see. I’ll go see if I can find anything useful, like a map or something and Y/N, get us as much food as you can.”

You begin the search, looking around the kitchen and pantry, you realize they are fully stocked and you start thinking about all the times your mother took you to get groceries, letting you choose one treat every time.

Nearly every bit of food in the house is in cans: fruit, protein, snacks. In the fridge, you find a frozen cheese lasagna. You ponder for a second if you should cook it or leave it, not wanting to let it go to waste. But as you try and pick it up, you realize that you don’t have the space for it. 

Suddenly, you remember something, and rush towards the stairs after leaping over the pool of blood on the floor. 

“Erwin?” You yell and his head pops up quickly. “There is a safe in my mom’s office.”

“Is it in the locked cabinet on her desk?” He asks and you nod.

“The key is behind the calendar taped to the wall. The combination to the safe is my birthday.” You respond. 

A puzzled look takes over his face and he shifts awkwardly. You gasp in mock offense, placing your right hand above your heart. “You don’t know when my birthday is?!”

“I forgot, I’m sorry!” He panics and you flash him a smile, letting him know it’s not a big deal. 

“My birthday is...” You begin, but a quiet voice finishes your sentence. 

“...month/year.” 

You turn around to see Hanji sitting up, awake. Heavy tears flow down her face and her nose is now a bright shade of red.

“That’s Y/N’s birthday.” She says and you open your arms, inviting her in for a hug. She doesn’t waste any time and rushes to your arms, burying her face in the crook of your neck as she muffles her hiccups. 

When you look up, you notice Erwin is already gone. You try to push Hanji away, hoping to look at her face but her grip around you tightens, unabling you to move at all. So you stay that way until she’s ready.

She finally pulls herself away and frowns her brows in confusion, tilting her head to the side while pointing to an area behind you. “What’s that on the floor?”

You look behind you only to find a piece of paper and, even from afar, you recognize your mother’s handwriting. While grabbing the paper, you can notice some of the ink is smudged by  teardrops.

Not being able to bring yourself to look, you hand it to Hanji, who begins to read it outloud.

“Y/N, If you’re reading this, it means I ran out of time. I emailed every radio and tv station I could find but nobody believed me.

A few years ago, me and a few other scientists developed a virus that could cure terminal diseases such as AIDS and Huntington’s, and at first everything was going ok, until it wasn’t anymore.

The patients started dying a week after getting the first injection but they didn’t stay dead for long. They came back as monsters and we did everything in our power to cover it all up. No one could know what happened other than us.

A month ago, the virus was getting studied again in the hopes that it would be more effective as a gas and we were able to change its state, but the results remained the same. We couldn’t figure out what was wrong or what was bringing them back.

Last week, an unauthorized person pulled the virus out of its protective capsule, breaking the container it was in and setting it free. When I noticed what had happened, it was too late. Several people had already left the building and the spreading process had already begun.

It left through the vents and I couldn’t do anything about it. I’m so sorry I failed as a scientist and as your mother.

At the lab, there is a map with the coordinates of a safe place I put together for you. Find it and survive.

You were my biggest creation and I am so p…” 

Hanji stops and her voice dies in her throat. “It ends there.”

The state of shock has finally dissipated from your body and tears begin to flow down your face. It finally hits you that your parents are dead, Moblit is dead, life as you know it has ended. 

You think about your classmates who simply went out to celebrate the night before, who invited you to join them but you had practice early the next day so you said no. The classmates who always tried to make your classes more tolerable. 

They are a mess of rotten flesh and blood, salivating as they stare at a living human being. Their cloudy eyes show no sign of life and yet, they are walking through the city, desperately trying to fill up the hole where their souls used to be.

Hanji presses her lips on your forehead, “A positivity seed has been planted in you.”

You smile through the tears and, in response to her caring gesture, you whisper the words “I love you” barely audible but enough for her to understand you. 

Her thumb brushes against your wet cheeks, wiping away the tears. She holds your face in her hands, stars in her eyes as she looks at you and your heart skips a beat. 

“I’m sorry about your family.” She says, a sad smile on her face. 

“I still have you.” You respond, tenderly grasping her wrists. “And Commander Dumbass and Captain Bitch, I still have a family.”

“Even if it’s incomplete...” Hanji sighs, trying to avert your gaze and you nod.

“I’m sorry about Moblit.” You say and she pulls her lips in and shuts her eyes, trying her hardest to hold back the tears. 

“You were right for not letting me go back.” She says, “That doesn’t mean I have to be ok with it.”

Carefully, you examine the living room, looking for a specific object. Hanji’s hands let go of you and you rush up the stairs, the brunette following closely behind.

When you rush into the office, you’re received by a very surprised Erwin, who clearly did not expect you to enter the room.

On the wall, nearly touching the ceiling, is a small vent. You pull the desk, dropping everything to the floor before climbing it.

“Ok, you’ve officially lost your shit!” Erwin says, rushing towards the other side of the table, ready to catch you in case you fall.

“I haven’t.” You say, opening up the compartiment and pulling out a small, wooden box, “A month ago, I came to visit and I made a small memory box.”

The blonde man picks you up by the legs, making sure not to hit your head on the fan before placing you down. You smile at him in return before handing the box to Hanji.

When she opens it, a picture of the five of you rests above everything else and tears fill her eyes yet again but this time a smile sprouts on her lips. 

Quickly shutting it close, she holds the box in one hand while the other pulls you in for a hug, “Thank you.” She says as she shoves the chest in her bag.

“So I just realized something.” Levi says as he enters the room, a knife in hand as he polishes it. All eyes are now on him. “If the virus is a gas, then…”

“How have we not transformed?” Hanji completes his sentence and he nods.

“Maybe we’re immune?” Erwin suggests while putting the gun in the back of his pants, his pockets filled to the brim with ammunition. 

“Look, whatever the case is we can talk about it when we get out of here.” Hanji says and you all agree.

Levi’s bag is filled with bandages, medicine and rubbing alcohol. He somehow manages to add a tissue box and some basic cleaning supplies in there too, ready to sterilize a space in case someone needs stitches. He flips one of the sharp kitchen knives around for fun.

Erwin is carrying basic hygiene items, such as toilet paper, toothbrushes and soap. Alongside a second gun and more ammunition, he also has a map, pens and paper. He is left with a decent amount of space left in his bag, so he places a few water bottles inside.

Hanji shuffles through the closets of the house, grabbing a few coats and other clothing items. She shoves a few boxes of matches in her pockets and some batteries, then hooking a couple of pots on the zippers of her bag. The wooden box hidden underneath everything.

Your bag has food: an insane amount of canned goods and protein snacks, and then decide to add a bottle of vodka. You quietly thank your mom for helping you. You take your dad’s shotgun, much to Erwin’s excitement and a few more water bottles.

“We should take my dad’s car.” You say, looking for your keys so you could lock the door behind you but when Hanji reaches for your hand, you are reminded you don’t have to. “The one we brought here is in bad shape after running over the… creatures.”

“What car does he have?” Levi asks, opening the door to the garage.

“A minivan.” You reply and Erwin’s eyes go wide with excitement. He rushes past the black haired man, pulling the key out of his hand.

“DIBS!” Is all Erwin says and you can’t help but laugh. 

On top of everything, you grab a few tools from the workbench and four sleeping bags from the closet in the garage. Your heart aches once you notice the thick layer of dust coating them and you wish you had come home to visit more often.

Levi sits on the passenger’s seat, looking at a map handed to him by Erwin, who is too busy adjusting his seat to pay attention to the paper.

in the back seat, Hanji’s body is pressed against the window as her knee touches yours. Your eyes have been focused on the carpeted floor ever since you got in the car. 

Her hand wraps around yours but you don’t move an inch. Once she realizes you will not look at her, she brings her lips closer to your ear, “Lay your head on my lap.”

You nod, pulling your legs together before placing your face on her thighs. As you close your eyes, you feel the warmth of a jacket covering your torso and you smirk in response, Hanji’s hand moves up and down your arm, trying to keep you warm.

Clipped to the sun visor was the remote to open the garage door. You hear the loud noise it makes in the process and your limbs tighten until it becomes muffled and you realize Hanji is covering your ear with the palm of her hand.

As Erwin pulls out of the garage, you can hear the sounds of dragged footsteps, loud grunting and a car alarm in the distance. You begin to think to yourself.

“Thank you mom, for always looking after me and getting us enough supplies to go through the beginning of this hell. 

Thank you dad, for teaching me how to survive in the wild. Thank you for the life you gave me so far, I’ll make the best out of it.

Thank you.”

[barschter000]

@andy-deer‘s survivor AU makes my head go brrrrrrrrrrr

Also Byakuya is the blackened in this one instead of Toko because...no❤️

Kiyotaka believed that his last words would have meaning and bear some sort of weight that would stop people in their tracks to take a second to think about them, maybe even to remember him, that'd be nice. So naturally, he assumed, his last thoughts should have some impact as well, right?

Kiyotaka's last thought was fear in its purest essence. In such a high concentration that it bit and burned around his wound. His head pounded in the rhythm of his heart, a clump of heat and thuds that he had to balance on his shoulders while his bones were, one by one, in the span of seconds, replaced with toothpicks.

Beat, bite, burn, Taka ran. Blood was trickling down his neck and forehead, warm and slow, heavier than a fluid should be. It ran into his eye and he had no strength to wipe it away, his blurred vision was reduced to only left. One hand on the walls, tracing the tiles, wallpapers, doorframes, rounding the corners, taking the stairs.

Through the pounding, the dull bass against his temples, he tried to focus, tried to see. His sight was proof that he was conscious. Wallpaper, he narrated. A quick, sharp word thrown into the blunt bumps like a hook in a weaving ocean, hoping to catch something, reach someone in the chaos.

Front of me, he continued and the thuds accelerated. Boots, step, step, drip, pink, on the floor, footmarks, swirling, blurring, here, up, raise, shake, go, stairs, downstairs, down, dorms, safety, down to the dorms, someone, help, stairs left, only the stairs left, help, in the dorms, Mondo.

What had been a quiet stream in the depths of the ocean now became the splashing, gurgling and screaming of a drowning man, flailing his arms, pushing himself up on unruly waves, calling out to the silhouette of a ship. Mondo, Mondo, Mondo.

In fear in its purest essence, Kiyotaka thought of Mondo and he thought of him as safety. Which was contradictory.

Just a few days ago, Mondo had stood in a trial, naming himself a murderer. It wasn't far from the truth. He was the cause for death that would have never taken place otherwise. First, his brother, then Chihiro. If he had been a bit more mindful, a bit less reckless, a bit more fearless, maybe Daiya wouldn't have had to kick his bike and take the truck for him. If he had been a tad stronger to let control take over him or a tad stronger to swallow it harder, maybe he would have not picked up that dumbbell. Maybe Chihiro would have not been lying at his feet, bleeding from the head. Maybe if blood and its meaning hadn't scared him so much, he would have noticed that his swing with the dumbbell landed in the air and Chihiro's wound was the result of losing consciousness, as he carried their body to the other locker room.

Kiyotaka had forgotten who Mondo really was or rather, he had never known. Kiyotaka had seen him as a black, then as a white, two clear shades, clearly different. Mondo, the Ultimate Biker Gang Leader as his foe, had been explicitly guilty and as his friend, was overwhelmingly innocent. The Mondo that presented himself in the trial, however, was gray of a shade that already was too dark for ink and too bright for chalk. Kiyotaka couldn't see through him. A hazy puddle of gray; Kiyotaka understood that it was deep but couldn't see a bottom.

Mondo wasn't a murderer. He wasn't the one being executed, that was Byakuya and his plan to confuse the students, hang up Chihiro and bring a killer into the game; the trap of his that shut on himself. Mondo wasn't a murderer per se but he was half a murderer, an accomplice of some sorts. And oddly, greyly, enough, he was Kiyotaka's friend.

Kiyotaka wanted him to promise that he kept it that way, that Mondo and Death split up their paths, that he stayed gray and deep. In this world, where white and black were indivisible, he needed someone by his side to learn.

Mondo promised. Not the usual promise on his honor or on his masculinity, it was a simple promise on silently everything. Even before wrapping his arms around him, Kiyotaka felt safe in his words.

Kiyotaka couldn't hear the doorbell ringing, couldn't detect his finger on it, couldn't recall the order to press it but he hoped that he made an impact on this fragment of the world. Begging for Mondo, for safety, he repeatedly punched the doorbell. His gaze had grown foggy and his field of vision was a swimming dark mass, tinted red from the ominous lighting in the hallway, and from the blood. There was no response, no reassurance from his legs that he was still standing, and his hand started gliding down the doorframe.

A ringing interrupted Mondo's dreamless sleep. The parts where he was trapped in a dark room, being watched by faceless shadows and where he woke up, trapped in a dark room, then realized he was stuck in another, he didn't count as dreams; they were the usual occurences.

Taka, was his first thought. He had gone to his room that night, just to stand there, stare at his nameplate and think of all other things to pay no attention to the reason for his presence there: just company, just for the night. In the end, he called himself stupid, turned around and left. He didn't knock or press the doorbell. Right?

Another ring. And another. Mondo groaned and rubbed his hand over his face. Ringing once again. Yeah, that wasn't Taka. "Who the fuck–?" And once more. He lifted himself out of bed. "I swear, if no one has lost a limb, I'm gonna–" he mumbled to himself, muffling his last words because his brain hadn't completed the sentence yet. His naked feet scuffled on the carpeted floor as he walked over to his door. "Alright." He threw his door open, "What the fu–"

It had never happened before to his awareness: Mondo choked on his words, a second of suffocation.

This was Taka. And he was bleeding. Blood was running down his face. Starting from his hair and dribbling down on his uniform jacket, leaving stains. "Kyoudai?" Taka spoke like his voice was a liquid, spilling out of his mouth. He rung the doorbell one more time. "Kyoudai, I need–" His words drowned away. "Please, I need help."

This was Daiya all over again, Chihiro all over again, dying all over again. Mondo was on the street, in the locker room, at a grave. Honking, lights and screams, metal clanging, the ground vibrating, the weight of a body in his arms.

Mondo came back to life when something hit his legs. Kiyotaka had fallen unconscious and was bleeding on his feet. A hissed curse cut his lips. He bent down, kneeling right into the red pool, the wet and warmth creeping through the fabric of his pants, put an arm around Taka's waist and Taka's arm around his own neck. Taka was heavier than Chihiro, lighter than Daiya, his boots dangled and scraped over the floor, through the pool, and his head was hanging from his frame as if only skin connected them. Red dripped from his hair.

"Fuck." His voice was trembling, light as air but coarse on his vocal cords. Mondo felt his chest rising and falling, his heavy breathing grinding down his ribcage and his lungs. Snot clogged his nose, a sign of tears, and his mouth dried out from breath and salt. He listened to his echo travel down the hallways and a second longer, longing for an answer but there was none. "Fuck!" It rung shrill and shaking.

Mondo stumbled over to the other side of the hallway, dragging weight, dragging a body. His fist battered down next to the first door, missed the doorbell, missed it twice but then its noise stung in his ears. He staggered on, tears were washing over his cheeks, he was leaving drops and bloody footprints.The next door, the third and the fourth. He didn't check the nameplates, didn't ring twice, there was no time and no answers. Kiyotaka was slipping out of his grasp, Mondo gripped his waist and arm anew. He couldn't see a wound, couldn't check how deep it was, only new waves of blood welling from inbetween his hair.

"What happened?" Mondo didn't hear it but felt a gasp grazing his throat. He whirled around and Taka slid again, sinking lower.

Kyoko's arms that were crossed at her chest untangled, revealing her gloves. Her face, her voice kept stern and unmoved. "I'll get Sakura. You stay here." Her steps were soundless, cushioned by her socks and her demeanor. She faced forward as she passed Mondo.

"Did something happen?" Makoto stuck his head out of his door. He choked on his yawn. Makoto ran over, inspected the body, hovering his hands over it. He cocked his head, twisted his mouth. He looked up to Mondo and their eyes didn't meet.

Makoto jumped at the scream next to him. Aoi slapped her hands to her mouth, her gaze stuck to the sight.

The only thing that Mondo perceived was the fabric at his palm, the flesh beneath it and the wrist he was clutching. Kiyotaka still had weight, about his warmth, Mondo was unsure. His purpose right now was to hold him. The rest was numb and unimportant; background static and bleary colors.

Kiyotaka suddenly became lighter, the arm around his shoulder gliding off his back. His nails dug into Taka's uniform without command.

"Mondo, you need to let go." Sakura was standing before him, Hina at her side, Kiyotaka in her arms. Mondo's hand still grabbed on, she had lifted his arm along with Taka. Her words were gentle but not a request.

"I'm not fucking leaving him!" Mondo growled, stepped closer, gripped tighter. He sent glares through tears up to the girl. He had stopped crying and a crust had formed on his face. "That is not what I'm asking of you," she said. "Please let go of his uniform. I need to carry him to the infirmary." Mondo averted his eyes, and removed his hand.

"How long is this gonna fucking take?" Mondo slammed his fist down on the mattress and, angry at the lack of sound and resistance, slammed it down again. He had always hated the sterileness of nurse's offices and hospital rooms; the cold lights, the thin beds, being watched and examined, and timeless waiting. He ground his teeth. His bouncing leg had long escaped his control.

Sakura, who was sitting next to the bed in front of him, looked up. She had taken the care to position herself so that Mondo was able to see Kiyotaka, how he was just lying there on his side, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, motionless. Sakura was pressing one of her hands against his forehead, the other against the back of his head where layers of gauze stacked and colored red as the minutes passed.

"I cannot hurry this process," she replied. "The bleeding has to stop before we can take any next steps." She turned her head around to Aoi. "Hina, my girl, could you be so kind and hand me another cloth?"

Aoi stood unmoved next to her, a roll of gauze and scissors in her hands, staring down at her friend's work, and the blood. "Hina?" Sakura repeated, knitting her brows. Aoi blinked and awoke. "Yeah, here, sorry." She cut a new piece, her hands were shaking.

Sakura lifted her hand from Kiyotaka's head for just a moment, revealing her red palm, took the gauze, crumpled it up and and added it to the others. Mondo had been counting the layers in the first three minutes but that had quickly faded into the back of his mind.

He raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. His lip had started bleeding from his biting and he was tasting iron as he sucked it in.

"I can understand your restlessness." Sakura's expression was calm, a subtle softness had undermined her serious features. It was poking needles into Mondo's surfaced nerves. "However, there is nothing that you can do now other than be patient. I advise you get some rest."

Mondo clenched a fist, bared his teeth. "I said I'm not fucking leaving!" "You may stay here," her tone hardened just a little. "There are enough beds to choose from." Mondo grunted, "Fine."

He stood up and could stop his knees from giving way and betraying him. He ripped at the curtain separating Taka from him and fell back onto the edge of the bed. He regretted closing the curtain. Mondo buried his face in his palms.

He couldn't lose Taka. He couldn't name a reason for it but after the thought of him dying, his brain went blank. He could see himself stand at his bed, stare down at his body. Kiyotaka looked peaceful as if he had gone in his sleep, laying there dressed up for a soldier's coffin. He was laying on his back and in any other condition, it surely must hurt. His head was bandaged and the wound was hidden.

It was a subject to Mondo's wonder that he was the one on Taka's mind in his last minutes. Why didn't he associate help with Sakura or justice with Makoto? Why did he choose him? Kiyotaka was the only person on earth that believed Mondo was a good man. It was silly and dangerous, Mondo had told him, but Kiyotaka insisted. Mondo knew that dying brains formed crazily truthful thoughts but to be on Kiyotaka's mind in his possibly last moments felt like an obscenity. The thought of Mondo had filled up his head and pushed thoughts about family, future and unfinished tasks aside. Mondo was where Kiyotaka had anchored his life.

His stomach turned as he noticed how he clung to that. How he swam towards the boat on the stormy sea, hope and the lack of it twisting into an ugly clump in his windpipe that hindered the air. Mondo felt like spitting at himself, kicking his double to the ground and in the ribs repeatedly, each kick with more anger behind it. His double was desperate, in his eyes weak, holding onto Taka, his heart and the affection stored in it. It was pathetic for being so dependent, so selfish and needy.

Mondo couldn't help it. Kiyotaka cherished his existence, silently accepted his mistakes, knowing there was light that cast the shadows, carefully treated his injuries, stitch by stitch with devotion to his being. That was something Mondo had not been able to achieve in his whole lifetime. He thought of Kiyotaka's death and his mind went blank.

"Um, hey?" Aoi sounded quiet behind the curtain. Mondo lifted his head. How long had he been sitting like this? His spine ached. "The bleeding stopped." Mondo allowed himself to breathe. "He's asleep now." Hina paused. "We'd stay if you want to go back to your dorm, that's okay." "If you decide to stay, you'll find us in my room if anything occurs." Sakura sounded so calm again, it was soothing now.

Mondo swallowed spit to conquer the dryness of his throat. "I'll stay." "Alright," Sakura replied. He slid off the bed, his legs stood firm. Flakes of dried blood rubbed off the soles of his bare feet as he tore the curtain aside and stepped forward. The girls halted in the doorframe and turned to him. "Thanks," he said, the eyecontact didn't last long.

Sakura nodded a goodbye, turned off the lights and closed the door. The room was dim with the light hanging right over Taka's bed.

Mondo knelt down next to him. The light gave Kiyotaka's pale skin a sickish yellow tone. The blanket covering his body rose and fell, Mondo saw the fabric of his uniform stretching and releasing, he heard the quiet in- and exhales. Kiyotaka was breathing.

Mondo's finger wound around his wrist. He was unsure whether the warmth was an illusion. He searched for a pulse, tapping about with his index and middle finger, then found one. Feeble beats obscured by skin and flesh.

Kiyotaka's fingers jerked. "Kyou..." He whispered like he'd lost his voice.

They locked eyes. How weak he looked. How soft, how frail, how strong he was for making it.

"Kyoudai." Mondo longed to answer but all words, all language were not to his avail. Kiyotaka blinked and squinted. "Bright," he whined. Talking was an effort, Mondo could tell by his wheezing. He followed his bidding wordlessly.

"I'm... so glad," Taka spoke. Mondo had not let go of his wrist. "I have so much... to live for." Mondo grabbed him tighter, the wish to hold him slowly becoming too much to bear. "I have this world to better." Taka's arm moved in his grasp, Mondo opened the plier of his fingers and Kiyotaka's hand slid into his. Kiyotaka intertwined their fingers clumsily. The weight on Mondo's palm was strange but he completed the gesture. "And you," Taka said. "I have you."

He let out another whimper and shut his eyes again. "My head," he muttered. The muffled sound of belching escaped his closed mouth. "Lemme get Sakura," Mondo decided. His voice sounded foreign to him, too steady. "You, go back to sleep." He stood up but a faint squeeze at his fingers had him stop. "Don't worry." In the dark, Mondo's smile was invisible. "I'll be here when you wake up."

[snelbz]

The Ranch {19}

An A Court of Thorns and Roses, Nesta x Cassian, Modern AU, fanfiction.

Collaboration: @snelbz​ x @tacmc​

Summary: Nesta had spent years in Paris, living her dream and drowning in riches as a gourmet chef, capturing the hearts of the city and its people. But, after her father passes away unexpectedly and leaves his cozy, countryside B&B to his oldest daughter, Nesta is moving back home to the tiny town of Velaris, where the ranch, her sisters, and her father’s unfulfilled dream, awaits.

Sidenote: Being posted between two blogs, it is too chaotic to keep up with a tags list, so all chapters will be tagged with “#TheRanchNessian” & “#SharaCollab”.

Nesta stood in the paint department and looked at the wall of samples in front of her. She wanted something light, but something that stood out, too. She didn’t want anything like her father had chosen back in the nineties and-.

She shook her head, trying to free her head of the deja vu that washed over her and chuckling quietly. She had been here before, had done this before. Things were just...a little different this time.

As if she wanted to remind her mother of this fact, Nesta felt a sharp pain against her ribs and she inhaled sharply through her teeth. Beau looked up at her, brown eyes wide. He hadn’t left her side since the beginning of her third trimester and Nesta had learned to love the constant, comforting presence.

“Your sister is using my ribs as a punching bag,” she told him, regardless of the fact that he couldn’t understand her. He opened his mouth in what Nesta swore was a smile and his tongue hung to the side.

He always smiled when they talked about the baby.

Nesta was floored as she realized how different her life had become in twelve months. A year ago, she’d been deciding whether or not she should give up everything she’d ever wanted, to move home and run her father’s crumbling dream of a bed and breakfast. Now she was about to have a baby, her perfect, little girl, and she was going to marry the man of her dreams, the man who gave her the gift she never thought possible.

“Nesta?”

She froze, recalling how someone had called her name the last time she’d been here, who it had been when she turned. But it wasn’t Tomas, just Azriel standing in his old, torn jeans and black hoodie. Out of all of them, it was Azriel who looked the least the part of a rancher, but he sure as hell knew what he was doing.

“Cass said you were running into town, but this was the last place I thought I’d see you,” Azriel said, when Nesta said nothing. 

Nesta, collecting her thoughts, gestured to the wall of paint samples. “Nursery color.”

“Ah,” Azriel said, huffing a laugh as he stopped next to her and looked at the wall. Beau brushed up against his leg, and he gave the pup a loving scratch behind the ears. “What about purple?”

Nesta frowned, looking at the endless samples of purple. She had gone over the lavender hues ten times already. “Too predictable. Pink, too. I’ve ruled them both out.”

Azriel chuckled. “Fair enough. Cass wants to paint it green.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. She had to admit that she had her eye on a neutral olive color, but it didn’t seem right, it wasn't special enough.  “So I’ve been told. I told him no, though.”

It was true. In fact, the night before they’d had a heated debate over what color the nursery would be. It ended in them making love on the nursery’s carpet, but that was irrelevant. 

“How about blue?” Azriel suggested, picking up a few different swatches. “There are a ton of different shades of blue, surely there’s one you two can agree on.”

It was her favorite color, but it limited her decorating choices. Both the camouflage and rodeo nursery ideas were nixed last night as well, and Cassian was still pouting about it.

“I’ve been leaning towards a softer yellow or orange.” She lifted a buttery yellow card from its slot. It was too bright, too rich. She added it to the stack, knowing it may look different away from the fluorescent lights. “Like the sunrise. First light.”

Azriel was nodding. “Why don’t you ask Feyre to paint the sunrise?”

Nesta was going to blame her stupidity on pregnancy brain as her eyes went wide and she said, “I hadn’t even thought of that. She’d love that.”

Azriel just smiled, softly. “Feyre would be honored, if you asked her.”

Nesta nodded, slowly, then picked out a couple different shades of yellows and oranges. “Since you’re here, please take me to get some tacos. I’ll buy. Might even bring some home to Cass, if he’s been good this morning.” Azriel’s grin widened as they began walking toward the exit. “A little cranky, I must say, but I think that’s just because he’s hungover.”

Nesta snorted. After their fight over paints, he’d indulged himself - one beer too many, perhaps. “It doesn’t take much to be hungover when you wake up at five a.m.”

“True,” Azriel agreed. “I could do tacos, though.”

“Good,” Nesta said, putting the paint swatches into her purse as she and Azriel walked out onto the sidewalk, Beau close behind. 

It wasn’t until they were down the street at a taco vendor’s food truck that Nesta asked, “So, when the hell are you going to ask my sister to marry you?”

The bite he’d been in the process of taking nearly came back out. Nesta didn’t even flinch. She’d spent so much time throwing up in the past eight months that partially chewed food didn’t even phase her. She blinked and waited for him to collect himself before he took a drink of the Corona in his hand.

“You just go straight for the balls, don’t you?” He laughed.

She raised her eyebrows. “Have you met my fiancé?”

“Fair enough,” he laughed, but he sighed. “You want the honest truth?”

Nesta suddenly realized she wasn’t sure. She was meddling and the only person who hated meddling more than she did was Elain. But she nodded.

Az took a deep breath and said, “I’ve had the ring for almost six months.”

“What?” Nesta’s eyes must have nearly bulged out of her head, because Az backed up a step. “And why exactly haven’t you proposed?”

His smile was soft but proud, as he said, “I don’t want to take this time from you, or from Cassian. You’re having a baby. Like, Nesta, you’re growing a literal human inside of yourself.” He chuckled and smiled fondly. “Did you know that even when we were in high school all Cass wanted from life was to rope and have a family. You’re giving him one of those things and I can’t ever thank you for making my brother so happy. And I don’t want to take that spotlight from y’all. I want you to have your moment, so that when the time comes, Elain can have hers.”

Nesta hated Azriel for making her cry over her taco, and yet, tears were sliding down her cheeks as she set her taco back down onto her plate and observed him. Eventually, she cleared her throat and said, “Elain is a lucky woman.”

Azriel just shook his head as he took another bite. “That woman deserves the world. If anyone’s lucky, it’s me.”

Nesta found herself completely overwhelmed. A year ago, she hadn’t believed love existed, but now? Her and Cassian, Elain and Azriel, Feyre and Rhysand...this type of love was rare, Nesta was sure of it, but somehow they all ended up in a fairytale romance. Her sisters were happy, she was happy...it was perfect. 

“Don’t tell your sister that I made you cry,” Azriel went on, shoving the last of his taco into his mouth. “She’ll kick my ass. She’s scary when she wants to be.”

She shook her head, dabbing at her eyes with a scratchy napkin. “She’ll understand when you knock her up. I cried yesterday during a Christmas commercial.” Azriel waited, knowing that was somewhat common. “A commercial for cattle feed.”

He nodded. “I believe you. Doesn’t change the fact that your sister will punch me in the dick if she finds out I was the cause of your tears.”

They both laughed and Nesta smiled. “Thank you for making her so happy.”

Az gave her that full smile that so many rarely saw. “It’s my pleasure.”

Nesta finished her tacos and ordered some for Cassian for the road. “Word of advice,” she said, getting into her car. Beau already patiently sat in the passenger seat. “Don’t ask her on a holiday. Girls don’t want to share their special day.”

Azriel’s eyebrows raised. “I...hadn’t thought of that.”

Nesta chuckled. “You were going to propose on New Years, weren’t you?”

He nodded once. “Yes, I was.”

She laughed, full and bright, and said, “How about this? You tell me when it’s time, I’ll plan a family dinner and voila, you’ve got yourself a fiancée.”

“Really?” Azriel asked, stopping in front of the driver’s side of the truck’s door.

“Of course,” Nesta said, crossing her arms, the bag of Cassian’s food hanging on her arm. 

“Thank you,” he said, and she knew by the look in his eyes that he meant it.

Although they were going to the same place, they said their goodbyes and Nesta drove home, slowly. By the time she made it back home to the ranch with her paint swatches, Cassian was mowing the lawn. He was shirtless, of course, and was chugging a bottle of water as he rode the lawn mower across the grass. As Nesta pulled into the driveway, he was waving and putting it in park. 

He was covered in sweat, but Nesta still didn’t stop him as he pressed his lips to the side of her head. “The grass was long.”

Nesta nodded. She had wanted to ask him to mow, considering she was too pregnant to do so, but hadn’t wanted to interrupt his daily plans. “I brought you tacos.” 

“Mmm, that’s exactly why I’m marrying you,” he said, pulling her onto his sweaty lap and opening the box in her hands.

She squirmed out of his arms, as best as she could at eight and a half months pregnant and said, “I’m going to go hang the swatches on the wall, come see when you’re done?”

He nodded, shoving an entire taco in his mouth.

She chuckled, but shivered as a brisk wind blew by. “Cass, I know the sun is straight on you, but it’s forty-five degrees out. Don’t you think you should put a shirt on?”

He finished chewing and said, “How else will I keep my tan year round?”

She shook her head and said, “I’ll be inside, call me if you need me. I love you.”

He smiled at her, those hazel eyes sparkling from the joy he felt inside. “I love you too, darlin’.”

She turned and started up the porch steps and heard, “Hey.”

Nesta looked back at him and he asked, the sparkle replaced by his usual mischievous glint, “You got any green swatches in there?”

Nesta rolled her eyes as Azriel pulled the truck in next to her little car. “No.”

She continued up into the house, laughing when she heard Az ask why the hell he wasn’t wearing a shirt. She pulled the swatches out of her purse, including the couple of greens she’d snagged on their way out, along with her phone and she and Beau made their way up to her old room.

The room that she grew up in was the same room her daughter would too.

As she was taping swatches to the room, in various lighting, she called Feyre, putting her phone on speaker.

“Hello?” her sister answered a second later.

“Hey,” Nesta said, looking around the room. “I have a favor to ask.” “Ask away,” Feyre said.

Nesta admired the swatches she had chosen before clearing her throat. “Would you mind...helping me paint the baby’s nursery?”

There was a slight pause, then Feyre’s quiet voice came through, “Of course.”

“I was thinking the sunrise,” Nesta continued, trying not to cry for the tenth time that day. “Bright, cheery, calming.”

“I can do that,” Feyre breathed. “I can come by this weekend?”

“Perfect,” Nesta agreed. There was a few seconds of silence before Nesta said, “Thank you.”

“Anything for my niece,” Feyre said, then added, “And anything for you. And that idiot fiancé of yours.”

Nesta peeked out the window where Cassian was still mowing without his shirt on. He always acted like it was spring, even in the winter. Although their town stayed pretty mild, winter-wise, there was still a little chill in the air. “Idiot he is, but he’s my idiot.”

Feyre chuckled. “Still on for dinner tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Nesta promised. “I’ll see you then.”

They said their goodbyes before Nesta was left alone, in the silence, observing the room around her. Five minutes of planning in her head passed before heavy boots padded up the stairs and Cassian appeared, now wearing a hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “Can I help with anything?”

She was admiring the colors in the direct sunlight. “You can tell me which of these you like best.”

“Hmm.” He came up behind her, pressing his big hands against her belly. Even as round as she was, even at over eight months pregnant, his hands still covered most of it. But then they slid upwards until he was cupping a breast in each hand. He made a show of weighing them and squeezing them gently, and said, “I don’t know, I think I’m pretty partial to the left one.”

She rolled her eyes, laughing, and pushed away from him, walking towards the wall. “I meant color, baby.”

“Oh, well that’s easy,” he snorted, coming in closer as well.

It turned out that it was, in fact, not easy.

After forty-five minutes of arguing and an almost silent quickie with the door open to make up, they had narrowed it down to New Spring Chick and Frosted Tropical Apricot.

They would let Feyre make the final decision in the morning.

“Don’t you have to get back out there?” Nesta asked.

Cassian shook his head. “For now, Az has it covered, it’s been an easy day. I was thinking you and I could go out to dinner, though.”

Nesta lifted a brow. “Dinner?”

Cassian nodded, then gestured to her belly. “We only have so much more time before baby comes. We should have a date night while we can.”

Nesta watched him for a moment before saying, “Okay, fine. But does this mean I have to get dressed up?”

Cassian grinned. “You could wear fucking sweatpants for all I care, but I’m taking you out.”

She wouldn’t wear sweatpants, but she also didn’t plan on wearing another real pair of pants until after this baby was out of her.

Cassian pressed a soft kiss to her stomach, which he did every chance he took, and left to go take a much needed shower. Nesta got ready, slipping on a pair of comfy black leggings and a baggy sweatshirt. Cass ended up dressing nearly identically, except he did wear sweatpants.

They hopped in the “play truck” and right before they left, Cassian said, “Shit, I’ll be right back.”

Nesta sat straight up, hands forming a protective cage around her stomach. “What? Is everything okay?”

He jogged into the house and came back out a minute later, backpack tossed over his shoulder. Climbing back into the truck, he tossed it in the backseat and put it in reverse.

“What is that?” she asked. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“This,” Cass replied, putting his free hand in Nesta’s and rubbing soothing circles into the back of her hand, “is our emergency bag. It’s got everything we’ll need in it in case you go into labor. Clothes, insurance paperwork, phone chargers, snacks.” He began a smooth back and forth motion. “Diapers, binkies, onesies, little socks and blankets, and everything else our precious girl is going to need.”

She blinked, and hated that tears were, once again, rolling down her cheeks. “You have truly thought of everything, haven’t you?”

Cassian shrugged. “You’re literally growing my child inside of you. As your baby daddy, it’s my job to take as much stress off of you as possible.”

Nesta leaned over the center console and pressed her lips to his cheek. “Thank you.”

He grinned, fully satisfied with himself, as he pulled onto the road and headed into town. They drove to a little Italian restaurant because Nesta had mentioned she could use a plate full of breadsticks. Cassian ordered it to go, though, and hopped back into the truck before driving a mile down the road to the old high school. He parked in the parking lot before hopping out and putting down the truck bed.

“Come on, babe,” he called, already taking the boxes of pasta out of the bag. When Nesta came around, he helped her onto the back of the truck before joining her there, his thigh brushing hers.

She ate her alfredo happily, indeed chowing down on an insane number of breadsticks that Cassian swore he didn’t count.

He was rubbing her feet when she asked, voice quiet, “Are you scared?”

He looked at her, at how she was staring off toward the football field, pretending not to notice him staring at her. “Am I scared of doing something stupid? Yes. Am I scared it’s going to be a lot more than we’re expecting? Yes. Am I scared we’re going to get in over our heads? Yes. Am I scared that there’s about to be a miniature version of you running around? Hell yes.” He turned her face toward his, forcing her to look at him. “But am I scared to be a father? No. Am I scared to meet our daughter? No. Am I scared to do this with you? Absolutely not.”

She whispered, “Quit making me cry.”

But he shook his head, softly. “I love you, Nesta. And yeah, I am scared, but I can’t wait. This little girl already has me wrapped around her finger and she’s not even here yet.”

A tear slid down her cheek that he quickly reached up and brushed away. “Are you scared?”

Nesta took a moment to think about it, but then she sighed. “Yes, and no. It’s complicated.”

Cassian chuckled, in full understanding.

“I’m scared because I don’t know what to expect,” she said, after a minute. “I’m not sure how to handle the not knowing.”

“That’s why we have each other, sweetheart,” he kissed the top of her head. “Come on, let’s get home. I have a shitload of furniture to build tonight.”

The egregiously overpriced infant's bedroom suit that Nesta had seen online had been delivered that afternoon. Cassian couldn’t understand how Nesta could justify spending as much as some people spent on a vehicle on furniture that was just going to get covered in shit and baby barf.

Not to mention that it had been shipped from overseas.

They packed up their trash and got back in the truck, heading for home.

“While I carry all of the boxes upstairs, why don’t you take a nice bath, baby?” He asked. “And then when you’re done, you can read me instructions that I won’t listen to while I figure out how to put it all together.”

Nesta shook her head, unable to stop herself from chuckling. “At least you’re honest.” 

He took her hand and pressed his lips against her knuckles. “I am that.”

Nesta had to admit that the thought of a bath sounded incredible, though, so she didn’t argue. Once they got home, Nesta was making her way, slowly, up the porch, inside, and up the stairs while Cassian got to work on gathering the boxed nursery furniture. They had a changing table, a bookshelf, a dresser, and a crib, all of which Nesta had bought from a small French boutique that had always caught her eye in Paris. When Cassian asked why they couldn’t just go into town and buy something that was already assembled, Nesta’s answer was simple: she was getting what she wanted, and she wanted the modern, white, sleek furniture she’d on her walk to work every day.

Cassian didn’t argue. 

While she was soaking in the tub, she could hear Cass moving around in the other room. She’d hear a thump as a box was dropped or something would start dragging across the floor. At one point, she heard a loud bang followed by Son of a bitch!

Nesta laughed quietly to herself and smoothed a hand over her belly, which stuck out of the water by a considerable amount. “Daddy’s getting your room put together, sweet girl, and then we’re ready for you to get here whenever you are.”

She leaned her head back against the cool, porcelain tub, sighing happy. Life had become so crazy lately, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be stressed about it.

Her phone vibrated on the small table by her head and when she leaned up to glance at it, her hand slipped on the slick surface. The table knocked against the tub and Nesta gasped as her phone fell into the water.

“Shit,” she breathed, grabbing it out and tossing it onto a nearby towel. She decided that was the end of her bath and got out drying herself off and getting dressed.

She tried to power her phone back on, knowing she shouldn’t but hoping it hadn’t been in the water long enough to do any damage. The logo popped up in the middle of the screen then it went black and began to make a whirring noise.

“Damn it.” She sighed and made her way downstairs, throwing it in a bag of rice to see if it could be salvaged. Otherwise, it looked like she’d be going into town the next day for a new phone.

Cassian was padding down the stairs a moment later, his brows furrowed. He took one look at Nesta and froze, then looked down at her phone in the bag of rice. “Your phone take a bath, too?”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe.” With a deep sigh, she leaned back against the counter. “I’m pissed.”

“Me too,” Cassian mumbled, throwing open the fridge and grabbing two beers. “I’ve decided that I hate France. Or at least French furniture. Fuck France and their fancy furniture.”

Nesta snorted and came up behind him, attempting to wrap her arms around his waist, but over her giant bump, she hardly managed to reach around his sides.

Cassian's body shook with silent laughter as he turned to face her. “Bump in the way?” He asked, before setting one of his beer cans on the top of it, which only made Nesta roll her eyes.

“It’s not a table,” she laughed. 

“Seems pretty convenient to me,” he shrugged, popping open a can and chugging it down. He brushed his hand over her bump, and just when he touched, baby girl kicked wildly from inside, which only made Nesta groan. 

“That either means that she loves me, or that she’s telling me to fuck off,” Cassian said, which made Nesta laugh. After he kissed her forehead, then the bump with the wild, little Nazari inside, he said, “Alright, baby mama, come upstairs and watch me struggle.”

She smirked and headed for the stairs as he tossed the empty can in the trash, opened the second and grabbed a third to take upstairs. “I already do that on the daily. What’s so different about building furniture?”

She heard him mimic her words in a mocking tone and she laughed as she topped the stairs and made her way into the nursery.

It looked like a styrofoam factory exploded. There were pieces everywhere and screws littering the little catch-all tray he pulled from his tool box. She sighed, realizing it was going to be a long night.

But when she looked out the window, into the starry, cloudless night, and screamed Cassian’s name, she forgot all about furniture and messy packing materials. She forgot all about her phone lying useless on the kitchen counter. She even, for a moment, forgot her own name.

Because the stables were catching on fire.

Cassian was instantly behind her, his eyes wide as he swore violently. “Stay here,” he ordered, and then he was gone, pulling out his phone on the way out the nursery door. 

Nesta could only stare in horror as Cassian's dark figure, only outlined by the light of the moon, sprinted down the path that led to the stables.

It was quickly going up in flames, all consuming, raging flames. Nesta didn’t understand how it could have happened.

Only moments ago, she had been down in the kitchen and the stables were fine.

Then, the thought that had her heart stopping entered her mind. It hadn’t been an accident, couldn’t have been an accident, but that didn’t make any sense. 

A slow panic crept into the pit of her stomach, she was breathing heavier, her heart beating wildly as she sobbed, holding onto her bump, the only thing that allowed her to keep her sanity.

Nesta remembered that Az had told her he’d put the horses in the pasture this morning, since it wasn’t supposed to rain, and she was thankful to whatever god whispered in his ear and told him to do so.

She needed to call someone, needed to get the fire department here. Needed to call her sisters, to call Az. Without thinking, she turned and ran from the room, carefully making her way down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Her phone wasn’t on the counter where she’d left it and she frantically looked around the kitchen. 

She plunged into near darkness as the lights went out and a frightened scream burst from Nesta, followed by a sob.

She needed Cassian.

She screamed his name, her voice full of shaking terror as she reached around, trying to find something to hold onto. Eventually, her hands found the edge of the counter and she told herself to breath, in and out. Stress wasn’t good for the baby, panic wasn’t good for the baby.

But she couldn’t help it, and as if the infant in her womb knew that something horrible was happening, she kicked wildly.

Nesta felt the need to puke but she couldn’t move, not in the darkness, not as far from the city as they were. Even as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, she couldn’t see through the endless tears.

She tried one more time to scream Cassian’s name, but her voice came out broken, terrified, and it was no use, he was too far away.

She thought she heard a door open and close across the house and she froze. Her voice cracked as she called, “Cass?”

There was no answer.

Something was wrong, something was very, very wrong. She held onto the counter as she quickly ran for the back door - only to find that it was jammed shut, a two-by-four under the doorknob preventing it from opening.

She began to hyperventilate as she realized that this, all of this, was deliberate. The fire still blazed outside, and Nesta heard a creak from the old, wood flooring in the other room. Her blood chilled as she realized that she wasn’t alone in the house.

She ran for the front door, finding it stuck shut as well. “Please, please, please!” She sobbed, pulling on the door as hard as she could. There were unmistakably footsteps from the dining room and she cried, “Please, I’m pregnant, please.”

She hurried back to the kitchen as quietly as she could and silently opened a drawer, pulling out a large knife. She held it out, blindly as she took shuddering breaths.

Then he appeared, in the doorway, wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled up. He was tall, his shoulders broad, but slim.

She knew who it was.

She would be foolish to convince herself it wasn’t him. He hadn’t gotten what he wanted from her, had stalked her for months without saying a word. He didn’t come any closer.

Nesta did not lower her knife.

She tried to convince herself to look unafraid, to sound calm, but she couldn’t help the tears that continued to stream down her face.

Inside of her womb, the infant became utterly still.

Nesta swallowed and lifted her chin. “Leave,” she ordered, the demand echoing in the silence. “Or I will kill you, and I will not hesitate.”

Even as she said the words, she wasn’t convinced they were true.

Cassian couldn’t breathe. There was smoke in his eyes, it was unbearably hot, and he couldn’t stop coughing, but then he was out in the fresh night air, his back hitting the soft grass.

He knew that Az had led the horses out before he left today, had watched him take them out one by one, but he had to make sure. He had to verify that there wasn’t one down somewhere.

He found nothing, not a horse or person inside.

Except the overwhelming smell of gasoline.

This fire wasn’t natural, it was intentional. This fire was set.

He’d called Azriel before his feet had hit the landing of the stairs telling him what was happening and asking him to call the fire department. He didn’t know what else to do. It’s not like he could turn on the garden hose and put it out. With as much accelerant was used, it would burn all night.

He knew exactly who it was, he didn’t try to delude himself into anything else.

A truck door slammed and Feyre and Rhys were running toward him.

“What happened?” He asked, helping him stand. Cassian saw that his arm was covered in soot. “I have no idea. We were building baby furniture and the barn was fine, came down to the kitchen so I could grab a beer, and when Nes got back upstairs it was in a blaze.” He coughed, but continued, “Smells like a damn Mapco in there, there was so much gasoline dumped.”

“Gasoline?” Feyre asked, covering her mouth in horror.

Cassian nodded. “Tomas did this.”

Rhysand stilled as Feyre’s face paled.

“I have to go to Nesta,” she breathed, backing away from the fire, even though she wasn’t close to it. She glanced back at the dark. “Is she down at the cabin?”

Cassian’s face fell as he glanced up at the big house, then, he was sprinting.

If Tomas had done this, which Cassian was sure he did, he would still be close. He ran without stopping, without a breath, until he was up the back porch. The door was wide open, a piece of wood sitting off to the side.

Cassian was inside of the kitchen before he screamed, “Nesta?!”

There was no reply in the dark house, no movement or creak or whisper. He frantically flicked the light switch, nothing happening.

“What’s going on?” Feyre called, catching up and coming up the stairs.

Cassian opened his mouth to reply, but there was a banging from the front of the house. “Nesta?!”

He was running through the dark house immediately, finding Azriel and Elain on the other side of the front door. It was jammed closed as well. “Move!”

They did as he said and he put all of his weight into the motion as he tried to shove the door open. On the second try, it gave way.

Elain was already crying when she and Az ran in. He said, “Fire department is on the way.”

Cassian was about to say something when Rhysand’s shaking voice called out from the kitchen. “Cass… come here.”

The sound of his voice chilled Cassian’s blood. He hurried back, could see from the glow that either Feyre or Rhys was using their phone’s flashlight function.

He stumbled into the kitchen, nearly tripping over himself and ran to the other side of the island.

He froze.

One of the kitchen knives was missing from its spot in the open drawer, but it laid on the floor, just a few feet away.

There was so much blood.

She was gone. He took her. By taking her, he took them both.

Cassian heaved over the kitchen sink, everything within his stomach emptying out. He knew he was crying, but he didn’t care. He knew he was sobbing, but no one tried to comfort him. Knew no one was sure how.

Nesta was gone. His baby girl was gone. Tomas had taken them. They were gone, the only hunch of where they had gone written on the kitchen floor: a long kitchen knife and a puddle of blood. 

Cassian was ready to set the world on fire.

“I have to find her,” he breathed, he cried, as his face fell into his hands next to the kitchen sink. “I will find her.”

“Cass-.”

“No,” Cassian interrupted Rhysand before he could even say a word. “He’s out there, and he has my fucking fiancée and child!” 

But Rhysand only shook his head. “I know. I’m coming, too.”

“Me too,” Azriel agreed, then looked to Elain, who nodded.

“We'll take care of things around here,” Elain promised. “Go to the police. Now.” 

Cassian was already near the front door, just as a fire truck pulled onto the grounds. 

“I’ll go talk to them,” Feyre said, and kissed Rhysand quickly on the cheek before hurrying out the back door, Elain close behind. 

Cassian was looking around the house as he walked, even though he’d already searched the entirety of it. Rhysand and Azriel were on his heels as they exited through the front door.

Rhysand’s truck had the most room, and they knew letting Cassian drive wasn’t the smartest. The first logical place to go was the Carlson ranch, only to find it deserted. Cassian looked at the window, where he’d hurled the brick back at him.

“Where would they go?” Azriel asked, kicking something aside as they searched through his workshop.

Rhysand’s phone rang and he answered it. A quick conversation took place, and Feyre said the police needed to talk to Cassian.

They loaded back up into the truck and went back to the ranch. The police were there, along with the fire department and an ambulance, and the second Cassian’s feet hit the ground, questions were being asked.

“What happened?”

Cassian replayed the situation, from the second Nesta had noticed the fire blazing up until the point he realized they were missing. 

“You have to find her,” he told the police, after he told his story. “She’s thirty-eight weeks pregnant, nearly ready to go into labor, you have to fucking find her.”

“We will do everything we ca-.”

“Find her!” he yelled, grabbing the cop he’d been talking to by the shoulders. No one reacted, everyone stayed calm, even the cop that was being grabbed.

The young cop simply took a deep breath before saying, “We will look for her, adamantly, starting now.”

Cassian released his shoulders and nodded, and said in a quiet voice. “Thank you, just… I have to get them back.”

He looked over to where the stables once stood. Now it was a smoldering pile of wood and cinders, all that time put in, all those memories. Gone up in a blaze.

They told Cassian he couldn’t stay in their house that night, that they’d be combing through it for any evidence.

He asked a passing officer, “Will you please, please tell me if that’s her blood?”

The dark red hair, the amber eyes. He was a Vanserra, no doubt.

He nodded. “As soon as we know something, we’ll let you know.”

They let Cassian go in, accompanied by Elain, to get what he would need for the next few days. 

Elain did most of the packing, although she cried the whole time. Cassian couldn’t stay focused though, couldn’t concentrate on anything other than her.

All he could think about was Nesta and their baby, where they were, what he was doing to them.

But per the cops request, Cassian went home with Azriel and Elain to wait for further word.

But he didn’t sleep, didn’t rest.

And he wouldn’t until he found them.

Nesta, and his baby girl. 

[focailmarbh]

Whumptober; Prompt #9

presumed dead | (blind) rage | tears

__________________________________________

Jameson stands still, too still, his balled fists shaking. He grits his teeth No. No, it can’t be true. The hero has to be lying. 

“I’m sorry, I know it must hurt you a lot,” Jackie tries, hands held out in a placating, confused gesture. “But you’re safe now! He’s dead and he can never hurt you aga-” 

Jackie is cut off as Jameson’s body slams into him, knocking them both to the floor. Jackie screeches as he falls back on the carpet of Jameson’s bedroom. He holds up his arms against a wave of punches Jameson tries to land on him. Fist after fist after fist coming down on him, Jameson whistling and breathing heavily, nearly wheezing in his fury. Jackie kicks out, sending Jameson tumbling backwards into the apartment wall. Chase and Henrik pop their heads out of their rooms at the commotion, each yelling and rushing towards the two on the floor as Jameson tenses and jumps at Jackie again, teeth gnashing and tears pouring down his face. 

Henrik rushes and grabs Jameson under the arms, lifting him up and away from Jackie, screaming for him to calm down. Jameson lashes and thrashes in his arms, trying to get at Jackie and land another punch, another bite, another kick. Henrik drags him back into his bedroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. 

In the hallway Chase leans down next to a panting Jackie. Jackie has a bruise forming on his lip and right eye, scratch marks down his cheek, blood dripping from the clawed marks in his skin. 

“What the hell happened, man?” Chase asks, eyes slightly wild and scared from the sudden violence.

“I... I told him about Anti. Told him what we did, that he’s gone now,” Jackie mumbles. “I thought he’d be happy. I thought he’d be happy we set him free.” 

Chase just shakes his head, lifting Jackie up to take him to the bathroom to clean him up. Jackie cries and mumbles as he’s pulled along, feeling deep inside like he’s failed somehow, even with the monster dead, he’s failed. 

Back in Jameson’s bedroom, Henrik holds him back from behind as Carver throws fists and tries to bang his head on the bedframe. 

“Calm down! You are going to calm down. You are going to be okay but you must listen to me. Leisse, leisse, liebse.” Henrik soothes, trying to pet his hair through the swinging fists and thrashing legs. Jameson slows, barely able to breathe through his emotions, sliding down in Henrik’s arms, panting from his fury. But he is calmer, tears pouring silently down his face, head hanging low. 

“What is wrong with you, liebse?”

“Anti,” Jameson signs the familiar name, A-knife, “Anti is dead. My brother. My twin. They killed him? Tell me he was lying?” Jameson’s eyes are scrunched closed as he signs, tears wetting his shirt collar as they drip off his nose. Henrik doesn’t know how to answer, choosing instead to just hug Jameson to his chest, petting his back softly. 

“I’m sorry, JJ. I’m sorry. He’s gone. But you’re free. Never have to worry about him stealing you from your happy home.” 

Jameson only responds by gripping his fists into Henrik’s shirt, crying harder. Henrik hugs him close and rocks them through JJ’s tears and rage and grief.  

The whole house distracted by tears and blood, no one notices the flickering lights, nor the high whine of electricity in the air and the smell of oil and blood. 

Why would they be looking anyway? Anti is dead. 

Right? 

[disgruntledspacedad]

Exit Wounds

pairing: Steve Murphy x Javier Peña, buddies or pre-slash, up to you. Not part of the Better Love ‘verse.

summary: Steve comes to several realizations all at once. Steve Murphy POV.

words: 1.9k

warnings: 18+ - violence (beyond canon-typical), GSW, ambiguous ending, ANGST. You really probably shouldn’t read this one at all, my dudes.

a/n: unbeta’d. For those sharp eyed readers, there’s a slight canon change regarding Brady’s murder.

“Stay back,” Steve mouths, lifting a hand to Javier’s chest. Behind him, Steve can damn near feel Javi rolling his eyes, but he keeps still, both of them hardly daring to breathe as they pause at the corner of the stairwell. 

Feo is waiting for them. Steve just knows it.

Dread and anticipation are rising in him, age old instinct and adrenaline converging into a single minded awareness that sharpens every sense. Steve’s heartbeat thrums in his ears. Reality glitters around him. Javi huffs softly at his shoulder, eager, impatient. 

It’s like having a superpower. 

Carefully, Steve edges his gaze just around the corner, and leaps back as a single round grazes just past his left ear. He feels the zing of displaced air before he’s even aware of the crack of gunfire. 

“Shit,” he hisses. 

That had been close. 

“Think you found him,” Javi supplies helpfully. 

Above them, there’s a scuffle, receding footsteps. Javi doesn’t wait - he’s already tearing around the corner, glock extended, giving chase.

Steve leaps at his heels.

He’ll never admit it, not to anybody and especially not to Connie because she worries, but this is Steve’s favorite part of the job. There’s something primal and evocative about chasing a bad guy through the streets of Medellín. It calls back to that little boy in Memphis, playing cops and robbers with the neighborhood kids until long past the streetlamps had lit. It awakens that visceral sense of masculine justice that’s simmered just beneath the surface of Steve’s thoughts since he could remember; the burning need to protect, to avenge, to do the right thing.

And fuck, it’s just fun.

He grits his teeth and digs in, running for all he’s worth. Chases in Medellín are all sticky heat and creaking rooftops that pop beneath a grown man’s weight, the smell of spices and gunpowder and unwashed bodies. The air is thick like soup. It stagnates in his lungs, stifles his breaths. His heart pounds wildly. Sweat pours down his back and clings to his shirt, and Steve basks in it all, loving every second. 

Javi ducks into one of the zócalos, taking a short cut on a hunch. Steve follows. The world narrows, the entire cramped room smelling of tortillas and goat milk. The darkness inside is a stark contrast to the midday Medellín sun, and Steve barrels into the tiny kitchen table before his eyes can fully adjust. A child shrieks, and Javi pauses just long enough to wince toward her mother as Steve staggers to his feet. 

“Sorry,” he bleats, already stumbling out the door.

Outside, they are faced with a choice. Stairs going up to the rooftops. Stairs going down into the alleyway. Absolute silence. 

Steve takes the street and Javi takes the high ground. There’s no discussion, no pause to consider, no flicker of eye contact and a question. Steve and Javi move as one unit in two bodies, working in seamless tandem that comes from surviving and thriving together in countless life or death scenarios.

Feo is not in the street, it’s apparent immediately.  Steve has gone the wrong way. 

Well, win some, lose some. The comuna is built into a slope, like so many comunas are, and Steve makes for the top of it, determined to get a better view. Maybe he can cut Feo off while Javi herds him forward, though it’s unlikely. 

He reaches the top of the hill and whirls, shading his eyes against the sun as he glances over the rooftops, searching. 

Javier shouts in Spanish. Steve cranes his neck toward the sound. He’s close.

There.

A shot rings out. That’s nothing new - shots are always ringing out in Medellín. It’s practically how the sicarios say hello. 

But this time, it’s different. This time, Javier staggers back like he’s been punched in the solar plexus, and Steve’s world converges into two undeniable facts - dread, and absolute certainty.

Javi’s been hit. 

Somehow, Steve has the sense of mind to radio for backup with medical, an instinct honed from years of beats in the shadier neighborhoods of Miami. He doesn’t bother listening for the garbled response, he’s just running, tearing down the hill with one ominous thought replaying through his mind. 

He can’t see Javi anymore.

Steve shakes away the implications and focuses on what he can remember - where Javi had been standing, the direction of his voice. His lungs are burning, heart pounding painfully in his chest, but Steve’s totally unaware of that. It shouldn’t be possible, but he’s flying, feet hardly hitting the ground as he tears through the comuna, making his way once again toward the rooftops.

His best friend’s life is on the line.

And isn’t that funny? If you’d have asked Steve an hour ago, he’d have laughed in your face at the idea that Javi was anything more than his work partner. Javi’s an asshole. A self-righteous, arrogant, hypocritical, sell-you-to-the-fucking-cartels-on-a-whim cuntstain of a human being. Yeah, Steve can admit that Javier Peña is a decent agent. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. There’s also the fact that Javi knows all of the best dives in town, and that he’s always good for a drink after a long shift, and sure, maybe he’d stuck up for Steve that one time with Messina, but friends? Yeah, that’s a long shot.

Except now, it’s not.

The stairwell Steve’s been climbing ends abruptly. He’s standing on a three foot square platform, looking up at a ten foot wall.

Shit, shit, shit.

Javi is right there, just on the roof above him.

Steve doesn’t think, he just leaps, the tin edges slicing his palms as he scrambles for the ledge. He kicks his feet hard, banging his shins with enough force to bruise as he rolls gracelessly onto the roof. Later, when Steve tells Connie that it was a feat of athleticism that would put the best of his college buddies to shame, he’s not lying.

And there’s Javi. 

Steve drops to his knees beside the body. Javi’s lying crumpled on the ground, curled on his side in a fetal position that is far more vulnerable than Steve is comfortable witnessing. 

“Javi?” Steve calls, shaking his partner hard as he hauls him over onto his back. “Shit.”

Javi doesn’t answer. The concrete beneath him is a pool of red blood. It’s smeared all over Javi’s pink shirt, an ominous, dark stain originating from somewhere near his shoulder. 

And it’s still pumping steadily from the wound. 

Steve catches a breath, reminds himself that this is a good thing. Dead people don’t bleed. 

Automatically, he presses one hand over the most saturated part of Javi’s shirt. Hold pressure. It’s basic first aid, but basic first aid is prioritized in the academy because it saves lives. Steve punches his palm into Javi’s shoulder for all he’s worth. 

But Javi’s still not moving, not responding. Carefully, Steve cups his free fingers gently over Javi’s mouth and nose. Soft, quick breaths pulse hot against his skin, and a tight bubble of tension bursts in Steve’s chest. 

Javi is breathing. Thank fuck, Javi is breathing.

Blood spurts through the cracks Steve’s fingers, warm and deep crimson, and Steve has a sudden, wild thought that it’s much more slippery than he’d have thought, more like motor oil than water. He’s seen blood in this quantity before, many, many times, but never this close, never fresh and red on his bare hands, never gushing in slick rivulets from the body of his partner and friend. 

Steve flashes back to that one sting gone horribly wrong in Miami, to being held at gunpoint in the doorway while Brady bled out onto the dirty motel carpet. 

He shakes it away. Not this time. Never again.

He shifts his position, tilting Javi’s head to the opposite side so he won’t choke and exposing the wound so he has better access to it. He can’t see the edges, and hell, he’s definitely not looking, but the blood seems to be coming from the juncture of Javi’s neck and shoulder, just to the edge of the kevlar strap of his tac vest. 

Fuck.

An inch to right, and Javi would have walked away with a massive bruise, maybe a broken clavicle. An inch to the left, and it would have all been over.

“Of course it would be your shoulder, Javi,” Steve bites out between gritted teeth. It it were an arm or a leg, he’d have already used his belt to make a tourniquet. But that’s not an option here, and by the way Javi’s breathing - fast, quick little pants that are quickly turning his lips blue, Steve wonders if there might be something wrong with Javi’s lung, too.

Fucking Christ. 

“God, get here already,” Steve mutters under his breath as he presses both palms into Javi’s chest. Shit, the bullet’s gone all the way through. Steve can feel the heat of Javier’s blood seeping into his jeans. 

‘All bleeding eventually stops,’ he remembers Connie saying after a terrible shift at Ryder. Her tone had been flippant and thoroughly blasé, cynical like the humor of all nurses who work trauma call is cynical. At the time, Steve had brushed it off as a one-off, a ruthless, humorless joke made out of frustration. 

With a slow dawn of horror, he suddenly understands exactly what Connie had meant. 

“Fuck,” Steve mutters desperately, pinning Javi’s body between his knee and his fists, locking his elbows and pressing both hands as hard as he’s able into the wound in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding. 

His wild thought of ‘where the hell are they going to land the chopper?’ is cut off as Javi shifts and groans.

Steve panics. Javi’s lost a lot of blood, far, far too much blood. It’s all over Steve, all over Javi, all over the concrete, and Steve has just now gotten it under control. 

Javi needs to be still, dammit. 

“Don’t you dare fucking move, Javi, you hear me?” Steve’s voice is brittle as he leans in close to Javi’s ear. 

And oh god, somehow, the situation is suddenly so much worse now that Javi isn’t completely out, now that Steve knows that in some capacity, Javi is aware of what’s happening to him. 

Fuck.

But Javi just huffs one shuddering breath, and then goes so completely still that Steve’s heart lurches in his chest. 

“And don’t you fucking die, either, you hear?” Steve shouts into his ear.

Really, that’s more important than anything. 

Javi grunts something in response, a word that Steve, in his frazzled state, doesn’t quite catch. Later, when he relives this day over and over again, Steve thinks it might have been “asshole.”

The ensuing silence is stifling. They lay there on that rooftop for an eternity, Javi sandwiched between Steve’s fists and his knee, Steve’s back and arms burning with tension. Javi’s breathing speeds and shallows. His entire face is ashen now. Little beads of sweat have broken out on his forehead. His blood is cooling, congealing dark between Steve’s fingers.

“Please, god, please.” Steve hasn’t prayed in years, but this is different. Important. He’s not asking for anything for himself. Not for Connie, even.  

He’s begging for Javi’s life.

In the distance, the blades of a chopper are beat, beat, beating against the wind.

LINK TO SPACEDAD’S MASTERLIST

[cockasinthebird]

About a month ago, it was a certain someone’s birthday, and it took me that long to write this, BUT I would like to use the two weeks of being flagged as a perfectly valid excuse for no writing at all, thank you very much yes 😌

So, to dearest @jimhhawkins, You’ve already read some of this, but here’s all of it! The ending is not what I had in mind originally, but I am not in full control of where it goes; I simply follow the flow of the story and so... well, enjoy 💝

-

“Sometimes I just want to fucking punch you.”

“Then go ahead, pretty boy; hit me, if you dare.”

It’s been a few months since their “official meeting” at Tina’s party, and it is ardently clear to any one person that spends even a minute in the same room as these two, that what’s happening between them burns hotter than the sun, a blistering heat that can’t be extinguished, yet whether it’s hatred or passion is up for discussion.

Steve’s fist curls tighter. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Whatever is going on between them, both in public and in private, is painful - broken hearts and broken noses, things that they both crave for viciously, and when being friends is too dangerous, too close, a useless rivalry suddenly doesn’t sound that bad. At least it still brings them together.

Like now. The snow lies heavy on the grass surrounding the Harrington mansion, the dark woods shielding them from the rest of the world as they stand frozen here together, within reach, the tips of boots just touching.

Yes being friends would make everything too hard to conceal, the truth behind their anger would be too obvious then. So Steve dares.

And Billy laughs, bent slightly forward as red spatters across the white snow, like rose petals scattered to set the mood, and Billy is fucking laughing, maniacal and wild, as he whips up again to let the stream from his nose run uninterrupted down his lips, drip from his chin onto Steve’s winter boots.

“Better?” he grins.

The ache in Steve’s fist spreads till his hand feels restless, the urges of his heart upon seeing Billy bleed rushes down quick.

“Not yet,” his response a lurid groan of wanting, and with a hand strong at Billy’s neck, pulls him in to taste the coppery hatred, the sickly need.

Billy doesn’t punch back, doesn’t have a witty remark, doesn’t call Steve disgusting names for any of this. No, he lets his so-called rival do whatever the fuck he pleases; pulling their bodies flush, lapping up the blood, biting and pulling at his lips, grinding their growing lust together.

“God- shit, I wanna fuck you so bad,” Billy growls out with exposed canines, hungry, craving, as he grabs Steve by the jacket, pinning him against the BMW, grinding harder till denim starts to hurt.

It takes a few brutish thrusts together with Steve whining at the friction before he finds his voice again; “Get inside then.”

-

This isn’t the first time Billy’s been inside the Harrington’s home, and it definitely won’t be the last, but just like on any previous occasion, he doesn’t get to look around - no tour of the dozens of rooms, no offers of beer or food, no chance to stare at family photos that might or might not hang on the walls, all he knows of is the carpeted stairs going up, and the horrible plaid walls of Steve’s bedroom.

It’s neat and tidy as always, doesn’t really look lived in at all, more like a showroom of a model home than a teenage boy’s bedroom. At least the sheets are green now rather than blue, so that’s something.

Steve looks better in green anyways, Billy notes, as his pale, naked body lands on top of the covers, dark hair spread out on a pillow beneath, the moonlight caressing his dotted skin, perfectly highlighting the day old bruises that’s been bitten, kissed, punched, sucked across every inch of available flesh, leading in a clear and practiced pattern down to where he’s needy for attention the most.

As if they don’t have all the time in the world for this, Billy tears away his own clothes and nearly throws himself at Steve again, settling in firm between spread thighs. He kisses along the collarbone, tastes his prey’s heartbeat as he licks down his chest, nipping at oversensitive buds that haven’t had time to heal proper since last, and he can’t help but grin at the pained hiss that’s followed by a roll of hips - the leaky head of Steve’s full dick rubbing against Billy’s stomach.

“Fuck, Billy,” Steve moans with a fist in golden curls, pulling him down, demanding that he go further, oh so impatient to have those lips do what they do best.

And Billy doesn’t resist that, for as much as he loves teasing Steve till he’s on the verge of tears and begging, his own steely cock has been pulsating to the beat of his heart since Steve suckerpunched him outside.

He presses his nose deep into the wiry hair that leads from the navel to Steve’s long erection, inhaling his sweaty scent, musky and strong with just a hint of soap from the morning, to which it all escapes Billy again in a stuttering breath. 

In this moment, nothing else in the world exists but the smell of Steve, the taste of Steve, the sound of Steve, as Billy lets out his tongue, wet and flat, to run up the length of his throbbing dick, base to tip, and the moans that echoes out as Billy closes his lips around the head to suck it clean of pre is like an angel’s choir to him, heavenly and desirous.

Legs tremble closed around his head, over his shoulders as he slowly sinks down, swallowing every single inch he can, gag reflex shot to hell by now from frequent use. He’d never dare admit this to anyone, especially Steve, but every day Billy thinks about choking to near death on Harrington’s cock, eager to feel it in his throat, hit against the back and leave him breathless and hoarse with a dull pain for hours to come. The weight, the taste, the touch. It might be the one thing that brings him the most shame in his life, but also the most joy.

By now he can go till his nose is buried in dark pubes, and stays there to revel in the constrictive feel of Steve’s head blocking out most air, pushing hard back against those hips that buck up, the hand in his crown keeping him down as Steve twitches in his mouth, and Billy can’t help but hum at that, enticing and deep.

“Mmh, fuck, Billy, you feel so good,” Steve moans out low, pulling at those golden curls to lift Billy up, just to push him down again.

Blue eyes vanish behind lids as they flutter closed. Billy relaxes, melts into the sheets, focuses on how the tip of Steve’s cock runs along his palate, past his uvula and into his throat where he swallows around the hard flesh.

Steve’s fingers slip loose, falling to choke the sheets beneath them, allowing Billy freedom to go faster, setting a sloppy pace, loud and obscene, spit running down his chin, his throat, a scene straight from top shelf porn if Billy were to brag about it, and the other guy can only concur - gasping out, calling Billy’s name over and over, mixed with curses of fuck and shit, occasionally praises of that feels amazing and a dozen yes’.

“I-I’m close, ah-” he moans out and lifts off of the bed, seeking more to bring him to bliss, making Billy gag at the movement - a sound that brings another deep groan out from above.

At that, Billy makes a sound that would have been of euphoria if it wasn’t muffled by a mouthful of cock, his own steely prick leaking where it’s caught between his stomach and the bed, each abusive little thrust into his mouth makes his body kick against the soft and expensive fabric.

He stills all movement as Steve bucks his hips again, fucking into Billy’s wet heat, whose eyes roll back, toes curling in a struggle to restrain himself from cumming all too soon, oh how easy he is under King Steve’s command.

And from many times before, he recognises the urgent breathing and rising volume of Steve’s elated cursing that comes with him emptying out into Billy’s throat, so deep in that not a single drop can be spilled, to which Billy gladly swallows everything that Steve offers him.

He hollows his cheeks as he moves off, gasping for air and he lets Steve’s flaccid cock slap wetly onto his stomach, who’s fighting for air all the same with an arm thrown over his face.

“We’re not done yet, princess,” Billy growls, kisses his way up abs, through the patch of chest hair, moving till his own lonesome dick rubs along Steve’s, making the brunette hiss and grab on to Billy’s shoulder, digging in fingers.

Steve bites into his lower lip, staring down at Billy as he keeps grinding them together, the soreness of being so oversensitive overshadowed by how lustful he remains.

“Y-You know where the- ah- the lube is,” he says with a wavering voice.

Billy doesn’t even have to look when he reaches for the drawer in the bedside table, proving just how often he’s done this- how often they have done this. His thumb runs along the lid of the tube, ready to flick it open any coming second, but he’s thriving - throbbing from the way Steve’s whining about the roll of his hips, how it’s just not enough, not what he brought him here for in the first place.

Then there’s a fist in his mullet, yanking him away from where he’s been sucking and biting on Steve’s neck, angling him up till their eyes meet.

“Are you gonna fuck me, or should I call somebody else?” he threatens with a frown, brows drawn together all serious.

But Billy is always up to challenge that.

“Oh yeah?” There’s no grin, no smile, just his tongue licking across his lips. “And who else would fuck you so readily?”

“I know Charles in algebra is willing to do my homework if he also gets to do me. Joe in Spanish is so eager to teach me all the right words, and he knows how to use his tongue. Or maybe Tommy Hagan, hmmm,” Steve hums in contemplation at that name, smiling because he knows what the thought of him and Tommy together does to Billy and his intense jealousy of Steve’s first guy. “It’s been a while since I let him fuck me good from behind.”

“I fucking hate you, Harrington,” Billy huffs out harsh with teeth bared, ready to bite and tear, convincing enough in his tone, but the way a jealous rage pulsates through him begs to differ.

“And what are you gonna do about that?” Steve tilts his head back, exposing his neck, daring Billy to do what he so clearly craves.

Then he’s gone, crawled away, and before Steve can even question it, he’s flipped onto his stomach, legs pushed apart by Billy’s own, now a fist in his dark hair where he’s pulled back with an all too loud moan.

“Ain’t nobody ever fucked you like I do,” Billy snarls directly into his ear.

He angles himself proper till his steely cock slick with pre-cum lands in the crevice of Steve’s cheeks. There he rocks his hips, all the way till his balls slap against Steve’s ass, then back till the tip tickles and teases to go between.

Steve breathes with elation, keening, both hands choking the life out of a pillow.

“If I ever find out you went back and fucked Hagan, I’ll beat the living crap out of him, got it?”

An ever so deeply satisfied moan and an obedient nod is all Steve can manage to respond with.

“Good. You’re mine now, and I don’t do well sharing my toys.”

The cap pops open, and Billy releases his hold on Steve to instead lube up his digits, guides the hand between them and down to mercilessly push the middle finger all the way in, making Steve’s back arch beautifully.

“F-fuck, Billy!” he calls out as his head lands heavy on the pillow, Billy’s thick finger driving in and out with fervor.

A devil’s worth of a grin cracks across Billy’s face as he listens to Steve’s moans. The lube gets tossed aside, the hand instead going down to wrap around Steve’s filling cock, making the oversensitive brunette practically cry out at the touch.

“Mmmm look at you,” he rumbles deep like a bassline, “I’ve barely even managed to swallow all of your cum and you’re hard again already.”

That one digit pushes in deep, curls at all the right spots, as is evident by the loud and abrupt, “A-ah! Shit, yes! There- God-” feeding into Billy’s self-confidence that already rests high above any other person’s ideal.

“Yeah, you like what I do to you?” He thrusts in a second finger, Steve fighting back his every sound, yet Billy feels his lust in the way he clenches and trembles around the two thick digits pumping in and out. “Mmmh, fuck you’re so tight - always such a good little hole for my big cock.”

Steve moans heavy into the pillow, trying not to sound as pliant and easy as he is in the hands of Billy - trying to keep some semblance of self-respect perhaps, keep up that wall that still separates them. But giving in with no inhibitions is so much easier.

“Gonna fill you up, baby,” Billy breathes ragged and wanton as he adds a third finger, adoring the way Steve curses all muffled. “Fuck you into the mattress so hard you won’t be able to sit right for a week.”

At that promise, Billy feels pre leak onto his fingers, slicking up the motion he consistently strokes along Steve’s long erection.

And he chuckles like thunder behind immaculate pecs. “So wet for me, princess. You’re such an eager little whore.”

“I swear to God, Billy, if you’re not gonna fuck me instead of just talking about it, I’ll hit you again,” Steve speaks as he raises up on elbows, glancing behind to watch Billy’s self-satisfied grin falter, a storm brewing in his eyes, clouding the blue skies there.

Then the hand around his throbbing dick is gone, grabbing a fistful of hair instead and shoving his face back into the pillow. Billy pulls out his fingers again, smearing the excess lube all over his own veiny cock, palming at the head as he stares at Steve’s impatient ass clenching at nothing, waiting and waiting and waiting.

“Just when I start to tolerate you, you go being such a dipshit, Harrington.”

Billy strokes himself for longer than necessary, moaning with just a slight bit of exaggeration, egging Steve on, and if his frustrated sounds are anything to go off of, it’s working.

“You only barely make up for it by being such an easy lay.”

He brings the blunt head of his shaft to the hole he’s hungering for, running it up and down the puffy ring, listening to Steve whine for it.

“I just have to look at you and you’re hard.”

Pushes in, just the tip of it, just enough to have Steve let out a long sound of annoyance, a pleading little moan as he leans back, chasing the euphoric stretching of his body, but a firm hand on his ass keeps him at bay, as Billy pulls away just a bit, before dipping in again, like he’s testing the waters, grinning at the reaction he’s getting.

And Steve knows what he has to do for it, hates it, a clear blush spreading across his pale shoulders, washing down his back.

“Billy, Billy please,” he mewls, trying to struggle against the warm palm squeezing a cheek; not in an attempt to wrestle free, but to give Billy what he’s asking for, without so many words. “Please just fuck me, I-I need your cock so bad, so so bad, Billy.”

Billy could absolutely cum from just this - hearing Steve beg like a common whore, stroking his pained erection and giving nothing more than the tip to that willing hole. All he needs is to know he’s needed like this, and he’s finished, but the pleasure of unravelling King Steve this way…

With one brutish thrust, Billy sinks into Steve with such fervor that his knees slip on the bed, spreading him further till he lies flat on top of the covers, breathlessly stuttering out pleasure of being trapped beneath Billy’s forceful weight. Every little sound Steve makes is undeniably euphoric, and Billy stills all movement to enjoy how Steve’s body takes a chokehold on his fat cock, sucking him in like he’s been missed and waited for for years.

“That what you wanted?” Billy drawls out and leans down to bite at the shell of Steve’s ear, his dick twitching and pulsating deep inside, moving his hips to draw tight circles, making the other gasp and moan mindlessly.

Steve eventually manages a hopeless, “Y-yeah,” lying limp and filled and satisfied, when Billy angles his head; turning him enough to share a kiss, to pry lips apart with his tongue, to swallow the little whines that spills as he starts a shallow and agonizingly slow pace. 

“Billy, ahh…” Steve whispers, tries to catch on to the rhythm, grinding himself against the covers; lube dripping from his hole mixes with his pre cum, wetting the fabric till it’s slippery and nice against his aching dick.

Then Billy raises off of him - keeps him caught against the mattress, a warm and heavy hand on his back like an anchor, fingers spread out between shoulder blades, the other reaching up to tangle fingers in dark, soft hair, pulling there just enough for Steve’s mouth to be forced open, enabling every lewd little noise escape, moaning and keening, begging.

He pulls all the way back till the head is barely inside still, revelling in the way every muscle clings to him with desperation, watches in the darkness how pale hands strangle a pillow, feels his body tense with irritation beneath his palm. The shift of it all is immediate when Billy pushes back in- shoves his steely cock to the base and out again, loving the perfected melody of skin slapping and Steve crying out loud with the pleasure that Billy gives him, pounds him, fucks him like he’d die if he didn’t.

“Fuck, Billy,” a pathetic, needy, elated whine.

When Billy’s hand lets go of dark locks, Steve’s head lands on the pillow, his body limp and unmoving as Billy uses him like he truly is no more than an expensive toy - a favorite toy. His toy.

“Shit that’s good, arrh-” Billy rasps out.

He rakes one hand down Steve’s skin, across the dimples at the small of his back, down till he grabs a soft cheek with a firm hand, squeezing and pulling it aside to grant him a perfect view of where he fervently thrusts into Steve’s hungering body.

“Come on, get up on your knees, Harrington,” he demands with a voice deep and thrilling, as he pulls out and inches away a bit to make room for how frantically Steve shuffles to get up on his knees, ass in the air, back arched, head turned to gaze back at Billy.

Who licks his lips before biting down as he dives back in with no warning, earning him a lascivious, shocked moan. He grabs on to Steve’s hips as he fucks him with a rapid pace, digging in his fingers till it should hurt, but anyone having the pleasure of listening to Steve like this knows he’s brimming with heat. The curses, the moans, the groans, the pleas - Billy whips his head back to lose himself in it all, an endless symphony of eroticism and animalistic urges and unadulterated wanting.

“B-Billy- Billy, I’m close, ahh-” Steve can barely manage coherent speech, “Please, touch me- fuck, Billy, please!”

Fuck if hearing Steve’s mindless begging doesn’t push at Billy’s insides, waves of lust running hot like lava on the edge of spilling out, but Billy grins all wicked and chuckles hoarsely.

“Nah pretty boy, you wanna cum again, you’re gonna cum untouched,” he growls and slams in harder to emphasise his unfair statement.

Steve dares to defy, bringing his own hand down, but seconds before he’d have been able to jerk himself to completion, Billy takes a punishing grip around his wrist.

“What did I just fucking say?” there’s barely even a hint of jesting to Billy’s tone at that. “Give me your other hand.”

With no hesitation, Steve does as demanded - angles his other arm behind to where Billy wraps his strong fingers around both wrists before pressing them against his back, Billy’s whole body weight on top of it, rendering Steve completely helpless.

Helpless, powerless, completely at Billy’s mercy, skin burning where he strangles his wrists, fingers digging into his hip, a perfectly orchestrated plight that ignites fireworks; a colorful barrage with tensing muscles and a wild cry as Steve cums, feet lifting off of the mattress with the curl of his toes, the release of it all ruining his sheets.

“Holy shit- fuck- Stevie-” Billy barks out rough as he pounds vigorously till his thighs and hips stings, Steve’s body like a vicegrip around his steely cock, burning hot, slick and velvety.

It takes no more than a few brutish thrusts for him to come undone, filling up Steve’s hungering hole with all that he is; an electric charge detonating in his gut that bends him over, sweaty locks falling around his stilled face like a curtain, his entire body pulsating and throbbing as he grinds his last bit of energy against Steve’s flushed ass.

As the world returns with the cooling of his body, all to be heard is both their labored breathing, ragged gasps and wet swallowing.

Billy kisses every mole across Steve’s upper back, shoulder to shoulder, grip softening around Steve’s wrists, but neither of them pulls away. His other hand rubs soothingly at where he’s been viciously holding on for dear life.

He doesn’t want to pull out, move away, end this. This… warm feeling, limp dick buried in Steve, something else buried in Billy’s soul, his mind knows what it is yet still fumbles to unlock it. With help, perhaps, it would see the light of day sooner, but that would require for him to find the courage to reach out.

And Billy always finds himself a coward in the wake of his heart.

With a sigh that hopefully sounds more tired and satisfied than dejected and hopeless, he lifts off of where he’s been resting his forehead between Steve’s shoulder blades-

When the soft and pale body beneath him twists around, Steve reaching out to cautiously grap Billy by the arm, a softness in his eyes where they meet through the darkness, and with flushed cheeks and battered breath, the request comes gingerly,

“Wait, don’t… don’t pull out yet.”

Perhaps even Billy’s heart stops with the rest of him.

“Can we… lie for a bit?”

Well that’s… something new, and the shock of it shows in the wrinkles of Billy’s brow. But when Steve gives his bicep a beckoning squeeze, gaze unwavering, Billy’s more afraid of saying no than yes.

[siesiejoongie]

Miss the Misery

Dabi x Singer!Reader

Warnings: Language, blood, smut, pet names like slut, daddy kink, biting, squirting.

It was the usual at your house. Your brother, Keigo Takami who was also pro hero hawks was on a mission. You was in my studio, singing a song you've been writing. " I've been a mess since you stayed, I've been a wreck since you changed. Don't let me get in your way, I miss the lies and the pain, the fights that keep us awake, Now I'm telling you! I miss the bad things, the way you hate me. I miss the screaming, the way you hate me! Miss he phone calls, when it's your fault, I miss the late nights, don't miss you at all! I like the kick in the face, and the things that you do to me! I love the way that it hurts! I don't miss you, I miss the misery!" You kept on singing oblivious to the person standing in my doorway. When you finished you reached over to grab my glass of water and that's when you saw him. You dropped the glass cup on my bare foot and screamed as it shattered, sending glass shards into your soft flesh. Scarlet blood dripped down onto the carpet. " Fuck! What the hell are you doing here you bastard." He smirked " I just wanted to drop by and see how you are doing." You sat down and clutched your foot. " Now I'm hurt because of your ass! Can you just leave please?" He ignored you and knelt down to look at your injury. " It's not that bad, just a scratch." " Are you fucking blind?! There is glass in my foot!" " Well do you want me to leave you alone?" " Yes!" " Okay, then get the glass out yourself." " No! Wait please. I don't want to do it myself. Please stay." " You hated how vulnerable you sounded and how you were practically begging, but you really din't want to pull all the glass out yourself. " Try to pull some of it out yourself, I'll watch and help you if you need it." He sat down and crossed his legs. Putting your foot on your lap you began to gingerly pull out the glass. " Ow ow ow! Can you help, it hurts really bad." He stood up and came over, kneeling down in front of you. He plucked out glass a lot faster than you, but it hurt a lot more. And you had to admit it, he looked so damn hot on his knees with his eyes focused on your foot. " Ugh! Can you stop ripping it out so fast?" " No."

After about 30 minutes of torturous glass pulling, your foot was cleaned with rubbing alcohol and was wrapped. You limped with him down the hall towards your bathroom so he could wash the blood off his hands. Once he finished you leaned against the wall in the small hallway, his body and yours only a few inches from touching. You could smell his favorite cologne, axe body spray. You looked at your ex. " Why are you really here Touya?" He knew you were infuriated as to why he was here. He treated you like shit and even hit you once.

He was coming back from attacking UA and was tired as hell.He didn't want to talk to you or even see you, so when he opened the door and saw you there he already knew what was happening. " Hey babe! How did it go?" You asked with a smile on your face, hoping that he said it went good and that he kicked some ass. But all you got was the close of the front door and him walking past you with nothing to say. Your smile faded and all though he didn't show it, he was upset to see that your always cheerful smile was replaced with a frown. It broke his heart. " Babe?" He hurried his pace and once he got to your shared bedroom he slammed the door right in your face. You had no quirk so all you could do was pound on the locked door. " Touya! open the damn door!" He pulled the door open and screamed " Will you shut the fuck up! You are such an annoying piece of shit!" tears streamed down your face. " Oh don't even pull that crying crap on me." " All I wanted to know was if it went well! You don't have to be such a bitch about it!" Red covered his vision and the next thing he knew was that he was punching you repeatedly. He punched you in the face, stomach and chest. " Stop! Stop! Touya please stop! I'm sorry!" He stopped mid punch. You were huddled in the corner of the room with your mouth bleeding, your nose bleeding and big ugly bruises were already forming. When you opened your eyes he was gone. All he left for you was a first aide kit.

He snapped out of the thought. " Well, why are you really here?" He sighed " I wanted to apologize about the way I treated you." " you never apologize, did Spinner or Toga send you here?" " Yeah." " look, I'm going to except that apology, even though I am still mad at you. I'm gonna give you 4 weeks to think of something to make it up to." " Okay, I love you. I got to get going." You sighed. " I love you too."

4 weeks later your foot had healed and you were still waiting for Touya to show up. You never liked calling him Dabi, because it wasn't the name given o him at birth. A knock on your door sent your nerves prickling all over. You opened the door and found him standing there. " Well, come on in." He stepped in. " He was awfully quiet. " So, did you think about how to make it up to me?" " Yes." " Good, how is that?" " By treating you right. By treating you like this." He started walking back towards you. You were now pressed against the wall with both of your bodies only inches away. He closed the gap between you and put his hand on the wall, right next to your head. His warm breath fanned out across your face that made you tingle. You knew what was going to happen. You have had sex before and that was at least six months ago. He slammed his lips on yours and cupped your face with his free hand. He was surprised that you kissed him back. He slid his tongue in your mouth and moaned at the feeling of your new tongue piercing. He pulled away. " A tongue piercing huh?" " I-I got it 2 weeks ago." " It suits you." He bit your collar bone and earned a moan. You tangled you fingers in his black hair. " Let's use that pretty voice of yours to see what you can do hm?" You nodded and wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you to your shared bedroom, setting you down on the black sheets. He played with your breasts while kissing you and biting your lips. " Touya." You moaned. His dick grew hard faster than you can count to 3. " Fuck! I've missed your voice." " I want you to touch me Touya. Please." He smirked. " Are you begging my little slut?" You grew wet at the pet name. " Yes daddy. Only for you." He stripped you and himself of clothing and began licking your wet clit. " Fuck daddy! I'm close!" " Come for me baby girl." an orgasm wracked through your body, so intense. One you have never felt before. You screamed as your juices were released. " Fuck! Daddy, pound into me! I need you inside of me. I want your dick inside of me." " Your such a good slut. Begging and coming like a good girl. He lined himself up with you and pushed himself in, groaning at how tight your hole was. He began pounding into you with such force that your bed rocked. " Your so fucking tight for me." You whimpered as he hit your G-spot. " Right there daddy." His thrusts became sloppy and your breaths were shortened as you approached your climax. " I'm gonna cum Touya!" " I know y/n, me too. Just hold on a bit longer." Moments later he pulled himself out and came all over your stomach and into your mouth. You came all over his chest. He laid down next to you after gently cleaning you up. He pulled your naked form close to his. " Was this enough to make it up to you?" " Yeah."

This took 3 and a half hours to do. Hope you enjoy our favorite fire villain.

[the-dragon-hearted]

Hunt

I got bored so here - a drabble from an Avenger's Dream SMP AU I just thought of. Look, I just wanted the Foolish & Dream brotherly bonding, and that one scene in Thor: The Dark World just spoke to me.

~~~

Her eyes were closed. There was some solace in that, though not enough. Foolish clenched the folded hands of his father and swallowed the sob stuck behind his teeth. Her hands were cold now... pale, like her expression that sat so peacefully on her face.

Puffy looked so calm, even in death.

It wasn't fair.

"Foolish," Eret's voice soothed as a hand fell on Foolish's shoulder. "It's time."

Foolish breathed for what felt like the first time that day, wincing as tears slid down his cheeks. His Father lay in a rowboat, flowers of all kinds tucking her into this final bed. Niki had picked them from her garden, the eternal garden of Spring, and Foolish felt Puffy would've liked it.

Niki was somewhere behind them, with the scores of other Asgardians who'd come to see their great King's funeral. Everyone else had said their final goodbye, whispering words into the dead woman's lamb-like ears that would never twitch again.

Foolish clenched her hands tighter and before Eret could lead him away he leaned closer and felt the anger hiding under his grief bubble up.

"I'll find who did this," he whispered to her. "I'll make them pay for this."

He watched her face, knowing there'd be no twitch, no amused laugh, no tired sigh. Her expression sat still in that sea of wool that sat around her like a cloud, an ethereal look for the King of Asgard.

What would she say? How would she comfort him? She'd probably smile painfully, wrap him in a hug, and promise that it would all be alright. He'd bury his face into her wool and she'd whisper, so softly no one would hear it, but she'd whisper into his ears... she'd tell him to take care of himself... and of Dream.

He squeezed her hand and took a long breath.

"And... I'll take care of Dream," Foolish breathed so that no one heard him. "We'll avenge you."

He was an avenger... he was good at that.

Eret helped him shove the boat into the water, pebbles scraping against the bottom of the boat until it took to the water and started flowing out for the edge of the world. Foolish watched it go, standing ankle-deep in the water as that boat drifted out further and further.

Eret was speaking... she was always better at Eulogies and speeches. She could at least talk without breaking into sobs.

In the back of the crowd, Niki raised her bow. The fire at the tip of her arrow glimmered in her eyes with something dark and vengeful. As Eret finished his eulogy the arrow was released in a snap. Foolish watched it fly, like a shooting star that easily found its target at the foot of the boat drifting further and further away.

The hungry fires of Asgard took to the wood and the flowers quickly, an inferno building up before the boat reached the edge.

Eret bowed his head. Niki lowered her bow and let her own tears fall. Sam, ever watchful, stood at the Bifrost, refusing to blink as he watched the finishing of a great King's reign.

Foolish just watched. Watched and cried and simmered.

"I'll avenge you," he whispered to the wind as his father's pyre drifted to the very edge of Asgard and then plunged into the stars.

~~~

The prisons of Asguard were not cruel, though some wished them to be. Sam had always believed that they were too lax on the worst of people... Foolish had never really cared. He strode past cell after cell, deeper into the depths of this hell of boxed horrors and caged maniacs. They called at him, jeered at him, laughed at Asguard's new 'king'. They were all thrilled that Puffy was dead and had no reservations about sharing those opinions.

They were lucky he had other things on his mind.

In the lowest level of the prison, in what was likely the most lavish cell, sat the prisoner he came for.

Well... lavish was the wrong word for it now.

The books had all been torn apart, their pages a new carpet for the cell. The furniture was strewn about, at least the furniture that wasn't ripped apart. The cot was torn apart too, ripped and torn, its feathered stuffing leaking out like white blood. Foolish stoo before the cell and slowly let himself look at the man sitting in the back of the cell.

Cold green eyes met light emerald ones and Foolish thought he saw a bit of agony in those dark forest eyes of Dream... for only a moment though. Those eyes grew firm and grateful.

"Foolish," his name in his brother's tongue was poison and venom all at once. Dream rolled his name around his fanged mouth before a sneer built up on his un-masked face. "It's been a while. Finally decided to pay me a visit?"

Foolish took a breath and looked cooly at Dream, like Father would've. She was never offset by Dream, never hurt by his sharp words or thrown off by the hatred in his eyes. She had always carried a stern hand but loving eyes and Foolish wished he could understand how she did it.

Dream stood up from where he sat and strode to the wall of the cell, leaning forward ever so slightly to glare down at Foolish.

"Why come now?" he hissed. "What - to gloat? Is that it? Or have you come to mock me - "

Foolish blinked once as he stared up at Dream. He clung to that agony he'd first seen in his brother's face and prayed, prayed that Puffy had been right and that Dream had some sort of love in that twisted chest of his.

"Enough," Foolish sighed. He stared at Dream and let his shoulders relax. This was Dream... they'd played together, laughed together, fought together, killed together. For a moment Foolish remembered the expression Dream would carry when he was trying to hide a wound. That tight-browed, clenched jaw look made him snap in anger: "I'm fine!" he'd say until Foolish grabbed his shoulder at watched a full-body flinch seize his brother's body.

Dream had that look now.

"Oh - so you've come to try and make peace for dear old Father - " Dream began to bite.

"Stop lying to yourself," Foolish ordered. It wasn't cold, but it was far from warm either. They looked at each other for a long moment and, surprisingly, it was Dream that broke away first.

He ripped away from the eye contact and kicked the remnants of a chair so that it cracked into the opposite wall and splintered apart further. He screamed in anger and then whirled around to face Foolish again, a crazed look in his eye and a smile that sat too wide of his lips.

"Stop lying... stop lying!" Dream laughed, madness laced in his words. "Alright - Alright, sure, I'll stop! You get to see me as I am, good for you! You get to see what a mess the great Dream is! Lying to myself - yes, yes how do you think I've lived this long, brother?"

There were tears in Dream's eyes as he paced around his cell like an animal.

Foolish kept his mouth shut and watched him. Watched him as he kicked a small table, punched a wall, and slid to the ground, holding his head and hiding his tears. For a moment, he had to look away as the first sob emerged from Dream's lips. He looked to the floor, at his shoes, at the intricate markings carved into the stone floor. He looked anywhere other than Dream who seemed to get some control over himself in the next moment or two.

"Did - Did she suffer?"

Foolish looked back up and found Dream's eyes. They were larger now, pleading...

"Mother - I mean Puffy... did she suffer?"

Foolish swallowed a lump in his throat and felt anger in his chest. Puffy had killed swaths of their crimson invaders before she was finally felled. Suffering hadn't been the question but that did not make it easier.

"No... not entirely," Foolish managed.

"Who did it?" Dream breathed.

Foolish clenched his jaw and forced himself to speak. "I didn't come to grieve. I came to offer something more... satiating."

Dream slowly sat up, his eyes narrowing. "Go on..."

"I know you, Dream," Foolish muttered. "I know you want vengeance... likely as much as I do. I can get it to you... but you're the only one who knows the in's and out's of the galaxy. You're the only one who can get us to the Crimson's layer. You get me to the place of our parent's murderer, and I'll get you out of this cell."

Dream seemed to ponder this for a moment behind cloudy eyes. Then, a smile lit up his face... not a cold one or a crazed one, but a light sort of smile that used to decorate his face on a summer day or an entertaining battle. He smiled and looked to Foolish, something... familiar in his eyes.

"You... you must be desperate to come to me," he murmured, shaking his head. "What makes you think you can trust me?"

"I don't," Foolish bit quickly. It was his turn to pace. "Any trust I had for you disappeared months ago... but know that every time we've fought I've done so with the hope that somewhere in there was my brother... and that somehow I'd get him out."

"So... what? You've gotten used to disappointment?" Dream asked.

"I've gotten used to you," Foolish muttered. "The hope is gone, just as my brother is. If you betray me, I'll kill you."

Dream's eyes glimmered at that... glimmered with mirth. Another real smile touched his scarred face and he looked... happy?

"Good... then you're learning," he smirked. "So... when do we start?"

"Now," Foolish stated as he put his hand on the lock and had it shatter apart. The cell walls fell apart and Dream looked at his surroundings with a wider smile.

He was at Foolish's side in seconds, one side of his smirk higher than the other as a laugh bubbled in his throat.

"Oh... oh... this'll be fun," he snickered.

Foolish pulled the familiar mask out of his cloak and handed it to the hunter. Dream's smirk melted away into... shock? Yes, it was shock on his face as he gingerly reached out and took it.

"Your mother wanted you to have this," Foolish muttered.

"She kept it?"

Foolish nodded in response. He hadn't understood why his Father had kept it... but Puffy refused to let it go. Now... it was back where it belonged.

Dream blinked a few times as he stared at the carved bone mask in his hands. Then, with adept fingers he put in on, tying the strap behind his mess of golden hair.

"Don't trust me, brother," Dream muttered as he finished tying the mask on. "But trust my rage."

Foolish nodded and looked towards the mess of a cell his brother had destroyed.

"It's the only thing I can trust," he breathed.

With that the two of them made their way towards the door, Foolish thinking of all the scolding Puffy would've given him while Dream thought of all the ways he would torture his mother's murderer.

Vengeance would be theirs.

[wisdom-walks-alone]

maybe someday i’ll come back to you

Dick and Damian centric. Emotional hurt/comfort. Hurt Damian Wayne. Amnesiac Dick Grayson (Ric). Coming out. 3019 words.

Summary:

"Do you wanna come in?"

He wants to say no. But there's a pang in his chest, a desperate ache for someone who no longer exists, and he finds himself saying yes.

In which there's only one person that Damian would want to go to for comfort.

Shoutout to the AMAZING @darlinglissa for betaing this!

read it on ao3

The key feels familiar in Damian's hand, familiar like the pattern on the carpet and the musty smell of the hallway. He stares at it, feels it between his fingers and fidgets with it. His grip tightens as he feels his expression sour. If he wanted to, he could put the key in the doorknob, turn it, hear the lock click and push the door open. It would be so easy.

But he can't do that. Damian knows this, so he doesn't. Instead, he pockets the key, and he lifts his hand to knock. But all of his usual confidence and self-assuredness suddenly evaporates, and he hesitates, staring up at the numbers on the door and catching his lip between his teeth. Dropping his hand, Damian steps back to lean against the wall and lets himself slide to the floor, still staring up at the numbers on the apartment door.

This was a stupid idea, he tells himself. He shouldn't have come here.

Just as he's about to get up and leave, the door swings open. "Can I help you?" asks his brother. Except it's not his brother, Damian has to remind himself. His brother is dead.

"No, no," he replies, standing up quickly and dusting himself off. "I was just leaving. Sorry to bother you."

Before he can make it more than a few steps down the hallway, Dick's voice calls after him. "Kid, wait." Damian looks back and sees the man biting his lip as if contemplating something before shaking his head in resignation. "Do you wanna come in?"

Damian stares at him and blinks, not quite processing what he just said. The man just raises an eyebrow at him and tilts his head. Well?

He wants to say no. But there's a pang in his chest, a desperate ache for someone who no longer exists, and he finds himself saying yes.

For what it's worth, the apartment hasn't changed much. There's a few pieces of clothing he doesn't recognize draped over various pieces of furniture, but it's the same mess all the same. Some things just never change, Damian supposes. 

The pictures are gone, though. Dick always kept pictures around his apartment, dozens of them. Damian has a mental catalogue of every single one and where it hung or sat framed on a shelf. All that's there now are bare walls and the ghosts of a thousand memories.

"Do you want something to drink?" Dick's voice comes from the kitchen.

"If it is not too much trouble," Damian answers, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Thank you for your hospitality, Richard."

"Ric is fine."

"That is duly noted, Richard."

He can hear a deep sigh from the kitchen. "I've got coffee, coke, and… You're a kid so you probably don't drink, so, uh, do you want some apple juice? Orange juice?"

Damian scoffs. "I am fifteen years old, I am not a child."

"So, a coke then?"

"Do you have tea?"

"Uh." There's some shuffling sounds as Damian imagines him rummaging through the cabinets. "Yeah. I have earl gray or chamomile-"

"Do you have jasmine?" Damian asks, biting back a little bit of hope.

"Um, I don't think…" There's some more rummaging, then a surprised, "Oh, yeah, I do have jasmine."

Something tugs at his heart as a wry smile tugs at his lips. Dick hated jasmine tea, but he always kept a box of it for Damian. He knew it was his favorite. Memories of late night post patrol drinks as Batman and Robin come to mind, Dick telling Alfred to surprise him as they began to unwind in the cave. Dick never minded what beverage he had after patrol, but Damian always had jasmine tea.

His eye catches on something laying on the arm of the couch, and he picks it up to inspect it. The hockey jersey from the game Dick took him to for his fourteenth birthday. It was the poorly named Gotham City Penguins against the Star City Icewalkers. Gotham had won eight-to-two, and Dick had insisted they get matching jerseys of the player who scored the winning goal. Damian had scoffed and turned his nose at the idea then, but now he wishes with every inch of his body that he could go back.

There's a laundry basket at his feet next to the couch, and he's about to drop the jersey into it when he sees a woman's blouse laying inside.

A woman has been staying here.

Damian internally shivers at the thought and drops the jersey into the basket.

He wanders back to the small dining table and reaches for a chair that has a jacket draped over the back. It's one of Jason's jackets, Damian registers, that Dick borrowed and evidently never returned. He pulls the chair out and sits as Richard emerges from the kitchen with two cups, setting one in front of Damian before taking a seat across from him.

"It's Damian, isn't it?" Richard starts, and Damian pretends his insides don't twist a little at that.

"Yes," he answers, sniffing his cup of tea as he brings it to his lips and takes a sip. The warmth of it pools in his chest, the familiar taste dancing on his taste buds, and for a moment he can imagine he’s ten years old again, sitting at the table in the batcave after a night of patrol. Damian has to keep himself from chasing the euphoria of it before he chugs the whole thing in one go.

Richard takes a sip of his own drink. "So, what brings you here, Damian?" he asks, but he looks like he already knows the answer.

"I…" Damian licks his lip and bites down on it as he struggles with his words, blinking hard. He'd avoided voicing his feelings on the matter, had avoided the subject altogether for the last few months. He hadn't talked about it with anyone, not Father, not Tim or Barbara, not even Alfred. He hadn't even allowed himself much time to think about it as he spent countless nights in the cave training, trying to escape from his own thoughts. "I—I just miss him, I suppose." Richard just makes a humming noise.

"I'm sorry, and I know you've probably heard that a million times, but that's really all I can say." He looks at Damian sympathetically, but Damian looks away to stare into his drink. "I know it must be hard, and that it really sucks, but I need you to know that I'm not-"

"I am well aware that my brother died that night," Damian interrupts, his grip on his cup tightening. He takes a second to concentrate on his breathing, then lets the warmth of the cup on his hands ground him as he finally looks up.

The man in front of him doesn't look like Dick, not really. His hair is still short from when it had been shaved, which gives a perfect view of the ugly scar above his ear, and he carries himself in a way that Damian’s never seen with his brother, not even when undercover. But he's looking at Damian with the same kind, patient eyes that he knows so well, and Damian bursts into tears.

-

Ric isn't sure why he invited the kid in. Maybe it was how sad and dejected he looked, the way he seemed already so resigned. Maybe it was the way he hadn't barged in here insisting that he remember memories he doesn’t have and that he be someone he’s not. Maybe it was the fact that he was about to leave.

Whatever the reason was he’d done it. He didn't mean to, he’d just blurted it out. Something just told him he couldn't let the kid go. As soon as the offer had come out of his mouth Ric knew it was a mistake. Or, at least, he thought it would be.

This time is different, Ric can feel it. He’d expected another desperate “family” member begging him to come home to a place he doesn’t remember ever being to. For tears and pleas and mentions of moments he doesn’t recall in the hopes that there’s one that he will. But the kid just looked at him like a kicked puppy and tried to run away.

He couldn’t just kick a puppy to the curb.

The kid—Damian, if he remembered correctly—had defied all of Ric’s expectations. He was quiet and didn’t make any attempt at conversation, didn’t make any move to initiate the dance he’s done countless times with Bruce and Barbara. And for the first time since waking up in this mess Ric feels bad—really bad, not just the obligatory pity.

And now, fuck, now the kid was crying. It’s not like Ric hasn’t dealt with crying before, Barbara had cried plenty. But this is different, somehow.

“Shit, hey, kid, I—”

“Fuck, fuck,” Damian swears breathily, the sweatshirt sleeves that are too long for his arms covering the heels of his hands as he digs them into his eyes. He hunches into himself, his chair skidding back a few inches, still cursing and trying desperately to reign in his sobs. “Fuck, I—I’m sorry, I should go.”

He stands up abruptly and swiftly starts toward the door, ducking his head, but Ric reaches out and catches him by the arm. "Hey, shit, kid, wait a minute, just… Don't—don't go." Damian stares at him, that kicked puppy look mixing with deer in headlights, tears still prickling at his eyelashes. Ric doesn't take his hand away, just stares back pleadingly.

He's not sure why, but he just can't stand to let the kid leave in tears.

Damian stares at him for a long time, green eyes scrutinizing him, all the hurt written as plain as day on his face. When he finally speaks it’s sharp, barely above a whisper. “Why shouldn’t I?”

The question stumps him, it packs a punch he wasn’t expecting, and Ric is left with his mouth hanging open looking for words that don't come. “Look,” he finally manages to get out, “I just want to talk. You were there when I woke up, weren’t you? So you must’ve been important to me, right?”

The words feel wrong on his tongue, but they're all he could come up with to try and get the kid to stay, his efforts to separate himself from that guy be damned.

It must have been the wrong thing to say, though, because anger flares in the kid’s face, mouth contorting in a sneer. “You’re not him,” he spats, eyes like ice. “You’ll never be him, so you can stop trying.”

Ric doesn’t know what to say to that. Shocked, he lets go of Damian’s arm and slumps back in his chair. And that’s when it hits him that this is the first person who doesn’t expect him to be Dick Grayson, doesn’t want him to try to be. He laughs at the irony of it, which clearly startles Damian. “You're right,” Ric says, “I’m not him. And I don't want to be him. I don't know if I’ll ever be him again, I don't think he’s here anymore.” He taps himself on the head. “But you look like you need to talk. To him or about him, whatever you need to get off your chest, and I’m offering you a chance to do that in one way or another. So if you wanna sit back down and talk about it or get the hell out of here, that’s up to you, and it doesn't matter much to me either way.”

That's kind of a lie; he'll feel guilty as hell if the kid leaves now, leaves angry, but it doesn't look like he needs to worry about that as the kid sighs and slumps back into his seat. He looks tired.

“It’s stupid,” he says quietly, leaning forward on the table and rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s pathetic. I just…I miss him so much. Not that it matters to you, but Grayson—Dick was my most trusted confidant. There has been…a lot on my mind, recently. There is a lot I wish I could tell him.” 

This kid just looks so lost and alone, and Ric’s heart aches for him. Ric doesn't know how to say that it does matter to me, kid, just not in the same way it would matter to him.

The kid looks like he’s about to break down again, and for the first time Ric wishes for all the world that he could be Dick Grayson.

Instead, he settles for something else. “Look, kid, it’s not stupid and…and it’s not pathetic. It’s normal and understandable. You miss him, and…he was obviously important to you.” He sighs, runs a hand over his face roughly. “Listen, I’m not going to sit here and try to be anything close to what he was to you. But I’m offering something else.”

Damian smiles ruefully. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Ric smiles in a way he hopes is encouraging. “Well, why don't you start with what brought you here? Did anything happen or…were you just missing him?”

Damian ducks his head, and Ric thinks there’s something like a blush painting his cheeks. “Yes, well, that actually is stupid.”

“Come on, kid.”

“It is trivial,” Damian corrects. “It’s stupid that something like this is what brought me here.”

“Try me.”

Damian sucks in a breath and releases it through his nose, closing his eyes. “I kissed my best friend yesterday.”

Ric has to laugh out loud at that. “What, so you think just because you dress up in spandex at night and punch criminals you’re not allowed to have normal teenager problems? Those bat-freaks really did a number on you, huh.” Damian just scoffs.

“It’s trivial. It’s insignificant. In the grand scheme of things—”

“You’re allowed to be a teenager, dude. No matter what freaky night job you might have, you’re allowed to have feelings. Man, has no one really told you that? That’s—”

“Dick would have.”

And Ric stops in his tracks.

Damian’s gaze shifts down to his lap. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh.”

It’s quiet for a minute. Damian fidgets in his seat, and Ric tries to think of what to say next.

“Well…” He finally breaks the silence. “What happened after you kissed your friend? How did she react?”

Damian laughs sadly, humorlessly. Ric just tilts his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t stick around for his reaction.”

Oh.

“Oh, shit, kid, this is something Dick would’ve known about isn't it, I’m sorry.”

“No,” Damian shakes his head, “he didn’t—I mean, he knew Jon was my best friend, but he didn’t know—”

“Oh, kid.”

“Yeah.”

“Does anyone else…?”

The kid lets out a strangled sound. “I wanted him to be the first one I told.”

“I am so sorry, kid.”

“I know you are.”

It’s quiet again. The kid cries softly, and Ric waits for him to get a hold of himself again. “So you kissed your best friend,” he reiterates. “And you didn’t stay for his reaction. Is there anything that he’s done that makes you think he’d react badly?”

“No,” Damian answers instantly. “He wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

“So what’s the worst that could happen?” Damian looks at him and gives him a look that begs him to understand. Ric huffs out a laugh. “You’re afraid of rejection.”

The kid looks away quickly, a scoff on his lips. 

“Everyone gets scared of rejection, kid. That’s normal.” Damian still won’t look at him. “I get it. You’re afraid of what this means for your friendship. You’re afraid things’ll be weird.”

Damian nods slowly. “Yes, to all of that, but…I am also afraid of what would happen if…if he…”

“If he reciprocates,” Ric finishes. Damian nods again, finally looking back up at him.

“I’ve never been in a relationship before,” he admits. “I think I am the worst person you could be in a relationship with.”

Ric’s heart stutters a little at that. “Listen, kid, everyone deserves to be happy. Don't let what you think of yourself get in the way of that.”

The kid tucks into himself again, rubbing his arm. “Jon is too good for me. I would just corrupt him.”

“Would Jon say that?”

“No—”

“Well there you go.” Ric grins at him. “Talk to him. If he’s as great as you say he is I’m sure only good things can come from it.”

Slowly, Damian nods. “Yes. You are right.” He looks up. “Thank you.” And Ric can tell he means it.

“Anytime,” Ric replies, and maybe he means it, too. He gives the kid a small smile, and he’s pleased when it’s returned.

“I should…I should get going.” Damian stands and pushes in his chair. He stops, as if suddenly remembering something. “You might want this back,” he says, digging something out of his pocket and holding it out. It’s a key.

Before he can think about it too much, Ric makes a decision. “Keep it,” he says easily. And then, before he can think too hard again, “I meant it when I said anytime.”

Damian doesn’t try to hide his surprise, just stares at Ric for a long moment before sticking the key back in his pocket. “Thank you,” he says softly. “Thank you, Ric.”

Ric smiles, nods genially. “Anytime, kid.” And as the kid makes his way to the door, Ric makes one more split second decision. “And kid?” Damian turns around in the doorway. “Call me Dick.”

The kid looks startled for a second, but then he smiles a little, huffs out a little laugh. He says one last thing before he turns around and leaves. “Thanks, Dick.”

-

When Damian leaves, he feels lighter. As if all the weight he’s been carrying around has finally dissipated. He still misses Dick, the real Dick, but this isn’t so bad. It’s not the same, but it’s not completely different, either.