#Those nuns mean NOTHING

[caliphoria17]

[bitchfitch]

I've started playing Potion Permit, and so far it's one of my favorite games I've messed around with, but the most big brained move the devs made was giving you a dog on day 1, and then making that dog able to track NPCs and lead you directly to them no matter where they are in the town.

[amtrak12]

The difference between primary m/f writers and primary f/f writers (or presumably m/m writers)?

f/f writers are always using the character’s names and m/f writers never, ever do.

[writermani4c]

Me and the Devil | Count Orlok x Reader

summary: You're a nun at an isolated convent. He is in your mind, eating away your mind bit by bit, soon destroying the pillars of your faith. Until you have no choice but to surrender to him, he will destroy all that is necessary.

warnings: He's a vampire. Of course he doesn't have to play fair, does he? There is mind control and there are some rather bloody deaths. I don't think I'm really good with that, I don't think it's too heavy, but it's good that there's a warning.

:: We girls can't bear to see a vampire who is completely obsessed with a woman, who will spill as much blood as it takes to get her, and who has already fallen in love with her. I'm completely obsessed by Nosferatu, even though I couldn't get a screening where I live. This is basically my brain being eaten away by Bill Skarsgard's hunger… I'm always hungry for Bill, but at this point in time I could be kept in a secluded castle to give birth to all of his babies, and I mean that. I hope you enjoy this. By the way, good luck in 2024!

The high-pitched squeak penetrated the stones of the convent, seeping like moss into the soft, bumpy cracks in the porosity, and imitated the soft voice of a wanderer saying a prayer in a dead language, older than time. His understanding was forgotten by men, but that didn't silence him. That voice was still preserved in the air that surrounded you like a thick mantle covering a thick cotton habit, as light as the coat of a holy lamb, which covered you from head to toe in a sacred enclosure. 

Through the narrow window of his room, all that showed were the orange Carpathian mountain ranges in the middle of a mild autumn, with the taste of hot tea and the smell of a fire burning in the evening, when the temperature dropped at night.

The mountain ranges and that stone fortress, far from the convent and yet terribly close.

Every day, the castle seemed to move. When you weren't watching it with your stoic expression, it seemed to grow tentacles over its foundation and creep up slowly. Depending on the day, it seemed further away, with only the tip of its towers appearing between the hills. But when you were getting ready for bed, tucked up in the modest comfort of your little room and wrapped in the soft blanket of your nightgown, the castle seemed terribly close to you, so close that you could feel its evil aura as you raised your hand in a vain attempt to touch it. 

He was calling you. A strength, a terror, a hungry longing.

Come to me, my eternal beloved. 

Tormented, you choked on your own breath. The deep, seductive sound of that voice crept under your blankets at night, and under the modest garments of your nightgown, finding your soft, easy-to-creep skin. His touch was physical, even if you often groped your skin in search of those hands and found nothing but loneliness, and intimacy. So intimate that not even the devil himself, cruel and cunning, could emulate such evil in his attempt to corrupt the Lord Jesus in his trial in the desert.

It scared you.

The feeling of intimacy that belongs to something, that is lost until it is regained. That invisible hand, as well as the voice that only you heard, shook your sense of self and made you feel the narrow mattress slipping off your back, the thin blanket sliding off your body and your fear of dissolving as you floated above the bed. A demonic, ghostly vision, with your eyes rolled back in a trance that nothing and no one could stop.

You felt it, more intimately than you felt anything else, and that was scarier than any of the other traps in hell.

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— My child — greeted the voice on the other side of the wooden confessional booth. The only voice you could turn to in times of extreme need. Father Lengyel was an elderly authority in the convent, as was Mother Superior Illés. If it hadn't been for that, you wouldn't have had the courage to confide in him your greatest fears, seeking the reassurance of his gentle voice. — In your praiseworthy stillness, I can see that something is troubling you. You owe me your ordeal, child.

— Father, help me! — Tired and sleepless after a night awake, with your knees against the floor praying to ward off the tentacles of evil, you felt your eyes grow heavy as you saw the low, hunchbacked shadow of the priest. — I'm cursed. I didn't do anything about it, but I know that the shadow that haunts me was born with me, wrapped around me like an umbilical cord that has never been amputated. I feel it and sometimes I hear its impatience calling my name.

— Fear not, my child. No shadow of a curse is stronger than our Lord's mercy on your spirit, waking you up every morning with a breath of life.

But maybe it's not our Lord, you thought bitterly. You almost disbelieved that God would even work in your cause, probably deciding to wash his hands of you and leave you alone on your ordeal. This thought angered you, wondering how God, your holy God to whom you dedicated your time and efforts to serve with blind devotion, could leave one of his daughters helpless when the claws of the nefarious one threatened to entangle her? 

And anger, even though it was blasphemy with your Father, was easier to manage in your restless spirit than the fear that perhaps God hadn't let go of your hand. Perhaps he was there, following in your footsteps not long ago, weeping blood for not being able to do anything to prevent the evils that awaited you. Maybe there were forces greater than the salvation you blindly tried to reach like a child afraid of the dark.

That thought you swept from your mind, because if that thing was stronger than the Savior you were turning to, there would be no reason to be reluctant in its evil call.

— I beg you, Father, with all the infinite goodness of your being, pray for my soul. 

— I will, my child. You too, pray for wisdom and that the Lord, in his infinite love, will bring you comfort. 

When you left the confessional, you got down on your knees in front of the proudly erected altar. The suffering face of that poor man in his moment of greatest difficulty never comforted you, but inspired you. If even he, the son and Messiah, found the purpose to remain firm on the narrow road of faith, you too would find the strength to stay in the light. You would have to pass through that tortuous valley to have your healing.

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You weren't the youngest in the convent, but you weren't the oldest either. When you arrived, with your only bag with a few belongings and a photo of the home you grew up in, the home that always seemed unworthy of your torments about the terror that was trying to get its claws into you, there were older girls who took you in as a younger sister, teaching you the trade so that you could also teach those who came to the convent after you. This was the mission: you didn't serve God's pure purpose alone, but learned from your sisters so that you could teach others in a cycle that stretched out like an infinite patchwork quilt. 

Among his protégés, the young Agnes was the most cherished. So young and intelligent, she was your faithful dog in the convent corridors. Agnes, who came from a poorer and more literate family than yours, found comfort in listening to you read the Psalms, the book they were given to study. Agnes' chubby cheeks and earthy brown eyes reminded you of the child you would never have, the one you could never run your hand through and love. The Lord was merciful to you in giving you a sister to fill that void and you gave her all the attention you could. Your beloved Agnes sat next to you while you ate your lunch in silence. The soup was thinner, to save supplies for the harsh winter, and the bread was smaller. All deposits were saved and all fasting was done in summer and fall, because in winter your bodies' strength was tested by the ice that seemed to be trying to infiltrate your bones. They would have to eat better to survive until spring.

Next to him, young Agnes choked on her bread.

— Eat slowly. 

— Pardon me, sister! — She stopped eating, lowering her head as if she expected to be punished. You smiled, running your hand over your protégé's head. 

— Don't be like that. I'm talking for your own good, chew better, it also helps to fill your stomach.

The girl turned her face towards you with a soft, youthful smile. 

A low, loud sound caught their attention. It was as if the ceiling had broken, so you looked up in doubt, but it seemed as firm as ever. Surprised gasps and the sound of footsteps moving across the stone floor made you stand up and look around, at the shocked faces of your sisters. 

— Stay behind me, Agnes. — You stood in front of the girl, shielding her with your body, while you searched for the cause of the commotion among the others. 

Another thud made you find the source of the terror. Your older sister, a girl so genuinely kind that she wouldn't mind giving up her own shoes and going barefoot if she had to. Olga. Olga, who was so generous that she always presented the others with little embroideries on old linen handkerchiefs, making them priceless pieces. Olga who hugged you as soon as you arrived, immensely happy as if you were a relative she hadn't seen for years and who was returning home. Your beloved sister Olga's nose was covered in blood and her front teeth were in an equally miserable state. Her blue eyes were completely covered by dark pupils, making them animalistic as she looked around at the familiar faces until she stopped at you. 

She gritted her teeth painfully, teasing the veins in her neck. Olga no longer knew you. She didn't look at you like her younger sister, but with anger.

— Ungrateful! Damn you! — She pointed her slender, cocked forefinger, the knuckles seeming to ache with the effort. — Ungrateful and  damned, unfortunate creature! Look what I do to what you love so much, look what I do to the object of your efforts!

Olga moved her face away from the table enough to almost fall backwards, gripping the edge of the table with her fingers tightly, before putting all her strength forward and, with a hollow sound of something breaking, smashing her nose against the wooden table. The noise tore you apart. Young Agnes' arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you pushed her back. 

Mother Illés rushed into the dining hall. 

She gave you an appeasing look and you understood. With agility, you gathered all the younger girls, totally terrified, and asked them to follow you out while Olga, surrounded and supported by her older sisters, screamed:

— Love me! Devote yourself to me! Command me if you wish, but don't ignore me, my beloved, don't deny me, for I am your lord and savior! I am the master of your pure and tormented soul, my beloved! 

But you, terrified, denied his call once again. You covered your ears as you led the girls into the courtyard outside. The dry autumn wind enveloped you, your voices, but did nothing to muffle the terror in your minds. Little Agnes was still wrapped tightly in your body and soon the others followed suit, seeking warmth in your shivering, freezing body. Concentrating on them, on reassuring them, took your mind off the torturous thought that, yes, he was impatient.

All those years of “tranquility” were his gift, his way of making you surrender voluntarily. But he was lonely. He was hungry. 

Now he controlled Olga's body. 

But not just her. 

That same night, while Olga was tied to her bed under the watchful eye of Mother Illés, Annabeth began to dance as she blew out the candles. You didn't see it, you were busy with your chores, but the others saw it and told you about it in sad, frightened voices. Annabeth, so young and playful, began to twirl around and the others thought she was just playing. The girl liked to play games, hiding pine cones under her pillows and little flowers in the sleeves of her habits. 

She spun around mesmerized, spinning faster and faster and more violently. Her feet seemed bewitched and she suffered without even being able to move her mouth to do so, her teeth clenched in a painful grind as her jaw unhinged. The candles on the altar grew, fueled by something supernatural and unworthy, dancing along with young Annabeth.

That macabre dance ended in a tableau and the flames touching the young woman's habit. The fire consumed her without anyone being able to put it out; no amount of water could stop the flames. They consumed Annabeth until there was nothing left. In her death, she said nothing, but tearing her clothes to get rid of the fire, her name was torn into the soft skin of my body. Her name was everywhere, written with love, sorrow and anger. Like a love-hate letter, he wrote to you through the skin of an innocent girl. 

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You hadn't slept a wink for three nights. 

At the slightest sign of unconsciousness, as you blinked your eyes a little more slowly, it was as if he was lurking there waiting to take you, and this made you resist even though your body could barely stand.

The mother didn't let you take part in the funeral, allowing you only a brief farewell before you were taken to your chambers to rest. 

You didn't want to rest.

Even so, you didn't have the strength to move. Perhaps it was tiredness or apathy, the feeling that all your efforts were useless.You lay there in your narrow bed, watching the day fade away through the shadows on the wall.

The night was his territory. 

Night was when he hid in the wind and entered his room.

Even though he wanted to, there was no voice in his throat to scream and a hot tear ran down his left eye. 

The door to his room opened and, to his relief, Father Lengyel entered his room. The black cloak swirled solemnly around him, like something divine coming to his rescue.

— What ails you, my dear!

— A large, slender hand, smelling of scrubbed earth, touched his face. There was a certain softness to it, even though the ice in your palms made you sigh with the thermal shock. — My poor little lamb! 

The man held your face lovingly, with such care that you simply let go, allowing yourself to cry in dismay at his attentive care. Father Lengyel, so small and twisted, sat on the edge of your bed. A candle burned on the chair on the other side of the room, the glow of the fire casting shadows on the wall next to your bed and leaving you cloaked in that lonely corner. Father Lengyel kissed your cheek, with those closed, dead lips, so cold they made you shiver.

— Father!

— Poor creature!

— My shadow is growing. — You confessed, leaning your face on the old man's hand. — My shadow consumed poor Olga and Annabeth, casting them into the valley of the storm. 

Father Lengyel pulled the blanket away from your body and, in the narrow space that barely fit a body, he lay down with you. Your eyes widened as the man pressed himself against your body. The man you had always seen as a loving and attentive father, a listener incapable of the slightest judgment, lay beside you with the warmth of a lover. 

— You curse us all, my sweet. — His mouth curved into a smile that only reflected darkness. — Everyone, everyone, everyone. My eyes, so blessed with the beauty of your soft skin and childish eyes, your sweet mouth and the shaggy strands of your eyebrows, became the object of his dark admirer's envy and, look, what he did to me.

In the short distance between your faces, that distance you wanted to increase at all costs, you could make out the old man's wrinkled features. His withered cheeks, the corners of his eyes creased by years and years of study and service to the church. His thinning hair was pearly white on his straight head, with little spots like freckles. The eyes, previously blue, weren't there. 

In their place, there was the emptiness of two hollow holes whose darkness seemed to feed with pleasure. 

The priest smiled in her direction.

— Smile, my dear. Who else in the world would be as adored and cherished as you? What other soul would be as worthy of all the fascination of eyes that have seen the rise and fall of empires as the rising and setting of the sun? There are worse ways to live. In complete ignorance, never seen and never remembered, gradually rotting away like this old man. 

In an unknown breath, you felt the instinct to fight with the same strength as the archangels as you sat up in bed, your body trembling from the effort. The priest continued to lie there, moaning with satisfaction as he enjoyed the smell of your hair against the pillow where you had shed your tears. 

He was totally possessed. The evil had taken hold of the most benevolent man you've ever had the pleasure of knowing, save only his own father, a man so generous that he gave up his beloved daughter to the care of a convent without ever doubting his desires to follow a holy life. All was lost.

You got out of bed, your legs wobbly as you dragged yourself out of the room. There were few lit candles and a long corridor. Carefully, you hugged your body and left your quarters, dreading the next demonic sight you would encounter on your way.

The convent seemed more alive than ever. A complete organism. The walls moved as it breathed and guided you in silence, the cold accompanying you like a guardian, a raven on your sullen shoulders. The moon was high in the sky, its pearly glow illuminating what not even candle flames could touch. And you walked, leaning on the walls, groping for balance. In the dining hall, where Olga's blood was embedded in the wood of one of the tables, you saw the shadows of the feet of all your beloved sisters and your devoted mother.

They all floated solemnly, with ropes around their necks. They all looked at you with pupils consumed by darkness and wide smiles, so big that they seemed to rejoice in your presence. 

— My beloved! — cried Clara. 

— Beacon of my darkness! — said Lucia. 

— Don't you see, my beloved? 

With dread, you walked around the tables, looking into their faces. Every single one of them. The rope wasn't taut, they were floating under the invisible force that kept them alive only for a brief moment. Just long enough for you to see them, to remember their names and their faces, their voices, their lives and their untouchable faith. Because they, like your Savior, had no power to stop the terrors you were cursed with at birth.

As soon as your cry marked his arrival in this rotten, petty and cheap world, he also felt the pain in his chest, where his lungs were supposed to work. Your soft cry marked the raw, lifeless gasp of the thing that woke up to take in its big, slender hands what was rightfully its: that poor soul, which had never found a single day's peace, shrouded in the melancholy of that fateful encounter. 

Nothing could stop her soul from touching him, much less his emptiness from possessing her soul.

It was a perfect fit, an unspoken agreement between heaven and hell. God, all merciful, gave you up for the greater good. You were eternally linked. 

And your sisters, mother and father paid the price for coming between the two of you, for taking you away from your true home and your true master. They filled your days with their miserable little lives, with miserable knowledge, with miserable privations for such... miserable glory. 

— I have set you free, my beloved. I have loosened the nails that bound you to your cross. — Murmured the mother, with jubilant eyes, cheeks streaked with sweet tears. Your stern and beneficent mother. — My obsession is the key to this filthy, worthless prison. Come, darling, and enjoy with me all the pleasures you've been denied. Come quickly, my beloved, put an end to my loneliness.

His shadow has grown over you, outside in the courtyard.

— Spare them! I beg you! — Her voice roared over the tearful smiles of her sisters. Young Agnes wiggled her legs, looking at you with that untouched childish gaze, as if she were throwing herself into dense fluffy clouds and not into the abyss of death, into the blackness of darkness. — Spare them and I'll follow you without looking back. I will never desire anything other than your company, nor will I follow any other path than the one your feet once trod.

Your sisters' laughter exploded through the high ceiling, laden with a mockery that didn't belong to them.

Bewitched, they all looked down at you with equal dark amusement, their voices blending together like a spiral that drained the strength from your legs. 

— Don't you understand yet, my holy lamb? — Smiled sweet Agnes. — There's no bargaining. Whether they live or die, you will still be mine.Even in death, I will pull you back and chain you to me. I myself have suffered many years of being bound to the prison of my desires for you, waiting for you for countless years, feeling the weight of your rejection, cruel lover. 

— But you love me, don't you?

— Every part of me to every part of you, my sweetness. 

— So give me these gifts. Spare my beloved sisters, my fellow human beings, those sweet women with pure hearts who have guarded me long enough for you to come and take your rightful possession. They are not guilty, but guardians. — On your knees, you clasped your hands to your chest, begging the devil for mercy. — I know I wasn't good to you, I was insensitive to your call, but they are not to blame.You'll have all my devotion if you spare them, but if you kill them, even though you have my body and my spirit, you'll never have a drop of my attention. 

The silence of the souls hanging from the ceiling of the convent refectory echoed their inconsolable weeping.Thick tears and a plea so strong that it could make the souls turn over in their graves. 

The doors opened in a rush, letting the cold wind enter the dining hall. 

For the first time, under the ethereal light of the moon, as if in a macabre mixture of dream and nightmare intertwined by the thin veil of unconsciousness, you saw it.Not its aura or its agonized call, you saw the creature with your own eyes. 

You, who know so little about men, had never seen such a figure. 

So tall that you had to stoop to pass through the door that you would walk through without any difficulty.Eyes so deep that no light could reach them. A face hardened by the spectre of death, with a long nose and a thick moustache of a deep shade of black.He entered the sacred ground with equal parts ease and pain, each step a necessary torture to reach the object of his desire. The soul he so coveted in his millennial solitude, forgotten by the world, completely abandoned under the promise of a single soul that the heavens did not claim, a soul he could corrupt at will. 

Yours to devour, he thought at first, perhaps resentful that he was also chained to a lowly mortal, a wandering and very basic creature. Yours to torment, he thought, when you were very young and saw his shadow in your room for the first time. Yours to worship, he realized now, pulling her by her bare arms to stand up.

The creature, hungry for something, for some compensation for its endless loneliness, brought its face close to his and, with a touch of malice, stuck out its tongue, licking the length of his tears with its cold, inhuman breath. 

— I thought you'd wait for me in your habit, my beloved.I was particularly looking forward to it. — He lowered his cold, vile gaze, delving into the shape of your body beneath the nightgown with which you were forced to rest, a fabric so thin of light cotton that it hung down your body, revealing through the worn nature of the fabric the color of your stiff nipples against the fabric. He gasped with pleasure. — But what unparalleled pleasure it is to see you in such intimate attire, my eternal obsession. 

His hands, holding her face, were huge, with large, aged nails. Nails that would have dug into the earth to escape the grave. Their coldness was uncomfortable, but, given the horrors in your mind, you found yourself accepting their touch as a shred of comfort.

It destroyed your sanity, that it would at least give you the soothing balm of a caress.

— Please! — you sighed with a breath, a breath as anguished as it was tired. 

Your hands touched his, your eyes full of life and fear threatened his darkness with such a benevolent request, something the creature had never witnessed. 

Those like you, mortals, used to beg for mercy on your own life, on your knees and with the greatest promises of riches and pleasures.And here you were, a soul who would never reach heaven, asking for mercy for others when it was your fate that was at stake.

How he loved you! How he hated you!

— Treating it as my personal gift and demonstration of my esteem, these women live by my ability to have mercy on the requests of your heart. — He approached your warmth, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the salt of your feverish skin. All his vitality was more than banal desire, he was madly fissured by every cell of his anatomy, every rudimentary bit of his mortal Anatomy, and so doomed to the horrors of putrefaction. — My eternal living flame, how it tormented me not to be able to touch it. How it torments me right now to feel the softness of your skin. 

The creature's eyes mapped your face, his eyes so vivid and striking in color, the visage on your skin, the softness of his mouth as you breathed audibly, so bruised by fatigue that you didn't even budge when he wrapped you in his arms like a bruised little bird. Her soft sigh, nesting her head against his shoulder, was the fuel for him to release the women from their ropes, gently lowering them until their feet touched the ground.

— As long as you live, my ladies, be the witness of my triumph in having my sweet beloved in my arms for eternity.

He lowered his face in your direction, the ancient smell on his clothes made you scratch your nose. 

The texture of his mustache was thick. When his funeral lips touched yours, you tried to resist. Never before have you felt the pleasure of a passionate kiss or a love that took your breath away. But he knew what he'd been waiting for, holding you tightly by the back of your head, wrapping himself around you menacingly as his mustache scratched and skin immaculate from his face. His lips were hard, demanding and hungry.

His mouth ate you as his last hope, the last of pleasures and torments, a feast for a dying man.

The exchange, life and death, touching each other for the first time ignited an impulse in you. The impulse that matched his kiss, because that was the deal. You gave in, letting your lips submit to the kiss. Your body was surprised as you gasped with pleasure at corresponding with him, stimulated by the passion with which he held you. The human body is capable of many bargains to continue resisting.

And you, who had resisted for so long, gave in to that bittersweet feeling of surrender, feeling it take against your body.

Her body gradually sank into the feeling of being supported. As her dark lover's lips devoured hers, the world became a darker and darker place, the hiss of the wind seeping into her ears like spilled poison.  Between soft gasps, feeling the creature suck on his lips, unable to be completely satiated, his body gave in to the strain, falling into a powerful sleep. Realizing that you no longer corresponded with him, he walked away, looking at her with apprehension. His right hand, large and bony, rested on his chest. 

The beating of his heart was quiet, yet powerful. Each beat rumbling softly against the bones of his chest. 

Under the gaze of the bewitched nuns, he disappeared with the night, carrying with him the only one with whom he could share his eternal night.

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[harunayuuka2060]

MC: *listens to the bride's and groom's families as they discuss whether to proceed with the wedding after the groom hits the bride*

Groom's mother: He didn’t mean to do it! Why are you making such a big deal out of it?!

Groom's father: That's right! It was an accident! And they were arguing!

Bride's father: Do you hit your wife when you're arguing with each other?!

Groom's father: You-

MC: *lets out an irritated sigh*

Them: ...

MC: *looks at the bride* My dear child, as the one who has been wronged, do you wish to continue with this wedding?

The groom: Yes, Father! We will-

MC: I'm not asking you!

The groom: ...

The groom: *turns to his bride, attempting to coax her into continuing the wedding*

The groom: Love… I promise that will never happen again. A-and we've been together for five years—you're not going to throw all that away over one misunderstanding, right?

The bride: *looks at him, clearly disappointed*

The bride: I think you forgot… I was raised in this church, where I learned to be confident in myself and not let anyone trample on me or my principles. So, wasting five years of our relationship means nothing to me.

MC: Well, the bride has decided.

The groom: You will regret this-

MC: I would be careful with your words, child. If anything happens to this woman, I will have every nun in this church on your trail. And believe me, the women of this church are like those in the Bible—confident and merciless when angered.

The groom: ...

His family: ...

Raphael: *impressed*

Michael: *chuckles* That's right.

Simeon: Michael, do you think we can visit him?

Michael: ...

Simeon: Michael?

Michael: ...

Michael: No, we can't.

Raphael: Why not?

Michael: The prince of Devildom will take an interest in him.

[pomefioredove]

@hxney-lemcn said more cater fics and I am here 2 deliver ✌️✌️

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ friends kiss, too

type of post: short fic characters: cater additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, friends 2 lovers ON TOP! a little making out

Every time Cater drags you through one of these things, you ask yourself why you let him, and every time, the answer is the same: he's your best friend, and you love him.

It's the very same reason you let him spam you with texts and annoy you with surprise selfies. It's the reason you rarely hang out with anyone else, because you know it makes him jealous, though he'd never admit that.

It's the reason you're here, now, awake in your room well past curfew.

Despite the threat of a Housewarden who would flay you alive if he caught you and Cater sneaking around in the dead hours of the night, your bestie was absolutely insistent on this all-nighter.

It's a trend on Magicam, he said, and he had, of course, pouted and whined like a sad puppy until you agreed to "support him" by keeping him awake.

By two in the morning, you were more bored than tired.

"Pass. Pass," Cater says, swiping through dating profiles on his phone. "Hm... no, pass."

You sigh and slump against the headboard of your bed. "You've said that word so many times, it doesn't sound real anymore,"

"Ughhhh. Is Sage's Island where hotties go to die? I just want a cute holiday romance!" he exclaims. "Think of the pics!"

You roll your eyes. You'd heard that exact string of words probably ten times in the past few days.

"You can't date someone just for couple photo ops,"

Cater pouts. "Oh, yes I can. I specify "nothing serious" on my profile! It's not like I'm lying!"

Another eye-roll. He's technically right, as always, which just makes you even more annoyed.

But you don't want to get into an argument about the morality of flings right now.

"And it's cold out. Who am I gonna hold when it gets even colder? It's cuffing season, hon,"

Something about the way he says that bothers you. You try not to think about it so much.

"Well, you'll always have me," you tease.

Cater giggles, and sets his phone down on the bed, a subtle way of showing you that you have his full attention now. "Oh? What's this? Sounds like you're offering,"

"Not what I meant," you counter. "I'm your bestie, not your bae."

"Boooo. What are you, a nun? Friends cuddle all the time,"

Again, he's right. He likes being right, and you can see that on him now, too. He has that competitive glow on his face.

You smile. "Sure, sure, but we all know that cuddling isn't what you're looking for,"

Cater gasps, feigning offense with a hand placed delicately over his heart. "I am not that easy! I'm starting to think you really do want me all to yourself,"

If anything, it's the other way around. Since befriending him at the start of the school year, you'd always had the feeling that he took up all your time on purpose. But you don't say that.

"Besides," he goes on. "There are a lot of things that besties can do that are perfectly friend-like. The segregation of romantic and platonic is a totally oppressive amatonormative structure, anyway."

You roll your eyes. "You have got to stop reading those infographics. Do you even know what any of those words mean?"

"Not the point! I'm saying that there's lots of cute stuff we can do while remaining besties,"

He's very enthusiastic about this. You can't tell if it's his penchant for being right, or something more.

"Pfft. Okay. So, what, friends can kiss?"

"Obviously," Cater crosses his arms over his chest, giving you that smug look of his. "Friends kiss, too."

"Then prove it,"

The words that had you had been holding in the back of your mouth for the past few minutes escape before your brain can stop them.

Even Cater, who's never surprised, pales a little.

Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens, again without your thoughts offering any support.

"I didn't mean-"

"Okay,"

You blink. Something hot and cold at the same time runs through your body- adrenaline, anxiety, maybe it's just your own blood heating up at the way Cater leans closer, cupping your face in his hand, his fingers curled under your jaw and thumb gently brushing against your cheek.

His hands are kinda sweaty. You don't really mind, and even if you did, it wouldn't have mattered, because his lips are now sweetly pressing against yours.

You fit together quite nicely. As if he was just meant to kiss you.

It's hard not to think about everything all at once; his warm hand moving to cup your chin and hold you close to him, his hair brushing against your face, the way his lips still linger with spice from whatever he'd eaten earlier...

It's not perfect. But it's him, which is close enough.

Cater pulls away, his breath dancing across your lips, but he gives you no time to recover before he's closer, kissing you again with a sort of heat that matched the taste of his mouth.

He holds your face in both hands, shamelessly pinning you against the headboard and sitting in your lap as if he belonged there, always.

Minutes go by. Maybe hours. You wouldn't have noticed, or cared, either way. When you finally part from one another, it's felt like years.

You feel like an entirely different person. As if the world had ended and begun again in the six minutes you had been kissing him.

Cater sits atop your thighs, panting, his face redder than his Housewarden's hair, that of which would have flayed you both if he were to catch you like this.

Luckily, it's just the two of you.

"See?" Cater finally mumbles, dismounting you and scooting back to where he left his phone. "Platonic."

You're too breathless to argue.

You suppose you'll let him be right again.

[bagofshinyrocks]

Biting (Affectionately)

Prompt: TF141 with a S/O who affectionately bites them [Requested by @airghostlyfox]

Featuring: TF141 - John Price, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x GN!Reader

Word Count: 0.6k

Warnings: a wee bit suggestive, but nothing nsfw

John Price

John doesn’t mind all that much (i.e. he finds it endearing, but won’t tell you so). As long as it’s in private. 

When watching TV, he expects for you to curl up with him and start “chewing” on the muscles in his arms. When he’s messing with you, pinching your cheeks and flicking your nose, he expects for you to start nipping at his fingers like a playful dog. When he blocks the doorway and refuses to move, of course you’ll lunge at him and start biting at his face until he has no choice but to move.

But he gets embarrassed if you do it in public view. He’s not sure why. He knows you don’t mean to make him uncomfortable, but he still gets that unpleasant reaction in his abdomen. So you don’t, saving your love-filled chomps for the privacy of your shared home.

Simon Riley

Simon teases you for it (but still finds it adorable). And like all expressions of your love for each other, it is never in public. Might not even want his teammates to know about or see it, though he’ll feel more comfortable with you and them together over time

I beg you to chew on this man. Shove your head under his hoodie and chew on his abdomen and chest. Push aside his shirt collar and pretend to be a vampire. When you wake up from your nap on the couch to him putting his legs on you, get his fucking calves. 

“No one’s gonna see it, Simon. You dress like a fucking nun.” You kissed the bite on his bicep better. “If anyone sees my teeth marks, it means you’re cheating.”

“Johnny does have pretty eyes,” he teased. Then yelped when you tried to nip his nose.

Kyle Garrick

Oh boy, oh boy is Kyle a giggling mess when you start biting at him. The hilarity of your mouth wide open as you try to catch his arm. Your happy shout muffled by his skin as you gently pressed your teeth into him.

Bothering him while he’s watching his show, chewing on the slight squish of his cheek like a cow on grass. Biting his hand and fingers when he tries to snag your food. If you nip a little too hard, you immediately kiss and rub it better. Apologizing. Sometimes he yelps just to laugh at your change in demeanor.

After a few weeks of your shenanigans, he decided to fight fire with fire. You absentmindedly handed him some piece of food to try, and instead of taking it with his own hand, his teeth nipped your fingers.

You yelped at the novel feeling. Then pinched his nose with your free hand. He chased after your hands with an open mouth, both of you laughing as he fell on you and gave back to you every single nip and chew you’ve given him over the past few weeks.

Johnny MacTavish

Discovered: New aspect of physical affection - Biting… press [J] to open journal.

The two of you will lay on the couch or in bed, lazing about on the few days off you share. And your mouth will be attached to the meat of his arm while he looks for something to watch. Once one has been selected, Johnny scratches your back and talks through the whole show.

When your handsome man gets out of the shower, and you tell him that he smells nice and “cute enough to eat”. Give him a little chomp on the chest or back.

When he’s walking around the home shirtless, showing off his physique, bide your time. When he least expects it, get those nips of his. Unfortunately, he will return the favor when you least expect it, but if you are gentle with his, he’ll be gentle to yours.

Enjoy reading this? Here's a link to my other works! Thanks for reading :-)

Posted: 2024 February 7

[girliism]

priest in training au

a week had passed since you were caught coming back from sneaking out. all the girls on your floor were woken up and you were given a public scolding. you had cried yourself to sleep that night. you use to be good, the nuns use to make examples out of you. but then art walked into your life, and he made you want things, crave things. maybe it was best you didn’t see him anymore

-

“what’s up with you and your virgin mary? was the date so bad she had to shun you.” patrick joked, causing art to push him. “shut up, and don’t call her that. she’s probably just busy with final vow ceremony coming up and everything.” art made excuses for you even though he didn’t know why you’ve been avoiding him.

always rushing out of class, ignoring him during mass, and pretending not to see him waving at you. but you saw all his attempts to talk to you. you felt the way his gaze would burn into the back of your head. it was killing you not to interact with him, but you knew where that would lead.

art was sick of it. sick of you avoiding him. so he cornered you one day outside, dragging you behind a building and trapping you between his hands.

“why have you been ignoring me? did i do something wrong, did i hurt you?” you could hear the confusion in art’s voice and it had you shaking your head. “no! no, it’s not that.” you take a deep breath closing your eyes. “i’ve just been thinking….and i don’t think we should see each other anymore.” you whispered. art’s hands had slipped from where they were resting on the wall.

“what?”

now art was convinced that he did something. “why?” you chewed on your bottom lip shrugging. “it’s just we’re gonna be taking our final vows soon and-” art cut you off scoffing. “so what, you were just gonna never speak to me again?”

you sighed holding art’s hands in yours. “art, i’ve had a lot of fun with you, but realistically how long was this to go on.” forever. art wanted to say. his feelings that started out as purely sexual had morphed into something real. you had bewitched him.

“but what if i don’t want this to end?” he locked his eyes on yours. “what if we just fucked off together. you and me.”

“art.” your furrowed your brows. this was very serious to you. for years you studied towards your nun status and was so close to making your parents proud. while art wouldn’t think twice before abandoning his post.

“what? i’m being serious. there’s nothing for us here but a life of temptation why not just leave.” it was your turn to cut him off. “you’re just saying that because you wanna have sex me.” you hissed, pulling your hands out of his.

you moved to get away from him, away from this conversation but art grabbed your arm pulling you back to face him. “i’m not!” art took a deep breath sighing, preparing himself for the cheesy love confession he was about to give.

“i mean, maybe in the beginning, yeah. but you’ve done something weird to my heart. i…i think about you all the time, you’re in every corner of my mind. and it’s ok if you don’t feel the same but i just can’t go on anymore without you knowing this.”

art stopped speaking and you were shocked. thoughts upon throughts were racing through your head. you thought over the time you spent with art, allowing yourself to give in instead of pushing down those less than pure feelings had felt freeing.

were you really going to go back to making empty vows and hiding under your vails of false purity?

your lack of an immediate answer had art’s hands dropping their hold on you arms. sensing he was going to walk away you blurted out.

“i’ve never done such things like this before meeting you.” you blinked. “you make my heart feel weird as well. a weird feeling that i wanna keep feeling. but… i’m scared and-”

arts hands were on your cheeks and his lips met yours before you could finish speaking. the kiss was soft and slow. different from the ones you usually have. your mouth automatically stared moving with his, like a natural instinct.

“you don’t have to be.” art said breaking the kiss. placing his forehead on yours. “we’d have each other. and possibly my grandmother.” he was quick to add on the end, which had you huffing a laugh.

maybe everything would be ok.

(next smut 😈)

[suzukiblu]

Day twenty-eight of “obligatory sugar baby Kon” ( and the start of a new scene! ) behind the cut. prev: (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“How’s school?” Tim asks, since how’s your mom and are you still living AT school due to her being who she is as a person? is both a loaded question and too obvious an approach. Cissie raises an eyebrow at him anyway. Tim is reminded that Dick did not in any way make an illogical leap by assuming that she was the kind of person he’d be attracted to, but also is not quite there. 

No, he’s apparently just into their other resident child-star/teen-idol superhero (and HOW do they have TWO of those and WHY did he not think about how actually insane that concept actually is sooner?), or maybe he’s just into loud braggy attention-hog assholes who look unbearably good in leather pants and unbearably cute when they blush and can also put away a straight-up inadvisable amount of grilled cheese sandwiches and can’t do an ollie to save his life. 

“It’s fine, Dad, did my homework and everything,” Cissie replies dryly, still eyeing him with a faint note of suspicion in her expression. They’re both sitting at the kitchen table, which in retrospect was definitely the wrong place to do this; obviously she’s going to get suspicious if he not only sits down at the table with her but makes small talk without a plausible-deniability excuse to hand. “How’s your school?” 

“. . . did my homework and everything,” Tim lies, and Cissie snorts.

Bart zips past them in a rush of wind and zips back the way he came a moment later; Cissie just covers the top of her Soder can to make sure nothing he’s kicked up ends up in it. Tim isn’t drinking anything, so just has to worry about not ending up with his cape flipped over his head again. 

He might’ve started wearing weighted capes to the Justice Cave lately. Just because. Definitely not for any reasons related to preserving his image as team leader in order to keep being seen as the thinly-allowed authority figure that said leader needs to be in emergencies and crisis situations or anything like that. 

Look, just because that level of subtle social manipulation of his teammates and sort-of-friends is questionable at best doesn’t mean it’s not occasionally necessary. Especially in relation to preparing for life-or-death situations where those teammates all need to know that they can trust their leader and he needs to know none of them are going to decide to take things into their own hands and run off on their own, which is definitely a concern in a group with this many vigilantes who’ve done more solo work than partnered or teamed-up and just about all have very strong personalities, even if some of them are quieter about it. 

. . . he’s doing his best so far as limiting the “running off on their own” issue, alright? 

The team’s meeting up for the weekend, and they’re all just supposed to be hanging out for it–or at least that’s the plan, anyway. Admittedly something might blow up or a natural disaster might happen or a supervillain might attack Happy Harbor and then “hanging out” will once again turn into “badly-controlled highly-public chaos” he needs to avoid cameras during and they also might have to worry about more nuns or Hugga-Tugga-Thugees or another Nina Dowd incident happening to them, and then have to worry about explaining all those things to Red Tornado later, but Tim’s pretty sure that’s just gonna be team SOP at this point. 

Bart zips by again and leaves a trail of streamers and glitter and mahjong tiles scattered all over the kitchen and down the hall, and somewhere a set of speakers goes off with a burst of loud static and blaring heavy metal music and then immediately cuts out again. Tim decides to just not ask this time. The answer isn’t gonna make any sense to anyone outside of Bart’s head anyway, except maybe Suzie, and that’s frankly being optimistic. 

Definitely the badly-controlled chaos is team SOP though, yeah. Very, very much is it team SOP.

[thatneoncrisis]

could you explain your reasoning for butch harrow? im asking this in a way a student asks a master

ok so. up top: do i think harrow is butch in canon? no. god no. absolutely not. secret third category of person. not butch or femme shes just like A Guy who really fucking likes black

however i do think that between those two ends of a nebulous spectrum, being butch would be way more comfortable for her than femme, if we think of it in the most traditional sense for both sides. there are literally exceptions to every rule femmes can have short hair and wear pants, butches can have long hair and wear makeup yadda yadda. but the way she interacts with certain elements of her presentation in canon just felt to ME, PERSONALLY, that being traditionally feminine would freak her the fuck out

ive seen people compare her compulsion to wear the skull paint to a need to wear makeup and i. very much disagree. id see it more as like, an overtly religious thing, like a nuns habit or a hijab, its modesty and how she shows respect for her god, also routine, its as natural as putting on pants for her. and also frankly if it was an analog for traditional makeup that would be uuuuh awful. like I genuinely feel terrible for women who cannot even leave the house without foundation or contouring or whatever i dont know shit about makeup but holy fuck. if shes femme in that analog id be shaking her by the shoulders GIRL. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE A NAKED ANIMAL

another thing is her hair. so many people read her having short hair and immediately went to a bob or a pixie cut. and between tamsyns inconsistent description of the length of her hair in book one (saying its stuck to her face with sweat despite them being there for like, a month) and the htn cover being The best image we have of her, i understand that conclusion. but in the beginning of gtn its said its close cropped, tamsyn said on her blog post describing all the characters its "cut short (as benefits someone in a monestary)" which is a very interesting choice of words tbh. like im sute she didnt mean harrow is completely bald in the middle with a ring of hair but that Is the monk haircut. and then finally harrow says to gideon outright "i wont cut you bald-even though your hair is ridiculous- because I know you wont shave it every day" which i always took to mean being shaved down to the scalp is just how the ninth is traditionally. in harrow the ninth its said "occasionally ticklish rasps at your ears or forehead would frighten you numb before you realized ut was your own hair" indicating that she is not used to that length at all. also theres the fact that ianthe made her hair grow faster particularly to fuck with her. in short harrows haircut is shitty and utilitarian and any fussing with it has only been described in relation to her direct discomfort

finally theres that goddamn dress scene. why did ianthe put her in that stupid fucking thing. humilation tactic (im exaggerating but it basically was explicitly and exclusively for ianthes own amusement). shes such a simple girl, she just wanted something that could cover her up. its not impossible to have a longsleeved formless dress, but beyond my own opinion that i think harrow would have been uncomfortable in anything, i think the fact this like, explicit symbol of femininity is used to further degrade her in some sense in a room full of people who font reapect her feels like. intentional on the authors end. it quite literally just isnt her, its not even a true black its like a deep midnight blue. you get the pretty woman makeover scene but harrow comes out of it more miserable and resigned than ever. augustines approval means nothing. she looks in the mirror and sees her mother, a woman she appears to not have a single fond memory about. its all very sad

tldr when i talk about butch harrow its less about her "being butch" and more about how unfemme i think she is. also i want more butch4butch dykes i think gideon and camilla should teach her how to tie a tie.

[vxsellie]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚. GHOSTS OF SACRILEGE !

synopsis. fbi agent!ellie williams x nun!reader ; it's truly no shock that the entirety of west virginia is emerged by trepidation, considering hundreds of residents have gone missing within the past three months. as a form of consolation for those fearful, an esteemed fbi agent is sent to investigate. what she finds, however, is more than she could ever have expected.

notes. this piece is part of the mythologica challenge! i tried my absolute hardest to do the theme justice bc of how good it is. also pls note that every town mentioned is real & i did a decent amount of research on each one, but that doesn't at all mean that it's entirely accurate. i've been to some of the places, but not all also ! this is my first time ever writing detailed smut so i literally know none of the correct words to use or how to describe what's happening & it might turn out being literal dog shit,, if that's the case i apologize!

warnings. religious horror, an attempt at writing smut, angst, plot twists, horrible world building, major character death x2, possessive / obsessive romance, descriptive gore, blood, satanic rituals, human sacrifice, blood, oral (r! receiving), brief mentions of abuse & assault, murder as a metaphor, past animal death, long exposition i'm sorry, and - last but most important - the sweet release of desecrating salvation.

wc. 9.5k+

𝓝aught but unease filled the tiny town of bluefeild as yet another missing person is found to be reported in the newspaper. the sun begins to peer over the horizon, long shadows cast against the sidewalk that newsboys toss the papers from. they ride their bikes down the concrete with a fervor that should be rare. but it’s been rather common in bluefeild as of late. every since december. ever since the incidents first began.

nobody in town can be seen outside without a frantic expression and a fast pace. fear fuels their every step as they scurry outside to retrieve the news before burrowing back into the safety of their homes, hungry eyes skimming the article in search of who’s gone missing this time.

ellie hadn't expected much when traveling here. a small town of worrisome locals, a serial kidnapper hiding in plain sight. y'know, the usual for cases like these.

but something about this case stands out to her. there's a certain weight in her chest as each day passes without answers. in the beginning, she'd asked around town, hoping to find some common denominator among everyone's weariness. but there's nothing. the residents are closed off, thick boots and even thicker country drawls quick to kick the agent off their rotting porch at first glance. she's been here for a while now, not a single clue made evident. no loose ends, no muddy footprints, no witnesses. it's like these people just disappear into thin air.

ellie sits in her idled car, eyes scanning today's newspaper for slips of information. she can't help the way her interest piques, slowly going mad with lack of elucidation. she runs a hand through her hair, shoulders weighed with fatigue and dwindling hope.

see, over two-hundred people have gone missing in the past three months ⎯ which is a big deal in and of itself, but even more so considering bluefeild's population is well under five thousand.

her windows fog as rain patters gently against the steel of her vehicle, the whether cold and dreary in comparison to her car's heated temperature. she supposes it fits the mood, though, doesn't it?

after twenty minutes of analyzing each and every word given, ellie groans and stuffs the newspaper into her glove box, slamming it shut. evidently, the paper provided nothing of use to her. it has a picture of the man missing, his name inscribed under the image, and a few words of grief are quoted to have been said by the families. but that's it.

as of this morning, jason casey has been added to the long list of missing persons. and not a soul could say why nor how.

ellie pulls her phone from her coat pocket, clicking on her bosses contact before wedging it between her ear and shoulder. she listens to it ring as she puts her car into gear, pulling out of the parking space she'd been occupying. it's not like anyone here would dare to use their cars anyhow. most shops and businesses have been temporarily closed, owners fearing the possibility of suffering the same fate as those prior.

"ellie?" joel's voice comes through the tiny speakers, papers rustling in the background of the call as he speaks. "what're you callin' me for? i thought you were on the bluefeild case."

"there's nothin' to go off of." she tells him. one hand is rested on the wheel whilst the other holds her phone.

"you're our best investigator, williams, i'm sure you'll find somethin'." he says offhandedly, continuing to shuffle through whatever papers are of more interest to him than his alleged best employee.

she rolls her eyes at his dismissive tone. "hundreds are missing, joel. without a trace or a sign left behind. they're likely dead, if i were to guess. i don't— what the hell good does that do?"

"find the bodies." he says easily. "their corpses might point to their killer."

"no shit." ellie scoffs. "the issue isn't what to do next, it's how the fuck i'm supposed to do it. this has been goin' on for months and no bodies have turned up. where am i even supposed to look? like i said, there ain't a damn thing left behind."

she coasts down the streets of bluefeild, using this time to feel the layout of it and examine what she's working with. she's been here for a while now, but the town remains a mystery to her. and, from what she's seen, it's a bit of a mystery to everyone else as well.

she notices that many of the homes are old and shabby, paint flaking and wood rotting. in the yards, however, almost every resident has some form of a religious symbol. a cross, a statue of mary, a flag for something biblical. anything to show their faith.

to each their own, i guess. she thinks to herself with a shrug before turning her attention elsewhere.

the streets are empty, as expected. a few street lights are on, the yellow illumination flicking with worn age. even on the two-lane roads, there's not a car in sight. she narrows her eyes at this, a shiver tracing up her spine at the disturbing vastness.

"well," joel says, "search the papers some more."

"i've done that a thousand fuckin' times." ellie groans, eyes still scanning her surroundings with intent of committing it all to memory. just in case. "there's nothin' there. it's just all information on the missing people, half-assed sympathy for the victim's family, and a picture of 'em."

joel sighs, the sound of tapping resonating through the phone. ellie recognizes the sound, having worked for joel long enough to know that he always taps a pencil against his desk when he's thinking. it's a good sign, she thinks. it means he's at least giving her predicament some thought.

she's been in bluefeild for eight days now, spending her time interrogating random residents for informations; spending her nights rereading the stupid fucking newspapers. naught good has been of ramification.

the repetition of it all is driving her insane, especially considering none of her efforts have yet to pay off in any sort of way. she'd hoped that when the next person showed up missing, something would present itself. a clue would rear its ugly head at her and she'd grab it by the throat with fervor. but no. jason casey went missing and all heads remain hidden. so, after an hour of battling with her pride, she decided to make the call to joel and admit her being stuck.

"okay." he says, shuffling a bit as he finally gives ellie his full attention. "okay, pull over for a second, i'm gonna need you to do somethin' for me."

she instantly obliges, pulling off to the nearest backroad. gravel crunches under her tires as she drives along the thin path wedged between two decrepit buildings. the alley is small and a bit sketchy, but that's exactly what she needs. ellie puts her car in park, windows translucent in their heavily fogged blanket.

"how many newspapers do you have on you?" joel asks when he hears her car go into idle.

"um," she reaches over and opens her glove box, watching as yellowed papers fall from the newly opened door. they flutter to the floor and atop the passenger's seat. she hums, amused at the sight of her obsession making a tangible image in her head. "a lot."

"okay, good. perfect." joel mutters, the clacking of a keyboard sounding through the tiny speaker. "the first person who went missing was carl andrews. he was thirty-seven. his wife claims he was supposed to have been walking home from work but never showed up for dinner."

ellie scrambles through her messy stack of newspapers, searching for carl's report. she finally finds it, the paper dated to have been written near the beginning of december. she straightens out the wrinkles, examining his picture.

"looks like your average middle age man." ellie mutters, taking in his scruffy beard and wrinkled skin. "he was a carpenter. had two kids, both boys."

"yes, i have the paper pulled up on my computer." joel says. "but it doesn't show his address or nothin'. this shitty website only has half of the damn document."

ellie skims through the words, searching for the street or neighborhood he'd lived in. when she turns up empty-handed she groans, now well familiar with the feeling of disappointment regarding this case. "nope. no home address." she says with an evidently annoyed tone.

"what about his workplace?" joel asks. "if he'd been walkin' home, his work must be close enough for him to do so."

"oh shit," she mutters. she'd studied his article for hours — studied all of them — and she hadn't even thought to look there. her hands clutch the paper as she searches with a hungered gaze. her eyes widen at the address listed on the paper. "yes it's on fifth street."

more typing is heard through the phone, "says here that,, there's a neighborhood right by there. a few blocks down from the carpenters' building. must've been where he lived."

"perfect." ellie grins, adrenaline rushing through her.

oh, she feels on top of the world right now.

"okay, now i want you to look for addresses in all the other papers." joel says, flipping a switch in his tone — off to being ellie's friend and on to being her boss. a familiar change, but an unpleasant one nonetheless. "check 'n see if there's a link between where they'd been last spotted."

"okay."

ellie sets carl's paper aside and grabs another random one. she reads the heading briefly, recognizing it to be the article on bryan turner who'd gone missing in the middle of january. he'd allegedly been walking his dog and never returned to his apartment, according to his elderly female neighbor.

the address is actually listed this time. not his exact apartment number, but the building. ellie can't help the smile that tugs at her mouth again as she grabs a random notepad and scribbles both addresses onto the paper, reminding herself to compare their proximity when she gets back to her hotel later tonight.

"you're a goddan genius, joel." ellie mutters as she sets bryan's paper atop carl's and grabs another. sam cortez. late december.

"thanks, kid." joel chuckles into the phone. ellie has it set aside, call set to speaker as she flips through papers and continues to write down addresses into her notes. her movements are frantic and hurried, adrenaline refusing to wind down from its newly heightened state. joel speaks again, regaining her attention. "uh, sorry t' tell you this but i've gotta go. it's almost midnight and i've been at the building since ten o'clock this mornin'."

"yeah yeah, whatever." ellie replies off-handedly. "thanks for your help, old man. i think i can take it from here now, though. go get your beauty rest."

"promise to call me in the mornin'?" he asks. "i wanna hear what y' find."

"yes, i promise." she laughs. "i'll call you as soon as i wake up."

"okay good. don't overwork yourself either, you need to⎯"

"goodbye, joel!" she says, grabbing her phone and hanging up on him before she has to listen to him reprimand her for lack of rest. he's one to talk, too, seeing as he'd just admitted to having been at the building all damn day.

she sighs, deciding to put a pin in her address search and get back to her hotel to finish working in the comfort of a bed.

she sets her papers into two neat piles in the passenger's seat ⎯ one for those she'd already gone through and one for those she hasn't yet gotten to. then, she puts her key into the ignition and pulls out of the little road.

as she drives down the street, she examines her surroundings once again. still as impoverished as before.

she passes a small farm house, eyes drawn to the old lady sitting on the porch. she's rocking back and forth rather ominously, making direct eye contact with ellie through the windshield. slowly, the woman nods her head toward where a large cross is staked into the soil of her front yard. ellie looks away, a sudden uneasiness washing over her as she presses harder on the gas.

she reaches her hotel a few minutes later, stuffing her papers under each arm before entering the building and heading toward the elevator. by the time she reaches her room, she practically rips her heavy leather jacket off, the yellow 'fbi' label bright and bold against the black material as she tosses it onto her bed. she sits cross-legged in the center of her room, laying out all the newspapers in front of her.

she continues to sort through them all, eyebrows furrowing as she comes to realize that all the victims are men.

she hurriedly flips through the documents, certain she must he wrong. but she's not. they're all male. ellie writes this down on her notepad, handwriting rushed and nigh unintelligible. despite the sloppiness, she circles it, sure it'll prove to be of importance later on.

by the time ellie finishes going through what feels like hundreds of papers, she decides that's enough for her to be able to find a pattern if there is one. the digital clock atop the nightstand reads 2am, flashing bright red numbers at her. she ignores it, too high off the thrill of finally finding something in this priorly monotonous case.

she pulls her laptop from her bag and flips it open atop her crossed legs, quick to pull up a map and type in the coordinates of each address. they appear random at first, completely fucking unrelated to one another. a pang of dread hits ellie in the chest, worried this will have all been for naught.

but then she zooms out.

each dot for each address glows blue. when zoomed out, it forms something. ellie squints, tilting her head at the incoherent image she struggles to make out. seeing as many of the papers weren't analyzed, the picture is only half-complete.

but then it clicks. a pentacle. and at the very center of the shape, a church.

ellie's mind goes back to the old woman on the porch. the way she'd nodded to her cross. the way almost every family in bluefeild is outwardly religious. she can't believe she hadn't seen it sooner.

this isn't just some case where she can stare at newspapers and hope something pops up. it's an intricately weaved web of murders.

her chest heaves as her eyes dart across the screen, unable to believe it. she finds herself tapping her men against the floor, drumming it just as joel does. she curses herself, tossing the pen across the room as her mind reels. it lands in front of the door, ballpoint pointed toward the exit. ellie takes this as a sign from the universe. despite not having ever been a religious person, she can't help the pang of hope in her chest.

deciding to indulge the pen's sign, ellie writes the church's address into her notepad, shuts her laptop, pulls her jacket back on, then heads for the door. she steps over the pen on her way out.

𝓢he stares up at the church, checking to make sure she's absolutely certain she's in the right place. when she's proven to be correct, she stuffs her notepad into her pocket and walks toward the building.

ellie doubts anybody is inside due to the time, but she wants to search the place regardless.

the church is old, creaky wooden exterior painted in uneven shades of white. the roof is brown and dilapidated with wear. atop it, a large cross is seen standing tall, its tip pointed up at the starry sky. ellie wades through the overgrown grass, her breath coming out in white clouds. it's fucking freezing out here.

when she reaches the building, ellie cups her hands around her eyes before peeking through the windows. the glass is dusty and cracked in some places. she can't seem to see through it, transparency made opaque from lack of maintenance.

she leans back and wipes a hand across the dust, forming a wide arc to peer through. inside, the church looks brand new. wooden pews line the space, a long aisle between each formed column. the floor is white tile, cleaned to be spotless. she tilts her head, struggling to look toward the pulpit. it appears to be⎯

"what're you doing?"

ellie jumps, her head slamming against the top of the window frame. she ignores the ache and whips around to face the owner of the voice. a nun.

you stand behind her with a raised brow, your entire body covered by black and white robes. ellie blinks, something about you making her stomach lurch. she's instantly put on edge, shameless in the way she examines your features.

your brow is knit in distaste for the trespassing girl. your eyes are sharp and steady as you pin your gaze onto hers. your hands are clasped behind your back, formal and almost robotic. or at least, that's how ellie sees you.

ellie reaches under her jacket and pulls out her badge. "fbi."

"there's no fbi in bluefeild." you point out, voice steady and melodic. ellie's lips part at the sound but she shows no other form of sway. you eye her badge, ellie williams. noted to be a top agent in her line of work. your eyes narrow. "where exactly are you from?"

"richmond." she responds, eyes never leaving yours as she places her badge back into the interior pocket in her leather jacket.

you tilt your head, inquiring. "virginia?"

"yes." she confirms.

you hum, noting the four hour drive she's sure to have taken in order to get here. you looks out across the grass, seeing her car still running as it's parked on the side of the road, yellow headlights acting as a beacon against the dark night.

"it's late, miss williams." you tell her, turning back to her to find that ellie's eyes have yet to leave your face.

she analyzes each expression you make, contorting every detail to memory ⎯ from the way your eyes flick across her features to the way your shoulders shift slightly after having been standing in one position for so long. she memorizes you, allowing your very being to sink into her mind. for the case, of course. you're a suspect, after all. she needs to learn you and feel you out in order to get a proper read on whether you're innocent in all this. that's why she stares at you. that's why her pupils are blown and her lips are parted again. totally.

"do you want to come inside?" you offer, raising a brow at her strange, yet obvious sense of interest in you. "it's freezing out here and i happen to have just brewed some tea."

her eyes dart to the shabby church behind her. judging by the exterior of the building, imagining the place having ac and working electricity is shocking. but judging by what she'd seen of the inside, she's tempted to take you up on your offer. for the case.

"only if y' agree to answer some questions of mine." she says, deciding to set the terms and conditions early on.

your eyes narrow, "what type of questions?"

"the type i need in order to solve the case i'm workin' on." she replies, reminding herself of the large amount of missing men and boys who've disappeared in these past three months.

"mm," you hum.

you look her up and down, taking in the sight of her. it's rare to see any form of law enforcement out here. you'd lived in bluefeild all your life and never seen a cop or fbi agent outside of the television. her leather coat hangs heavy from her set shoulders. her chin is held high despite the way goosebumps trail across her skin due to the chill of the air. she's wearing baggy black pants and heavy combat boots. interesting.

"sure." you shrug. "i've nothing to hide."

"we'll see 'bout that."

her eyes rake over to where he car remains running. she leaves it, using it as a sign to you that she plans to make this quick. you understand the gesture and heed it with care, nodding as you shift around her and walk toward the entrance of the church. the large wooden doors are already unlocked as you push them open.

ellie draws her eyes across the foyer, noting the long hallway. to the left is a doorway leading to the sanctuary and chancel that she'd seen through the windows. to the right is a large door with a shiny golden handle, locked. the hall is lined with more doors, some locked whilst others are free to peer into.

you move about the space as though you'd lived here all your life. ellie supposes that might be true, actually.

you sweep down the hall before turning one of the corners down a branched passageway. ellie follows behind you, the hall illuminated by only a dim yellow light. on either side of the hall, more and more doors branch out to the side. ellie pays no mind to the building's layout anymore. instead, she finds herself more interesting in watching your habit billow behind you, your shoes clicking with each step against the tile.

eventually, you're both now in a kitchen area. ellie hasn't a clue when you'd gotten here, far too distracted by you to care much for the journey you'd taken her on.

the floor is tiled to mirror the sanctuary, counters made of marble. you flick a switch and the lights flutter on, a low hum sounding from the ceiling as the kitchen is illuminated by a yellow glow. on the counter, two cups of tea sit premade. you grab them, one in each hand.

with an amused expression, you pass one to ellie. she takes it, eyes the glass in her hand for a long moment. in the end, she decides against trusting it.

"uh," she clears her throat as she places the mug on the counter behind her, turning to you with an uneasy weariness. "you knew you'd have a guest?"

"hm?" you hum, tilting your head at her with an innocent curiosity.

"y' made two glasses." ellie points out. you continue to look at her, feigning confusion that urges her to continue her explanation. "it's just— well, i haven't seen anyone else here besides you."

"i hadn't priorly known of your arrival, if that's what you're suggesting." you inform her before taking a long sip from your mug, peering at her over the rim with an alluring twinkle to your eye. you lower it, keeping the glass poised between your hands as you lick your lips and continue. "i simply knew i wouldn't be drinking alone."

"what's that supposed to mean?" ellie inquires, those fbi instincts of hers lacing through her tone. her eyes glint with piqued interest, watching you with a steady sharpness. it weighs on your chest, heavy but enthralling.

"what i mean is," you place your mug on the counter with a light clink. "in this church, you're never alone. not really."

she raises a brow, back straightening. "someone else is here?"

"something." you correct, a smirk tugging at your lips. "a deity, spirit, ghost, demon. take your pick, miss williams. it hasn't a title just yet."

ellie has surely formed her doubts about whether or not you're mentally insane. she can't help but indulges you nonetheless. if she intends on puzzling out the mystery of the missing people, she can't outwardly state that you're crazy. so instead, she says, "are these,, things good? or are they evil?"

"mm," you shift, taking another long sip of tea. you ponder on her question while drinking, your mind deciding on exactly how much you wish to tell this governmental investigator. once your mind is made up, you place you mug back down and flash her an amused smile. "its morality varies. as i said, it doesn't much like the feel of being confined by the barbed wire of titles. plus, there's more than one. and none are a repeat of the other, each separated by individuality."

ellie bites back a scoff, trying her hardest not to just grab you by the shoulders and shake you senseless. she wants direct answers, not riddles. she hasn't the time to figure out what you're trying to get at.

"how many?" she asks. "like. are there lots of them or are they few and far between?"

your brow knits as you take a step closer. at your growing proximity, her breath hitches. you are more than just a nun, you're the embodiment of her obsession. all the care and time she'd poured into this case; you personify it.

you're a religious figure in and of yourself. something worthy of worship and praise. if you were to seen by the world as ellie sees you, historians would be studying you for eons to come. paintings and playwrights would be made in your honor, temples and statues forged in hopes that you'd bat the sculptor even a moment of your attention.

but, alas, that's not how the world works. instead, you're made to be a random nun who lives holed away in a ragged church in the middle of nowhere. perhaps the universe had been wise to hide you from the world, for fear of what your divinity would cause. a repeat of troy, no doubt. wars fought for your hand. lives lost for the pulpy beating heart caged behind your ribs.

"as many as i'd like." you tell her, face now mere inches away from her own.

your body is covered entirely by your habit, black fabrics hanging from your shoulders and arms as to keep your entire being shielded from sight. your hair is cast back and under your veil.

despite the coverage, ellie's enamor is unmoved. it's not your body or your hair that she's drawn to. it's the slope of your nose, the plush of your lips, the curve of your cheek, the arc of your brow, the color of your eyes. it's everything that makes you stand out like a brightly shining star in comparison to the dull darkness that is this church.

and stars like you ought to be admired.

"as many as—" she squeezes her eyes shut, knowing her only chance at regaining control of her head is to not face you. her mind is muddled by thoughts of you. she can't think straight. when she reopens her eyes, she could've sworn you've moved closer. "what're you sayin'? i don't—"

"don't understand?" you finish for her, tone pitched in regalement. your head tilts to the side, your noses brushing. "few people do."

"just tell me what y' mean." she utters, voice a whispered breath across your face in the form of a plea. "tell me without the riddles. tell me without trying to evade the truth. tell me with honesty. if you're straight forward with me, i'm sure i'll understand."

you sigh through your nose, leaning away from her. she follows you like a fish on a hook. you take a step back and she takes one forward. noticing, you hold a hand up to halt her movements and she instantly ceases, blinking at you with parted lips.

your head is downcast, palm against her chest. "you'd hate me."

"hate you?" she questions.

despite only just having met you, ellie is quite certain she'd never come to hate you. your very being is as much a wonder to her as life itself. you're a celestial beauty she cannot bear to tear her eyes from. hate is foreign when you're the context in which it's spoken.

"yes." you confirm, expression contorting into one of feigned guilt. and, had ellie not been in such blind awe of you, she'd have likely seen through your facade of deception. "i've made mistakes; plenty. i could never expect you to hear me speak of them and look past their malice."

"but i would." she whispers, taking a step nearer. she places a hand on your wrist, lowering your palm that had priorly been raised between the two of you. she looks down at where she touches you, albeit through the cloth of your gown. "i'd look past it. i'd see you as i do now regardless of what you'd done."

you shake your head, "you cannot mean that."

"i do." she brings your hand to her mouth, pressing her lips against the hills of your knuckles. she looks up at you through her lashes, her mouth remaining close to your skin as she whispers, "i do mean it."

you feel guilt settle deep within your chest, burrowing between your ribs and in the very tissue of your heart. an immoral darkness encompasses the organ ellie so desperately desires to obtain.

you'd lured people into your entrapment many times before. but something about ellie makes you feel bad for doing what you know you need to.

but it's too late now.

she's your last victim. the final sacrifice needed in order to finish what you'd started back in december. after taking her life, all will be well. all will be well. all will be well. well, well, well, well. you repeat this over and over in your mind as ellie kneels before you. she looks up at you as though you're an alter made for this. for worship.

your breath catches in your throat as you watch her sink to the tiled flooring, hands brought up to rest at your hips. her fingers fist the fabric of your habit as she speaks once more, "allow me to prove how much i mean it?"

your head is swimming, unsure on what to do. logically, you know you should stop this before it gets too far. you've already lured her in close enough to do what's needed. but, for some reason, there's a thick knot forming in your chest. as it grows, you come to realize it's not a knot at all. it's a fist. it's ellie's fist.

her eyes bore into your own, her hands remain gripping your hips. somehow, though, you feel as though they're managing to trace their way through you. they line your bones and caress your tendons before inevitably finding their way to your heart. she holds it in the palm of her figurative hands as her physical ones begin to hike up your habit, slowly pulling the cloak up from the floor.

still, despite the discernible desire in her eyes, she does nothing but wait for your response of consent.

it's inexorable, the way you give in. the slight nod of your head had been predestined from the moment you spotted her at that window; and it will continue to prove relevant until your respective faits are sealed.

to ellie, it felt as though you'd taken hours to reply despite it only having been a minute or less. but the moment you nod, she's moving eagerly. she's grabbing your hips and hoisting you up onto the counter whilst simultaneously struggling to pull up the skirts of your clothes. she's trying to do so many things at once that it's dizzying. for both parties.

you aid her, shifting atop the marble as you pull the habit up to reveal what lies beneath it.

ellie feels the world fall from beneath her knelt locale as she stares. a pair of black lace panties adorn you, the upper half of your body remaining covered by the bunched cloth of your habit. the time she takes to memorize you feels agonizing as you sit there, itching to feel her body on yours.

once she's confident that the image has been successfully engraved into her mind, she leans forward. your legs are already parted when her mouth makes contact with your clothed vulva. the wetness that soaks the material soon made into a mixture of your arousal and ellie's opened mouth.

her tongue traces light circles into your clit, a soft sigh escaping your lips as your grip on your habit begins to loosen. you toss your head back in pleasure, the sound of ellie's slurping and licking mixing with the mechanical hum of the lights.

"ohmygod," she says against you, the vibrations of her voice making your breath pick up its pace. "you're so fucking perfect."

one of your hands comes down to tangle in the auburn of her hair, tufts weaving between your shaky fingers. you tug on it, pulling a grunt form the back of ellie's throat as her scalp stings. despite her noise of pain, this only manages to make ellie more vehement in her actions.

she grabs the hem of your panties with her teeth, yanking them to the side. her eyes are shut as she licks a long strip through your wet muscle. you can’t help the way you stare down at her, watching as she puts her absolute all into making you feel good. and, as it turns out, she’s quite skilled at doing so.

ellie's mind is fogged over, mimicking the way her car's windows had been earlier. she supposes there’s no true difference there, however. the interior of her car had been warm in comparison to the cool outside air. swap the temperatures and there’s naught that varies. the warmth that you provide makes ellie feel cold in contrast, which ends in a fogged mind.

the taste of you is enough to make her lose whatever sanity remains intact. all that adrenaline that had flowed through her earlier is being poured into you.

after all, stars should be worshipped right? they should be admired from below, gawked up at. they should be mapped and studied by only the wisest of mankind. they should be doted on with a possessive sense of adoration, one only fit for something so celestial and untouchable as a star.

and that's what you are. to ellie, at least. you're a brightly shining nebula — a feathery cloud of vibrancy, visible only in the darkest of nights. only in the coldest of weathers. only in most decrepit of churches. only here, only now.

only when fate is carved in this exact way. had one thing been altered, none of this would have taken place. it was providence that brought you together. you weren't written in the stars or tethered your entire lives. in fact, the chance of your paths crossing was rather low. but, honestly, that only makes your acquaintance more deeply rooted in kismet. makes it more special.

"fuck," you pant, chest heaving as you squeeze your eyes shut. your head thuds against the cabinet as you tighten your grip on ellie's hair. she groans, fingers pressing deeply into the skin of your hips, hard enough to leave a bruise. your thighs tighten around her head, a coil of heat sitting heavily in the pit of your stomach. "ellie, i'm—"

she tilts her head up slightly, nose pressing into the bead of your clit. she watches through lidded eyes as you come undone onto her face.

she savors it, committing every little detail to memory. a habit this has become, watching you. your brows knit, your legs shake slightly, you breath hitches. and ellie retains all to it.

she made you see stars. made you look into a mirror and see yourself.

that feeling of blissful release is what she feels every time she's fortunate enough to gaze upon you. and now you've experienced it. and she cannot feel more accomplished than she does right now.

"this," you pant, tugging on her hair to bring her face up to your own. she does as you direct her, standing from the floor to press your foreheads together. "was a terrible idea."

"yeah?" she breathes out. "and why's that?"

you run your hands up and down her back, fingertips tracing the stitching of her leather jacket. you can feel the outlined letters of her 'fbi' label. that familiar twinge of guilt encircles you.

she's a good person — a woman who's to spend the rest of her life helping random people she doesn't know. and yet, here she is. made unfortunate enough to have succeeded in her endeavor.

she stares at you like you're a god, something heavenly. something seraphic. something worthy of her.

"i'm not a good person." you whisper, leaning away from her proximity. predictably, she follows, leaning closer with a desperation only fit for one in love.

the guilt of what you must do is eating you alive. it claws at your chest, snapping your ribs like twigs as it wedges between them to burrow deep within you. it's agonizing yet completely unavoidable.

and in a sickeningly poetic outturn, a random butcher knife is sat neatly atop the marble counter only a foot away from where you sit. just as ellie meets your eyes, the blade happens to catch the light and reflect yellow luminescence. a grotesque reminder of what you're unable to run from.

"nobody is innately good. and, as a nun, y' should know that better than anyone." ellie huffs out a laugh, eyes not daring to stray from you. "in other words, i don't care."

"but you should." you insist, voice teetering on the edge of plea.

"and yet, i don't." ellie counters, just as passionate in her solemnity. you suck in a breath, eyes glossing over. she looks at you with a fondness that feels foreign. she cups your cheeks between her palms, repeating, "i don't."

"i've done horrible things." you say.

"you're a nun." she points out with a light chuckle rumbling her chest. "how horrible could these things have been?"

part of you wants to open up to her, tell her everything that's been weighing on you for these past three months. but each time you get close to a confession, something inanimately symbolic taunts you. whether that be the butcher knife, the hum of electricity, the gun holster at her hip, the residual lust in your chest, or the bright yellow lettering on her jacket.

that gun is meant for you just as that butcher knife is meant for ellie. she'd been wise to bring a weapon, a clear sign that she'd intended on finding someone culpable enough to suspect. and you'd been wise to set the blade atop the counter on the off chance that you'd meet your final victim tonight.

you feel sick to your stomach.

"oh shit," ellie curses as she takes notice to the way you're visibly crumbling in front of her. "i— uh, i didn't mean to be, like, insensitive or anythin'. i'll still listen to you. and i promise to not hate you. promise to never hate you."

"ellie, stop." you sigh. "you can't promise something like that. you don't even know what i—"

"then tell me." she insists, your face still in her cupped hands. you look at her through blurred vision, naught but sincerity behind her pale green irises. "if y' tell me what it is that y' did, we can both carry the burden."

you're instantly shaking your head.

"you don't have to do this alone." ellie says. "plus, isn't a weight split a lighter load than one full?"

as you stare into her eyes, you can't stop yourself from what comes next. you're unable to keep your mouth shut when she's looking at you like that. you decide to tell her, opening your ribs and bearing your heart as though she hadn't already taken it from you. you truly feel more bare in this moment than you did when she'd literally been eating you out.

ellie put her entire trust into you when letting down her guard and abandoning the case she'd obsessed over for weeks. she dropped it like it were nothing, focusing entirely on you in its stead. the least you could do is be honest, right? plus, she's not leaving here anyway. you'd locked the door the moment you two entered the kitchen when she'd been too distracted by your beauty to notice. the trap is already set and she's sitting inside of it without a care. all you need to do now is pull the strings.

but first comes honesty.

for ellie, you'd peel off your clothes. you'd peel off your skin. you'd peel off your flesh. then, when you're naught but bones, you'd give yourself to her. you'd give your entire being to her. not because you think you're worthy of her possession, but because this is all you have. the only thing you're able to offer her as a symbol of your devotion, it's yourself.

though, while you're unable to strip yourself clean off your bones, you feel as though rendering yourself vulnerable and fragile is the next best thing you can offer. for her, you are willing to do the priorly unthinkable.

"you're here in search of the missing men, are you not?" you ask, beginning with baby steps. "in search of who's behind their absences?"

ellie straightens, "i am."

"well." you gesture down at yourself. at your crooked veil that shows stray hairs peeking from underneath; at your hiked up habit, just barely falling to cover your underwear; at your knees that rest on either side of ellie's waist; at your vulnerable state that you're offering up to her. at your bones. "you've found me."

ellie's heart stutters in her chest. not because of what you'd revealed to her, but because you trusted her enough to do so. she no longer cares an ounce for the missing people of bluefeild. all she wants is you. she may be a fool to be this way, but she's in far too deep to mind.

she gives you a weak smile, "i don't care."

"what?" you croak. you stare at her incredulously. there's no way she doesn't care. there's no fucking way. "yes you do."

"i don't."

you blink, looking her up and down. there must be something you're missing — her reaching for her gun, her taking a step backward, her eyes darting toward the knife. but she does none of that. she simply remains stood between your legs, keeps her hands on you, and stares directly into your eyes as you confess your gravest of sins.

"but—" you shake your head, stammering. "but i killed all those people. they're dead. all of them. over two hundred men are buried behind the church."

"i don't care." she repeats, noticing the way your voice raises with trepidation. she traces her hands down your arms, stopping only when they reach your own. she tangles your fingers together, feeling the way your body relaxes slightly to the feel of her touch.

"i killed them because i was paid to." you tell her, your mind reeling as you're unable to grasp her lack of care. you talk in a frantic quickness, rushing to get the truth out for fear that ellie will change her mind in the time it takes for you to speak. "their wives, neighbors, daughters. they— they'd come to me in the confession booths and tell me of the men's abuse o-or assault or misdeeds. and i'd kill them for them. i don't—"

ellie's face remains soft. "you did a good thing, then."

"you can't be serious." you huff, eyes watering with the sheer confusion building within you. "i don't understand how you can still look at me like that. i took their lives. these people, i— they had dreams, they had aspirations and goals and families and—"

"listen," ellie whispers, her hands squeezing yours. "they were horrible people that hurt women. they were abusers and rapists and i don't care what y' did to them or how. all i care about is whether or not y' feel better."

"what?" you ask, voice nigh a breath. "what do you mean feel better?"

"to have gotten that off your chest." she digresses.

you take a deep breath, grounding yourself. the adrenaline of the confession slowly dwindles and you're no longer spiraling. you stare at ellie, centering on her face as the world comes back into focus.

you count your senses one by one. the smell of tea, the sound of humming lights, the feel of a hard counter beneath you, the taste of a bitter truth, the sight of ellie's fond expression. your breathing levels out, slowly but surely. and ellie stares at you the entire time. memorizing you.

"yeah." you whisper. "yeah, i do."

"then that's all that matters."

a supernova; to watch a star combust and explode, a colossally significant occurrence that only the most fortunate are able to witness. ellie considers herself to be substantially fortunate. not only because of what she'd just seen, but because of who it was that did it.

to her, this is even better than a natural supernova. rather than watching a random gassy ball of light die, its you. someone she adores and treasures. and you didn't die. instead, you opens yourself willingly to her. you broke down your walls and bore yourself to her. for ellie, that is far more important than some star's death.

"but—" you say, bringing her attention back to your face. your brows are knitted, clearly struggling to get the words out. she watches you with an easy patience, pupils blown as she submits this to her memory alongside all other files in her brain saved under your name. "but there's more."

"let's hear it." she replies, raising a brow.

you suck in a deep breath, lowering your head as to not face ellie before speaking. "i didn't just start killing whatever men that these women were asking of me. it started smaller. i killed animals, put them in a circle of salt, drew and pentagram, the whole ordeal."

"you sacrificed them?" she asks, tone remaining laced with gentility.

"yes." you nod. "i felt my baptism wasn't enough. god never answered me anyway, he never aided me when i needed it most. he watched my suffering and did nothing. so, i resorted to a new deity of worship." you lift your gaze to meet ellie's. "satanism."

"i'm sorry, i don't—" she blinks a few times, confused. "i don't understand."

"as a child, i relied on god to do everything. my life was nothing without him in it to keep me going. but as i grew, i realized it was unrequited. he cared nothing for me, watching with regale as i sobbed and begged for his help." you explain. "so, as a teenager, i switched over to satanism — worship of someone who actually cared enough to save me."

ellie says nothing, staying silent as you confide in her. she continues to hold your hands, softly cradling them on either side of where you sit.

"but then he wished for payment." you continue. "sacrificial lives as a form of repent for all those years i'd spent as a baptist. i obliged, of course. i killed bunnies and deer, doing research to understand how exactly to offer the stolen lives to him. but as of late, he's wanted more."

"humans." ellie guesses.

"yeah." you confirm. "but i couldn't bring myself to kill random innocent people. so i became a nun and listened in on the confession booths. then, i'd ask the confessors if they wished for me to intervene. they'd concur, paying me to take the lives of their abusers." you recall the fear in the women's voices, the shakiness to their hands as they slipped money through the cracks of the door. "they never saw my face, only heard my voice. and, seeing as i live in the church, none of the recognized me. i soon became a symbol of hope for women and one of fear for men."

ellie's mind strays back to all the religious symbols staked in the yards. "that explains their heavy faith. they think you're some type of prophet."

"yeah, but there's more." you say. "i've researched many, many books to make sure i get this ritual right. and, as it turns out, my 250th victim has to be a martyr. someone who doesn't believe in anything. doing this seals the ritual, ending it."

"good luck finding someone here who meets that criteria." she chuckles.

"exactly." you say carefully. "everyone in bluefield is heavily religious. unless that someone has come from out of town."

"me."

"i wish it wasn't." you rush to explain. "i wish there was some other way i could do this. but it has to be today. i need to do it before another woman comes in asking for my help or the numbers will get thrown off. and if i decline her, i'll lose the faith of all the women in bluefeild."

"okay," ellie shrugs. "do it."

"...what?"

"i don't care." ellie says, the sentence becoming something of a catchphrase for her.

the world stops. again. it screeches to a halt and you almost slam forward at the speed of which it crashed down. you stare at ellie with wide eyes, made shocked by her for a second time. someone so hauntingly perfect cannot truly offer herself up to you like this. she can't seriously be holding out her hand, asking for death to take it.

but what you don't know is that ellie would deem it a gift to die by your hand. it'd be better than dying as a withered elder attached to a beeping machine, or as an agent amid a case who only got to see you in her dreams.

but, this way, she'd be with you always. her love for you would be immortalized; she would be tied down to the very threads that make up the the fabrications of your soul. oh a gift that would be.

"do it." she repeats.

"what?, i don't—" she silences you by leaning forward, pressing her lips against yours.

ellie had kissed you out of impulse, knowing no other way to silence that thundering uncertainty that rumbles your brain. but the moment she does it, she's positive she'll never be able to pull away.

your lips are a cathedral of which she cannot help but melt into, your body a temple she's knelt before and wouldn't hesitate to do again. she kisses you with devout piety, her body molding into yours with each touch that lingers on your skin. somehow, this measly kiss is far more intimate than all else before it.

a silent tear slips from your closed eye as you subtly reach your hand over to where you know the butcher knife lies in wait. ellie surely feels your movement, there's no way she doesn't. but she makes no move to stop kissing you, her lips moving with a vehement neediness.

you loathe the way your fingers find the hilt of the knife. even more so, you despise the way you wrap your hand around it and bring it toward ellie.

she knows. she knows what you're about to do.

and she allows it.

love isn't easy for ellie, never had been. but with you, everything falls into place as though it'd been predestined to do so her entire life. as she feels your body shift toward the knife, nothing runs through her mind aside from your name. on repeat, the singular word replays over and over. she wraps your name around her skull, weaving the letters between her thoughts and molding the syllables against her brain. she was born to love you. and so long as she was able to do so, she'd be okay.

just as the tip of the blade brushes her jacket, you pull away from the kiss and stare at her. the knife remains at her back, resting against leather but not daring to press any harder. ellie's pupils are blown, her lips wet from your own saliva.

"i can't." you utter. "i can't do this to you."

she sighs, "i already told you it's fine, angel. just— as long as i have you near me, i'm content with my decision."

"no." you shake your head. "no i know. it's—" knowing ellie wouldn't understand your explanation, you decide to show her what you mean. with your free hand, you place your palm against her gun holster. "whatever you go through, i want to be there with you."

her eyes widen at your words. she jolts away from you, appearing as though she'd been burned. she sets her jaw, turning her hip away from your reach. "no."

"ellie, please." you implore, tone beseeching. "i can't live on knowing i'd done this to you."

"it's unavoidable." she reminds you. "y' made a deal with the fuckin' devil, or, well— i'm honestly not too sure on the details, but— y' can't not follow through. i understand, okay? finish the damn ritual and live your life."

"i don't want to." you plead with her. "not without you."

she shakes her head, eyes glossing over. despite the evident distaste, her refusal is weak. she stands only a foot away from you, seeming as though she's physically incapable of moving any farther.

"ellie," you say, whispering her name like a prayer. she can't help but look up at you through watery eyes. "ellie, please."

"i don't want you to die." she says, voice nigh a whimper.

"we'll be together, ellie," you tell her, hopping down from the counter to approach her. the blade remains in your hand, long forgotten to the both of you as the sight of the other is far more appealing. "if we do this, we can be together for all of eternity. they'll find our fossils in a million years, bones entwined. they won't even know who's who."

she chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "god, how stupid would that be?"

you laugh with her, "so stupid."

you're both crying now, tears streaming down your faces as you stare at one another. slowly, ellie pulls the gun from her holster. she's unsure on how this will go down, but she's willing to try. for you.

to be loved is a horrific thing, you've found. it's to be swallowed whole by something so disgustingly beautiful that you're incapable of turning away.

ellie takes a step closer, the distance between the two of you closing. her left hand holds the gun, her right hand coming up to wrap an arm behind your neck. she pulls your toward her, pressing another kiss to your mouth.

your tears mingle, forming a salty sea on your touching cheeks. you sob against her, chest heaving as you pull her closer with one hand, the other holding the knife. she tastes of sacrilege, salvation, and sacrifice. the ghosts that will haunt this decrepit church until the end of time. together.

whatever string that pulled the two of you toward each other will be knotted, tying two lost souls in search of the other.

"ellie," you whisper between wet kisses, lifting the knife to rest at the nape of her neck, "it's time."

she lets out a sob, a convulsive gasp tearing from her throat. "okay,"

you count down, the two of you agreeing to do it at the same time. you'll drive the blade into her neck whilst she pulls the trigger. your bodies will fall in unison, clinging to one another.

when you reach one, you sink the blade into her with a sickening squelsh. she chokes, dropping the pistol to the floor. it lands with a loud clank moments before her body falls with a thud. your eyes widen, heart ceasing. blood pools onto the white tiles and only one thought runs through your mind: she didn't pull the trigger.

she didn't pull the trigger.

she

didn't

pull

the

trigger.

she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't—

you fall to your knees beside her, hands coming to cradle her bloodied face. you pull her head into your lap, rocking back and forth as crimson soaks into the black fabric of your habit. you clutch her tightly against you, pressing hard on her slit neck, willing the blood to go back inside.

death doesn't take her hand. instead, he grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her for the untimely demise she'd agreed to. the heart she'd taken from you rattles. the death rattle. you choke out a sob at the sound, everything aching.

you lean forward, pressing a kiss to her cold, dead lips. she doesn't kiss you back. you pull away, panting hard as your chest heaves and your eyes burn.

then, in the corner of your eye, you see the metal of ellie's pistol. you crawl across the kitchen toward the weapon, realizing she hadn't even cocked it. god, how had you been so stupid? you do it for her, loading the bullets into the chamber.

with the gun now in your possession, you crawl back over to ellie.

you position yourself atop her, entwining your legs and placing your head on her chest. it doesn't rise nor fall, no beating heard from beneath her ribs. you sob, placing the gun's barrel to the soft part of your chin.

then, without another thought, you pull the trigger. you pull it because ellie was unable. because ellie couldn't bear to do it for you. a part of you resents her for this, but another part can't feel anything for her aside from utmost love.

and there lie two bodies. lifeless.

ellie found what she'd been searching for all her life: something worthy of her devotion. something she can pour her all into. that had been why she became an fbi agent in the first place — in search something to worship whole heartedly. simultaneously, you'd found what you'd been searching for as well: peace.

in the end, however, it had all been for naught.

the ritual didn't work.

it needed someone faithless, someone who didn't care for religion, for god. but that wasn't ellie. not anymore, at least. because, after having met you, she'd finally found something worth her revere.

you were her religion.

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist. @luvsturniolo @ilovewomenfr @zzombiegirl @elliessweetheart @kasqnxx @xlovla

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 additional note. i want this to be said here because i know this piece is super fucking heavy. ellie and the reader's relationship is so fucking toxic. anyone who reads this, i hope you realize how absolutely horrific their love story truly is. there's a shit ton of symbolism weaved within this story that i didn't outwardly state (though most of it i blatantly explained). if u have any questions regarding this piece, i'd love to talk about it bc i put a lot of time into making it.

but, again, their relationship is TOXICCCCCCCCCC!!!!!! it's not meant to be idolized or romanticized in any way. if you didn't notice, i barely used the word 'love' and never made either of them say 'i love you'. that was for a reason!!!! because what they share isn't love. it's unhealthy obsession & i need that to be outwardly said before i post this

[fallstaticexit]

Prev / Next / Beginning

TW: Internalized Homophobia / Transcript / AN under the cut

AN: Here we are, just one more post before we conclude part 1 of this bittersweet story. As I've mentioned before, this story consists of three parts- Part One - Youth | Part Two - Uni | Part Three - Wife.

Transcript

Nancy Narrates: [As a treat for the few students who stayed behind, the nuns took us into to the city to shop on Christmas Eve]

[It was the first time Vanessa and I spent alone time together since I started dating Geoffrey]

[I’ve never been happier]

Nancy: [blushes] What?

Vanessa: [whispers] Do you feel like we’re being watched?

Nancy: Oh, Sister Agnes? [gulps] She’s right behind me, isn’t she?

Vanessa: [laughs] I’m serious! Let’s ditch the group.

Nancy: And risk getting a mark? Or worse, sent back home?

Vanessa: [shudders] Having to spend the rest of the break with my father? No thanks. Guess I’ll behave myself- for now anyway.

Vanessa: Sooo, what did you get your boyfriend for Christmas? A thong? One of those string thingies for his glasses?

Nancy: [snorts] I got him a broach.

Vanessa: You’re fucking with me, right?

Nancy: What? It was really nice, and very expensive.

Vanessa: Sure, if he’s your grandfather, Nancy!

Nancy: [sheepishly] I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never had a boyfriend before. I don’t know if I’m even doing this right. Shouldn't it...feel like something?

Vanessa: What do you mean?

Nancy: Holding hands and kissing. I thought it was suppose to feel like fireworks, like everything is burning and achy. I only felt it once...the first time, at that party.

Vanessa: Oh.. [looks away] Maybe he just needs practice...

Nancy: Maybe... Vanessa, I wa-

Vanessa: Hey! Let’s get some hot cocoa!

Nancy Narrates: [I wish she knew how much I missed when it was just me and her]

[No matter what, she will always be the sun to me]

Vanessa: So, are you going to tell me what’s in those bags?

Nancy: Maybe you should Guess?

Vanessa: Very funny, Blondie. I thought we weren’t exchanging gifts?

Nancy: [pouts] Does that mean you didn’t get me anything?

Vanessa: That’s because we said we weren’t when we were shopping! I could have gotten you something!

Nancy: [chuckles] It’s ok! You really didn’t have to get me anything. I just wanted to get you something I think you’ll like alot.

Nancy: Ta-da! I wanted to officially welcome you into the League of Blondes.

Vanessa: [cackling] No fucking way! This is the best Christmas gift ever, are you kidding!! [digs through bag] What are the scissors for?

Nancy: I was hoping you’d cut my hair. We can both have a new look.

Vanessa: You’re full of surprises, Landgraab. Let’s do it!

Vanessa: You’re being sooo quiet but your thoughts are sooo loud. What are you thinking about right now?

Nancy: Sorry. It’s nothing...

Vanessa: Tell me. Please.

Nancy: No, it’s fine.

Vanessa: Come onnn, please?

Nancy: What happened with Angela?

Vanessa: [huffs] Ah. I was wondering when you’d ask about that.

Nancy: Then why didn’t you just tell me about her?

Vanessa: There’s nothing to talk about. Pretty sure you heard the story.

Nancy: Sure, from everyone else but not from you. I want to hear your side.

Vanessa: [sighs] My side. We were best friends. We did everything together. I loved her a lot. All eyes were on us... so, I guess that’s how everyone noticed how close we were. People were saying things about us, and I was scared my father would find out and think I was like that. So, I turned on her. I called her names. I shunned her. I ruined her life...

Vanessa: It got so bad that she left the school. I never heard from her again. [voice cracks] You have to understand... if my father thought I liked girls, he would kill me. I could never let anyone think I’m like that! I’d rather they all thought I slept around with all the boys in school than think that. I had to do it...

Nancy: Do you?

Vanessa: [sobs] W-what?

Nancy Narrates: [My heart was racing. It just slipped out. And then I said it again, and that time, it felt like I was asking myself]

Nancy: Do you like girls?

Vanessa: [whimpers] I...no!! I’m not...I’m not a lesbian! I swear, Nancy! Please, believe me.

Nancy Narrates: [All that time...I had thought I was the one terrified of what it meant to love her. She was terrified of loving me too]

[This is what kissing should feel like]

Vanessa: [softly] Will you stay in my room tonight?

Nancy: Yes.

Nancy Narrates: [I had so many questions I wanted to ask her. So many things about myself I wanted to share, but there was one thing I wanted more]

[threepandas]

Bad End: Hidden Heir

Next ->

The Duke's family had very distinct eyes. It was genetic. An aggressively dominant trait at that, though it tended to die off, after a few generations out of the family. Supposedly a "blessing of the Gods". Spring to be exact. Bounty and luck. And the family certainly WAS bountiful.

In all the best and worst ways.

Wealth, corruption, children and bastards. It was a family so aggressively ALIVE, it could only be Spring's blessing that made them so. Pouring mania and madness into their veins like sweet sunlight. Whispering glory and riches, into power addled ears. They burst with life. Even as they endlessly destroyed themselves.

They were fictional.

Fascinating set dressings, for the stage play of someone else's story. Unimportant beyond their role in world building. As the origin story and power base of a character lead.

The Story ITSELF didn't even occur here. But rather, in the capital. Where the players of significance had gathered.

And I? Oh I was some minor antagonist, so insignificant to the plot, I genuinely could not remember which of seven different women I actually WAS. It had been an ongoing series. Otome Isekai. Reverse harem.

And I was either in the ORIGINAL original novel, the isekai'd plot novel, the anime adaption, OR a horrifying fever dream. My memory was largely useless. But? I did remember the characters. The archetypes.

And the fact, that the author had clearly been going though a Yandere phase.

My region of the Reverse Harem collect-o-thon? Horrifying! Red flags everywhere! No one here should date, leave room for fantasy Jesus, have we considered the joys of being a NUN? Yes. Yes I HAVE thought about it.

I was pretty sure I'd never make it. End up dead or captured by some sort of Nun Yandere. Or God Yandere. Possibly both. Assuming the bandit yanderes don't get me first. It... it was very stressful, living here.

Luckily? I knew when I could leave.

Or so I thought.

Because my house? The Dukedom? Had the "yandere butler who is secretly an heir." Who starts out with loyal dog behavior. A little highly possesive master and servant play. Then rises to become a Duke. Presumably? That is when I die. Or am disowned.

Death is most likely. Since my role was "minor antagonist" and I was to be mean to the sweet, earnest, Harem possessing Protagonist. Don't see WHY I would. Live and let live. Good for her etc etc. But regardless? Best to avoid, just in case.

The problem? Who do you think Mr Illegitimate Heir serves before she gets here? The OTHER possible heirs? Of course not! They'd "oops! Hunting accident~☆" him in a heart beat. Father isn't stupid. And my sisters? Issues. Violent, violent, issues.

He ends up with ME.

Father, WHY.

Obviously, I ignore him. I see nothing. I hear nothing. There is no war in Ba Sing Se. Mmmmm, tea. Good book. Ignore his creepy staring. His creepy, creepy staring.

Thankfully? I never really ran out of Totally Legitimate reasons to send him away to learn or do something. Proper tea making. Door maintenance. Eastern embroidery. Something, anything, and off you go! Bye bye~☆!

Unfortunately. He got faster. Better and better at learning. Mastering skills. Coming BACK. Showing up to stand in the corner, silent and looming, like an omen of death. Those damn eyes. The fucking family eyes!

I don't have them. And NOT as, my Father would have me believe, because I "take after my Mother". But because I am not genetically related to the Duke. I have GOLD eyes. When I wear the right shade of green? I pass. So I am condemned to forever wear green. Don't even really like it much. But?

I am pretty damn sure? I was just... pretty.

A lovely, orphaned, golden eyed child that COULD pass as his. So why not? It was a whim that payed off. Unlike in the original stories, I imagine. Since I am by FAR the best behaved child in this entire house. Ha! Suck it, bio-kids, the adopted one's the favorite! Maybe should have been less lil bitchs.

....I carefully do not say.

Those are INSIDE thoughts.

Fuck. He's still LOOMING. Isn't he? Go awaaaaaay. Where is Protag-chan? Come be doe eyed and busty! Trip adorably! Go "kyaaa~" or something! I feel body heat and freeze. He's leaning over my shoulder to pick up the teapot, pour me another cup. I can FEEL the barest graze of his knuckles against my back, from where he's gripped my chair. The smell of his aftershave almost hauntingly pleasant.

Like he KNEW exactly what smells I liked most. Went out of his way to find one that best suited my preference. Coincidence. Please, PLEASE be a coincidence! I do not turn my head. Keep my eyes locked straight ahead. Barely breathing.

He steps back.

The new pot is sharp and herbal. Almost bitter. I force myself to drink. Can't see a sugar dish, and REFUSE to turn around and ask for one. Ignore. IGNORE. My pounding heart calms. My muscles slowly start to relax.

It... it IS weird, though, now that I think about it? That Protag-chan hasn't reached the Dukedom yet. She should have. God only knows I sent Creepy to the capital enough times, with enough highly specific instructions, that he should've had his meet cute's and dates by the dozen. Been half way in love. So... why...?

Huh.

Dizzy.

The taste of tea sits wrong on my tounge. I stop drinking as the world sways. Letting the cup fall from my hand. Splatter, roll, and shatter. I try desperately to stand. A gentle gloved hand catches my elbow, supporting me. I turn. Giddy eyes. Triumphant, wide, spring green eyes. Too green to be gold, too gold to be green.

An almost cruel, mocking, yet loving grin.

Another hand slides around my waist, braces me against his side. Gleeful little murmurs, too pleased to be reassuring. You. You did this! You DRUGGED ME!

I can barely move, body relaxing against my command, going limp, as he draws me close. Presses his face against the side of my head, against my temple. A deep, shuddering breathe, that he savors like wine. I try to pull free but can not. Feel his lips pull into a vicious grin against my skin. Hands begin to run in gentle, claiming, exploration.

And at last the drugs kick in... the wo..rld..

G..oes..

Dar..k........

[nininikki]

delicates — s. gojo

content warnings: perv!gojo, fwb!gojo, panty-stealing, panty-sniffing, jerking off with said panties, increasingly mild jealousy, male masturbation

author’s note: some horny desperate gojo to perk those holiday spirits. love y’all 💋🫶🏽🤍

“satoru, have you seen my pink panties?”

he had barely gotten the phone up to his ear before nearly exclaiming, “your what?” through the dwindling cell phone static, gojo could hear the frantic zipping and unzipping of suitcases, opening and closing of drawers, and the stress in not only your breathing, but your question: have you seen my pink panties?

at the words, “pink panties”, bells begin to sound in satoru’s head. they’re tiny, lacy, and cotton candy pink almost all around, apart from the hem, which is decorated with a little white bow. the first time you’d worn them, they’d proved to be an issue for satoru’s restraint. much too pretty to ruin by tearing off your legs, but still a hindrance to him in the animal-like mood he was in. he could recall you gasping as he moved the thin material to the side so he could curl the tip of his tongue up against your clit for the first time of many that night.

“oh, nothing. forget i asked.” it was more than obvious you were stressing yourself to hell and back over the imminent (and very mandatory) conference trip to new orleans. it’s evident now, and it was more than evident about a week ago when you invited satoru over to your place with the intention of letting him ease the worry away. and he did, one salacious orgasm at a time.

crackly phone static sobers gojo instantly, and he’s back with you—present day you—and your current dilemma. “but, still,” he hears you defeatedly slump into the cushiony spring of your mattress. “where’d they go so fast?”

your new question makes him sit up in his bed. “well, uh,” gojo hardly stuttered, but you managed to catch him at an impossibly bad time. “when’d you see ‘em last?”

“they were in a stack of laundry on my dresser, i swear.” like magic, satoru’s mind conjures an image of what you might look like on the other end of the phone. lying across your bed, perhaps twirling a lock of hair up and down your finger or fidgeting with the golden initial necklace that always hung so delicately around your throat. he imagines a cartoonishly big question mark floating above your head as you work the plushness of your bottom lip between your teeth. the mental sight was a pretty one, albeit rather funny.

you resume your recant with, “then, just like that, poof! gone.” a sigh passed between your lips. “i mean, what am i gonna do now? i wanted to bring those with me.”

“those?” satoru hesitantly flicks his bedside lamp on now, hoping seeing will help him understand. “on a work trip?”

you sighed again, this time exasperated. “oh, please. it’s new orleans. did you think i was a nun or something?”

“whatever,” with a blink of his eyes, he tried to brush away the nagging, envious feeling that tugged at his navel and nearly led him to nausea, but it wasn’t at all that simple. “why’d you call me, anyway?” were you calling all your recent lovers and alerting them to be on the lookout for a pair of frilly pink underwear? the thought of it was funny only before satoru fully registered the idea of you having any other lover that was not him.

“well, i just thought that maybe…” your words trailed off in a way that indicated you’d lost them on purpose. your acrylics could be heard nervously clicking together on the other end.

gojo scoffs with the incredulity of a completely innocent man. “what, you think i’m the panty thief?” at the sound of air sucking between your teeth, and otherwise dreadful silence, he wants to roll his eyes. “i can’t believe you. you ever stop to think it was your freaky ass housekeeper?”

a sharp gasp crackles through the receiver. “rosmerta would never!”

“yeah, yeah. just call me when you think better of me.”

“then i guess i won’t be calling for a very long time.” you say, and a stiff dial tone fills gojo’s ears.

his conversation with you should’ve sobered him up completely. he should’ve been shamed into flicking his lamp off and falling asleep (even though he couldn’t if he wanted to). but hearing your voice only fueled his fire further. all day, your panties had burned a titillating hole in the top drawer of his dresser, and he’d had more than enough of denying himself.

when the sun sank beneath the clouds and it was finally dark enough to abate any oncoming feelings of guilt—although, there was a shamefully small amount of it—satoru had your pretty pink underwear splayed out over his lap, teasing it over the growing bulge in his pants.

he had felt like such a perv when he plucked them off your dresser’s tower of laundry and stashed them within his pocket. and he’d felt like even more of a perv when he kissed you out of your early morning slumber to tell you he was on the way out. “gotta go, baby. early shift today.” satoru whispered into your soft skin.

immediately, you’d attempted to rise from the comfort of your bed. “i’ll walk you out,” you yawned.

smoothing a hand over your cheek, satoru’s eyes softened at the sleepy tenderness in yours, and he’d wanted to collapse back into the mattress without a second thought. “no, you stay here and rest, alright.” but he simply could not bring himself to rest alongside you with such a dirty secret in his pocket.

and so now here he was, touching himself through his underwear like a virgin schoolboy as he brushed the fabric over his nose. the wholly clean scent of them couldn’t have stopped him from envisioning all the times you may have gotten them a mess with the slickness of your arousal.

you were wearing a dress that first time satoru had fucked you in these. and you weren’t shy at all about letting him bend you over the edge of your bed and push the skirt up over your hips. he was practically salivating at the sight: the thick globes of your ass on perfect display for his starving hands, and the damp plumpness of your cunt on perfect display for his starving mouth. thin ribbons of arousal had dripped their way down your labia and come to a head at the bulbous tip of your clit, while of course staining the almost transparent material in its wake.

the memory makes gojo abandon all efforts of teasing, and he’s letting his cock spring free from his underwear. he lets the angry mushroom tip graze against the crotch area of the thong, precisely where your slit would be. if he closed his eyes for long enough, he could imagine he was doing just that—rubbing himself up against your leaking slit until you were weak with pleas.

when his eyes flutter open the tiniest bit, he could see a fresh bead of precum dotting the material. “so good,” he murmured as he remembered how easily your chubby cunt swallowed up the fabric. your eyes, lidded and framed by fluffy lashes, sat teary and reddened in your head.

satoru had grown fond of how worked up you tended to get when teased. your manicured hands had cupped over the round peaks of your ass, spreading yourself apart with the hope of being filled. “please,” you had whimpered, and he couldn’t help himself at sight of your slick soaked lips virtually calling out to him. relief filled your eyes as he pushed the dainty cloth to the side, and then ran an impatient finger tantalizingly down your slit.

fresh saliva filled the underside of his mouth almost immediately, haunted by the memory of your slick bursting over his tongue in all the best and worst ways. there was no way gojo would be able to stomach the idea of another man peeling these off your skin just as he had that night. could he get you as loud for him as you were for satoru? could he tease the head of his cock over your hungry entrance until you were practically dying for it? could he spring your pretty eyes with tears after every thrust? gojo didn’t think so.

dampening the palm of his hand with a pearl of spit, gojo began sliding it up and down his length, murmuring small curses to himself as the picture of you bled through his mind. “so fuckin’ nasty.” he grunted when he remembered how you’d always time the movements of your hips perfectly to match his thrusts and fuck him back. “am i doin’ a good job, daddy?” you would look back at him and ask, smearing your juices over his pelvis with the increasingly weakening pushes of your hips.

“makin’ daddy so proud.” satoru hummed to himself, tightening his grip just over the head of his dick and imagining the very same hold your pussy seemed to have on him.

“i’m gonna cum,” you would tearfully whisper, just a split second before your body collapsed under the weight of the pleasure your lover was inflicting on you. usually immediately after, gojo’s release would follow upon him seeing the fervent manner in which your pussy spasmed around his cock as it drooled out thick rivulets of milky finish.

satoru felt himself twitch, inching closer and closer toward his own release as he teased the flimsy garment to and fro over his cock. but it just wasn’t enough.

in an act of utter desperation, or perhaps madness, he brought your panties up to his face and allowed his nose to brush up against the crotch. he was almost ashamed of the shiver that coursed down his spine. although the smell was relatively harmless, the mere idea of suffocating in you worked his nerves without relent.

“please,” gojo begged no one in particular. if he could, he would hold you against his face forever, smothering himself in the warmth of your skin until he was one with you. if he could, he would be en route to your apartment this instant to tell you the truth. “i love you.”

with a choked whimper that followed his untimely confession, satoru slipped over edge and into the blissful abyss of orgasm. the tugs on his cock became haphazard and sloppy with the gradual spurts of cum oozing from the head of his dick. it wasn’t until he opened his eyes and removed the rose colored panties from his face did he realize the gravity of what he had admitted. he loved you.

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

It felt so real.

What - Yearning. Daryl misses you and your family so badly that it seems his imagination is dreaming you up to keep him from going crazy

When - big time jump to when Daryl finds himself in France (spinoff season 1, episode 2)

Where - the school in France

Pronouns - she/her (howdy, wife reader!)

TWs - language, reference to child loss, self-loathing, sappiness (it's fanfiction, y'all XD ) and Daryl gets a little...'excited' (mild instance of sexual arousal between a married couple)

Perspective - Daryl 3rd person POV

References - some are yet unpublished because this is a significant time skip, which means a few little surprises. Others can be found throughout the series!

Series? - the Slowpoke Series! It's a fun, slow time that sticks to canon to help maintain immersion (as much as you can with adding an oc lol) ;)

Can I read this chapter if I haven't started any part of the Slowpoke Series yet? - definitely

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“It's so good to hold you again, sugar.”

Those words, that voice, made him relax into the bed. She was there again! He’d last imagined her when he was being tended to by those nuns, so it was only, what, a handful of days ago?

Wasn’t enough for him, he missed her so much.

“Dare, I want them all. Full stop, every last one.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I knew you’d say that.”

“As if you aren’t wantin’ to take at least a handful. All those kids with just an old woman to care for them…well, now she’s dead, but…” She sighed and held him tighter. “Lou reminds me of Enid. Don’t you think they look similar? M’sorry her name had to be Lou. A lot of things over here are making you homesick, ain’t they? And that poor boy in Maine, named TJ, too.”

He pulled her closer, doing his best to not wake himself up so Y/N would stay with him. He wished that kid, with same name as his oldest, has just gone back to his girlfriend like he'd told him to.

“Our own Louise lights a candle with me for you every day. Those nuns would be proud.”

He swore to himself that whenever these dreams happen, there’s got to be some way it isn’t just all in his head. It was way too real.

It felt so, so real.

But that Louise was lighting candles for him, he knew because Carol told him when she spoke to him briefly over the radio in Maine...

“Did Carol also mention that Lydia’s been drawing you? Or did I write part that in the letter?”

“The letter. Carol and I didn't have much time to say anything.” Y/N wrote him a long, long letter. One part mentioned how both Lydia and Glenn took to getting nightmares again after he left. At Maggie’s suggestion, Lydia had been drawing his picture. Apparently it helps her feel safer.

RJ had been 'retreating more than usual,' also. Adam was acting out, too, so she wrote. If Daryl was figuring it right, the boys losing another father figure probably hadn’t helped.

“Dare, he’s three. Three-year-olds don’t only act out with foster parents, Adam would be doin’ the same with Alden. And RJ is without Michonne right now. That's the greater culprit.”

His wife also wrote how Coco just started calling her ‘mama,’ and correcting her to say ‘auntie’ wasn’t working yet. She chalked it up to her being a motherly figure and the baby assuming all caring ladies were ‘mama.’ He wondered if Gabe knew yet. Ain’t like Y/N hasn’t been a mama to that little girl since Rosita died. Actually, nah, Gabe obviously knew; Y/N would’ve (legit) run to him immediately and told him what was up.

The faces of all their kids ran through his mind over and over, Lydia and Judith and RJ included. Then his wife’s face. Carl. Adam. Hershel. Gracie. Coco. Carol. Ezekiel. Maggie. Rosita. Aaron. Jesus. Jerry. Rick. Merle. T-Dog.

“Oo, I want to be here when T-Dog visits. Has he ever visited?” Y/N chirped.

He wished. “Once. I just think about him a lot.”

“Bummer. He must have been so thrilled when we actually did name our first after him, without you even tellin’ me nothing about how he’d teased you on it! Say, what about Uncle Jesse? Does he visit? He must’ve been happy TJ’s middle name is for him!”

He shook his head. You even visited me before I was smart enough to fall for you. When I fell down the ridge. It was you and Merle.

A sneezing from one of the kids in another part of the building resounded four times. It woke him briefly.

He closed his eyes, focused…

It was okay, Y/N was there. Daryl breathed a sigh of relief.

“I am a mite surprised you didn’t take the floor anyway,” Y/N admitted, peeking over his side to look at where the nun Isabelle was laying down next to him. “Or share with Laurent so the two sisters could share.”

“Neither of them trust me enough for me to share a room with the boy. And she sounded like she didn’t want me on the floor. Must be that I’m gettin’ too old." All I feel these days is tired and sore. "Hell, I don’t think I could get up if I slept on the floor.”

Angel, I ain’t the same without you, I’m a fucking mess. Look at the shit show that I’ve made of things.

His wife whispered, “Hey. You know I can hear that, I’m from your imagination.”

“Y/N, I miss you so fucking much.” Baby, I’m so goddamned far from you all and I don’t know how I’m gonna get out this time.

“No cusses in front of the kids, Daryl,” She cupped her belly, the one he was imagining she might have again. Carol, when she spoke to him, used what little time there was to mention how Y/N was avoiding taking a test because she missed him too much. Y/N didn’t say nothing about it in her letter she'd packed in there during one of his home visits.

How’s that for a reason to hate yourself?

“You should,” shot back another familiar voice. “Leaving your own kin, leaving your woman. Ain’t you learned nothing, boy? Didn’t think you was that much of a deadbeat but here’s proof the apple didn’t fall far from the tree."

Merle.

Damn, it’d been ages!

"Yup. Nanu nanu," his brother mocked, waving his metal stump and glaring. "Here you are, in the white flag capital of the world, surrounded by Euro kooks instead of your own blood.”

“Oh, Daryl, don’t imagine him as cruel again!" Y/N cooed. "Let us both love you if you’re gonna go about having us here.”

Daryl breathed slowly so he wouldn’t wake up. When he felt level enough, he answered, “I don’t have much control over what y’all say.”

“I thought you had some control over it.” Y/N gently pushed his hair off his face. He loved it when she did that. Delicately, she examined the new scar gracing his forehead.

“I blame that old coot what you let whup you on the head as to why you’re seeing things,” his brother crooned.

His wife nodded. “Another concussion, you poor man. But this isn’t a hallucination, it’s just a dream. It’s that good kind of dream where you’re not fully awake but not fully asleep.” She trailed her hand along his forearm.

“Y/N, you’re too good for this sad sack.”

She fired back faster than Daryl knew his imagination could go. “Merle. You love your brother to death and you’re happy he got hisself a wife and family.” Y/N had pushed herself up to sitting in order to scold him. “Tell me you don’t swell with pride seein’ him be a good father and good husband. The cycle stopped with him, and you’re proud of it.”

Daryl, a hand protectively around his wife’s side, was busy trying to figure out what Merle was even doing, whittling?

Ah, he was eating an peach with the knife attached to his metal stump.

Weird, he thought ghosts didn’t eat.

“Maybe I ain’t a real ghost, retard,” was a blunt comeback. “Maybe I’m just a poor copy you conjured up in that concussed little head of yours.” Merle then turned to Y/N. “As for you, kitten, he left you and your brats! Left you when you was up the duff, left you when you don’t even got all your legs no more! How’s he supposed to protect you when he’s out here?”

“Merle William Dixon! I ain’t ‘kitten’ and those ‘brats’ are your nieces and nephews, dick. Noah’s middle name is even for you, so you best watch your mouth, hear?”

Merle smirked and sliced off another wedge from the peach. “There’s my sister-in-law. I had to make sure your square self at least still had that fire in ya.” He offered her a slice, but she crossed her arms.

The expression on her face was so disappointed it made Daryl’s chest tug.

His brother duly inclined his head in apology and raised his hands in surrender. “You’re right, ma’am. Y’all are doing a good job on them brats. And this sumbitch ain’t nothing like our old man, so there’s something.” Merle chopped another piece of fruit. “And it’s always a pleasure to roll with a fellow amputee, Y/N. Not many can relate to how trippy the phantom limb bullshit can get.”

She tilted her head in agreement, rubbed the spot above her prosthetic calf, and settled back down next to her husband with a big sigh. “I do wish Daryl imagined you in a kinder light, Merle, but, either way, I’m happy he watched Mork & Mindy because it got him thinkin’ about you — and now you’re here for him!” Her hand grazed along her bump. “And, you meant to say to him that I was possibly pregnant.”

“Dunno about that, sister, you’ve always seem to know when you been knocked up.”

“That ain’t incorrect,” she confessed, curling in on herself. “Even if I was, it’s possible we had a loss again, Merle. Whether early or late this time.”

“Another reason he shouldn’t be screwin’ around out here.” Merle next words sliced him as if his heart were the peach in his hands. “I'm angry for your own good, lady. What if you had to handle another kid's death, this time on your own?”

The bad memories crashed down like waves threatening to drown him in grief and guilt. He wanted to pummel his brother in the hopes Merle would best him and make him pay for leaving her.

But Merle wasn't actually there. Neither was Y/N. It was pretend. Daryl was just beating himself up in his head, and failing even at that.

Y/N said the words as Daryl thought them: “Why are you twisting the knife?” She swallowed and covered her face with her hands. “Maybe, this mission is w-worth the sacrifice of, of us not havin’ him here right now.”

No. It’s not.

I know you said that before I left to make it hurt less, but it’s not. Listen to your stutter, you know it ain’t.

I should be back there with you, not constantly leaving for weeks at a time. I'm supposed to be home now. I'd told Carol when I reached her on the radio back in Maine that I'd be there in a about a week, which is what she would've told you. This whole thing is horseshit!

“Darlin’, think on happier things or you’ll upset yourself awake or into another nightmare,” Y/N soothed. "You almost woke from anger at Merle just there, which is really just anger at yourself." Her fingers laced into his where his hand rested on her belly. His wish was that his dream would include feeling the baby move. He loved that feeling. Except, he must’ve been waking up because his dream wasn’t letting him feel her hand or her belly very much when he tried. Still, it felt real enough. He’d take what he could get.

“Might could be fun to think back on how beautiful it was making them, if indeed we made another one.” She walked two fingers along his bicep. “Would’ve happened on or around the last night before you left. Or,” she mused, then started to giggle. At that moment, he could even imagine the vibrations of her laughter as if she were really, actually laying beside him. It felt so real! “I wouldn’t be surprised if made them on the day itself, that was soo — oh man, hold up!” She pulled away from him and eyed his crotch in suspicion. “No sex dreams allowed, there’s a bride of Christ in the room! Keep that thing down, deal?”

He almost laughed out loud, and possibly in real life. So long as he didn’t wake up, he didn’t care if he laughed in his sleep. The reactions, the tone, it was all just like his Y/N. And he could hope they had another kid. He’d take as many as came along.

Aw, shit, how far would she even be along, if this one made it? How long had he been away?

“Goddamn, y’all, is this some kinda kink you got?” Merle cut in. “Me and the penguin are still here, you perverts.”

“Oh hush, neither of us are actually here. Him and me aren’t doing nothin’, he just got a little aroused,” Y/N countered. “And to answer your question about another baby, Daryl, I reckon you’ll find out when you come back.” She shrugged. “Unless you reach us on a radio? Eugene is diligent about it, especially now.”

That was another thing she wrote in her letter. Eugene and his radio.

The helplessness crashed back down on him. “I’m tryin’ babe.” He didn’t want to start crying. The nun was next to him and he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop crying once he started.

Merle jeered, “Try harder, Darylina.”

He was right, Daryl needed to. He needed to try harder! What kind of washed out fuck-up was he?

“Sweetheart,” his wife called softly. Her hand caressed his cheek. It felt so, so real. “Margaret — a woman who knows the pain of losing a husband — trusted this to you because you survive. And I trusted you to go, because you’ve got the brains, the balls, and the grit. You don’t die or get bit, Daryl, no. You always come home.”

Bullshit. Not this time.

“Not bullshit. Yes, this time.” She looked to the window. “Merle, back me up.”

“Based on your track record, she’s right, little brother.”

“You may not believe you can or will,” she lifted herself up on her hands and leaned forward to kiss him. It had to have been real. It felt so, so real. But he was not about to open his eyes to see if by some miracle it was. “Despite how you feel right now, my bet is you will get that happy ending. It ain’t coincidence that Laurent said so just like our Judith did! How’s that for a reason to hope?”

Shit, he was about to break down. “Y/N, maybe I don’t deserve that. You saw the shit-show what got me here.” And there came the tears. “I left you, that’s all there is to this. I don’t deserve you.”

“Oh, that word.” Y/N wasn’t a fan of the word ‘deserve.’ “On that topic, what an honest prayer you said to bless the food! So many times you used ‘deserve,’ ugh, but,” she paused, “God loves honesty like that. Very, very much.”

She kissed his eyelids where the tears were starting to slip out, kissed the scar that never seemed to fade, then settled back against the side of his chest and curled one leg around him. With her hand, she rubbed comforting circles along his torso. “And He don’t punish or withhold, that’s just our fallen world. His hand is always out for you,” she murmured. “Say, how long do you think you can keep up with imaginin’ my theology?”

“Angel, I’m already at my limit. That’s why part of me thinks you’ve gotta be here somehow, some parts of this feel so real. Smart stuff like this ain’t in my head.”

“TJ and Georgia would call out your self-hate if they could hear you. You’d owe them a lot of quarters. Hm, and euros, seeing as you're here.”

His chest tugged at their names. “How are they?”

TJ, their oldest besides Lydia, had long hair like the little French kid here. Just one other thing that ripped at Daryl’s heartstrings to make him ache so bad for home it shocked him that he wasn’t bleeding out.

“They’re as good as gold and better. Just like their father.” That phrase he knew was from his memory because she’d said it before. “All of us miss you like crazy. Postal level.”

You shouldn’t.

“Daryl.” Her hand gripped his. There’s no way it wasn’t real. It felt so real. “When I was broken after Carl's death, and I claimed the same stuff — that you should leave me and TJ, that you needed someone better, that your life would be better if we weren’t a part of it — how much did it rip you up? ’Cause even if I hadn’t told you this before, you would have to understand how it’s tearing my insides to shreds hearin’ you think the same.”

Calm. He had to stay calm or he’d be alone again.

“I’m right,” he whispered.

“I have to disagree.”

“I —” his voice went up. He switched tactics and spoke to his brother. “Merle, talk some sense into her. I failed. This is it, this is—”

“—You did screw shit up like a royal turd, but your lady would rip my danglers off if I went along with your pretty little pity party.”

Believe it or not, the tough love helped. Felt genuine, as if Merle really was shouting some sense into him. It felt so real.

He caught his wife giving Merle an air high-five. “Thank you, Merle.”

In hindsight, Daryl figured it must’ve be because Merle, in Daryl’s imagination, had to raise his metal arm to return the five. He taunted Y/N, “You’re welcome, peg-leg.”

Dream or not, Daryl was fixing to bark, but his wife playfully kicked her own prosthetic and taunted back, “Love you, gimpy.”

His brother was smug. “Square.”

As if Y/N hadn’t heard that before.“Trailer trash.”

As if Merle hadn’t heard that before. “Goody-two shoes.”

“Two shoes? Ahem,” Y/N drawled as prim and proper as a southern belle. “Did we not just establish how I only require but one shoe these days?”

Merle slapped his thigh and cackled like a hyena and Daryl couldn’t help but do the same. Y/N joked about her missing calf like she got paid for it, pirate jokes to no end.

Daryl hadn’t felt this light in months, not even close to it since leaving home.

…And to think, it was all a lie.

All fake.

They weren’t really there. Not his wife, not his dead brother. It was all in his head.

“Oh, my sweet mangy hick. Enough moping and angst, enjoy the moment! Merle and I really did a fair job on our banter just there. And you never know, Merle could really be here, seein’ as he’s dead.”

“Y/N, I even miss bickering with ya, goddamn,” he breathed.

“It is one of our love languages. That reminds me — you’re doing great with the French, Dare!”

She can’t be serious. Or, rather, he himself can’t be serious. “Babe, I ain’t spoken a word of it. The letters don’t matter half the time. I swear, these people sound drunk.”

Merle snickered, “Hell, even I speak better French than him. Voulez vous coucher av—”

“—Well, I meant like when you used the dictionary to translate that conjugated verb.” Her voice had gone down when she said this and it sounded, well…how it usually sounded when she was turned on. “If I were there, the part where I’d push your suspenders off your shoulders would drive me wild…”

Stay calm or you’ll wake up, Daryl.

And you realllly don’t want to start a sex dream with some other chick in the room. A nun!

“Get a room, horndogs. The word was ‘conjugated,’ not ‘conjugal,’” Merle spat. “This is why you got all them kids.”

His wife made one of her signature huffs, but didn’t say nothing back to Merle. Into Daryl’s ear, she sympathized, “Being horny is so annoyin’.”

Ha. Blushing even in his dreams. Part of him wondered if he was cracking up in his sleep, too, but either way, it felt good. Felt real. It felt so, so real. “I don’t even know what ‘conjugated’ means, Y/N.”

“Yes you do, otherwise I wouldn’t say it. I’m a figment of your imagination, remember?” Aw man, why’d she have to nuzzle him in the crook of his neck? He loved it when she did that. Mmm, hot damn it felt so real… “And you know that you doin’ something like conjugating a verb in another language would be sexy to me.”

“I told y’all jackrabbits to keep your britches on. Now, Daryl: ‘conjugate’ is when you make the verb agree grammatically with the subject. You’ve heard that word before,” Merle explained. Seemed out of character. And the room looked strange, there was—it was another room now?

Daryl’s thoughts turned to when Y/N and Rosita would speak Spanish. Listening as Judith helped TJ and RJ with phonics. Watching Georgia sing to baby Louise that song Siddiq had taught her in, what language was it?

“Hey. Dummy,” Merle scoffed. “You’re driftin’ off, sweet boy. Gotta stay a teensy bit lucid if you want us here.”

So that’s why the room had just looked different. He’d been slipping.

“I still don’t get how this happens, which is why I think you’re actually here,” Daryl said to both of them. “Merle, you’re probably in…somewhere in-between.”

“What, I don’t get to be in heaven yet? Y/N, you hearin’ this uppity sumbitch?”

“He still has trouble believing in such things, Merle, especially lately. I prayed for your soul, so I got hope.”

“Thank you, sister.”

“Anytime.” Y/N looked up at Daryl and smiled. “Then what about me, dude? I ain’t dead, pinky promise. So, how is it that I come to be here?”

Yeah, he’ll be as sappy as he wants with his wife of ten years. “Maybe you’re dreamin’ about me, too.”

Merle’s kissy noises were interrupted by Daryl firmly telling him to get out after which Y/N smooched him harder than she’d had in his imagination since he’d left America. The smell of her, the sounds she made, the way she would lift her head so he could bury his face in her neck, it all felt so real.

It was when she ran her hand lower down his abdomen and almost reached his you-know-what that it all stopped cold. “Sorry! Aw, shoot — Merle! Get back in here, quick, we got carried away! Well, t-technically it was all you, Dare, but — just, please don’t get a stiffy with a nun in the room!”

“Someone should put that on a shirt,” his brother called.

“Ew, no, Merle! Good Moses, maybe I really should ought to be there if you’re startin’ to imagine messed up t-shirt slogans.” She was only teasing. “Ooh, but if I were really there I could meet little Sister Sylvie! So far, I like her.”

“I knew you would.” Daryl grinned. “The way she is with the boy, she reminds me of you.”

If only you were really here, angel.

Wait, no, I don’t want you here because you wouldn’t be safe. I need you safe.

She brought his hand to her lips. “I know what you meant, sugar.”

Unexpectedly, the nun shifted on the bed, nearly jolting him fully awake.

Slow breaths. Keep your eyes shut, do not open them!

He kept them shut tight and pictured where Y/N had been to try and keep her there.

“What am I, chopped pig’s feet?” Merle grunted.

Daryl relaxed. Merle was still there, and he got back the feeling of Y/N beside him.

“You know,” his wife considered. While she was still there, he was having trouble visualizing her. Was he still close to waking up? “That Sister Isabelle is willin’ to risk sharing a room with a strange American says a lot about how much she’ll give to protect the boy and the others here.”

“Still damn weird she didn’t just share a room, the three of ’em.”

“It is. It’s really weird.” Y/N rested her forehead on his chest. He felt the warmth of her breathing against him. If he focused really hard, he could just about imagine the feel her heartbeat, too. “Maybe she’s fixing to be the first line of defense, with all them other kids livin’ here.”

“Still weird,” he grunted. “Hey, where’d my—” He looked around in his imagination at the room. “Where’d my brother go?”

“Maybe he wanted another peach. Or, maybe you're too close to wakin’ up. Be careful, darling.”

He breathed slowly and kept his eyes locked shut. His frustration was growing. It had felt so real, why was it going away?

Calm. Stay calm so she’ll stay.

“It was also unusual,” Y/N thought, “how Sister Izzy—”

“—Sister Izzy?”

He imagined that her mouth would have twisted in embarrassment. “Yes, I’d probably definitely give her that nickname. You sure know how to portray me realistically.” She started again, “It’s unusual how she didn’t accommodate for your maybe-not-wantin’-to-be-seen-in-the-tub-by-a-nun. By anyone, for that matter. Although,” she reconsidered, “they were nurses who had to change your undies and cauterize your wound, weren’t they?” When he pictured her bottom lip beginning to tremble, he held her closer. “Oh, I hate that they all died but for two! What has this world come to? Why would those men kill them?”

That was something.

The dream got easier to maintain. He felt the curve of her waist. The rise and fall of her chest. It felt real again. It felt so, so real.

Relieved, he didn’t know what to say at first other than, “The water was cloudy enough.” When he was getting treated, bathed, doctored, how hard he wished it was Y/N doing it. Another thing that made him ache, watching them nuns give him medical attention when for the past 12 years it’d almost always been his wife.

He breathed out heavily. “Dunno, when she was in there, it wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

“The habit can have that effect on some. The crucifixes and religious artworks hopefully brought some peace, too.”

“Habit?”

“Nun outfit.”

He tried to hold her even tighter. The way it felt more real than before encouraged him, got him nearly falling off his seat with excitement that he got her back!

Except, the excitement turned into panic that he might lose this moment because he was so happy, as fake as it was.

And it sent him over the edge. Just like that, he was awake. Very awake. And alone. No Y/N, no Merle.

He blinked as the room came into focus.

None of it was real. He’d, he'd known that.

And now he was awake. Lying on some flat, shitty, tiny bed, an ocean away, in a country full of people he didn’t understand, that had walkers who burned you when they touched you, and soldiers who shot up a convent full of nuns who patched up strangers and were only trying to keep a little boy safe.

He didn’t even have his ring anymore. All he had was a snippet on a voice recorder that told the world his name and how badly he'd fucked up.

Daryl turned onto his side, the pain from his burned arm screaming at him, but he didn’t give one flying fuck. Y/N wasn’t there anymore because his stupid ass had woken up! He’d earned the pain, he needed it, he deserved it.

Quietly, he thought to hell with it and let himself weep. He was so fucking done with all this bullshit.

He wanted Y/N back. He wanted his kids back. The fuck kind of brainless jackass was he, leaving them for so long, so much? And for what?

To "see what's out there?"

As if he'd find people who had a cure?

To bring Rick and Mich home? If Rick is even alive, if Michonne is alive.

To transport some creepy French boy to a group of weirdos grasping at the hope of some imaginary friend in the sky who damns them if they don’t do all the rules in the world that He’d let go to shit as a punishment or test?

Really, was Daryl that much of a guilt-ridden jerk-off to still say yes to whatever Maggie asks him to do? It’s a hopeless fu—

“Daryl, I love you so much. Please don’t blaspheme.”

“Y/N?” I thought you was gone. No, you were gone, I woke up! “You’re back?” Holy shit, thank you. Thank you! Thank you, Whoever's up there.

That small, shy smile melted all the ice he’d just had in his heart. “Try not to wake all the way again?”

He didn’t waste any more time blubbering like an idiot, he reached for her and held on. It was still a dream, so he had to be careful to not get too excited or do anything too stimulating. And, don’t worry, he wasn’t about to willingly get a hard-on when there was a nun next to him.

He just needed to have Y/N in his arms again so he could make it through the next 5 minutes without going insane!

For 12 years, she’d been there, loving him in one way or another. For 10 years they’d been husband and wife. Without her, without their kids there, in that strange, foreign place, he was losing himself so quick it brought him to his knees with shame.

Her lips pulled away for a moment. “I wouldn’t agree that you’re losing yourself. I watched Shaney lose himself, it looked different. Daryl, I’m serious,” she insisted. “Listen: did you not save that dad and daughter even after they robbed you?”

Big whoop. “You know what those guerrilla shits would’ve done to her." The same thing that got done to you. "And those assholes would prolly have made the old man watch and killed me regardless.”

“Yeah, but you also went back to try and save that gaggle of nuns from those jar-head pieces of shit, that’s got to count for somethin’.” Wait, that was Merle’s voice. He was back, too?

Daryl looked over at the window to see his brother there once more. Merle winked. “My baby brother, the hero. Stay zen if you’re fixing to keep us here, now. Keep hittin’ that sweet spot between dreamland and the real world.”

Y/N beamed at Merle before turning back to Daryl. “And did you not help those children get the medicine, Dare? Heck, now they got access to that whole castle full of supplies and it’s so much more secure. Um, m-minus the moat full of dead ones.”

“I lied to those kids out my ass, Y/N. Lied and didn’t give a damn.”

“And you ensured none of them got hurt, then promptly admitted the lie with what I’d call purity of heart.”

“I cut that boy’s mule loose without a second thought. You see that? He loved that thing.”

“Better than to have failed to back up the cart in time, which would have happened and would have gotten all five of y’all eaten. And it was almost fast enough to escape by the looks of it. One dead mule to the benefit of four living souls is a good outcome.”

“What’d my sister-in-law say earlier?” Merle asked. “Brains, balls, and grit? Not to sound all mushy gushy, but she’s right.”

The memories of falling into that moat of walkers seized him, made him start to panic again. No brains, no balls, he almost died right in there—

“—Baby, shh,” Y/N hushed. Her arms tightly wrapped around him the way she would when his nightmares hit bad. “You survived. No bites. No burns. Not even a broken bone, I don’t know how you managed it again.” Her lips, her chest, her hands pressed against him. It felt so, so real. “But you always seem to.” She kissed him. “You’ve got brains.” Another kiss. “Balls.” A deeper kiss. “And grit. And you’re alive, sweetheart. There’s always hope as long as your heart is still beating.”

“How will I get out of this?”

“You’ll find a way,” she said with confidence. “You simply don’t know what the way is yet.”

“What do I do about the nuns?”

“Help them keep Laurent safe, of course — if you choose to do so.”

I don’t want to.

“You don’t have to,” she assured him.

I want to go home.

“And you will,” she assured him once again.

I don’t want to help them. I don’t want to. I don’t fucking want to!

…God damn it. “But I should.”

“You ain’t obligated,” Y/N responded, but with hesitation that time. “It is up to you.”

Merle was the one to point out, “It’s that conscience of yours, kid. Sometimes you just can’t help but help. I’ve been watchin’ you these past, what is it, 11 years since I got my crusty white ass killed?” He chuckled to himself as he shaved off the final bit of peach before flicking the pit away. “Can’t be too mad at it when it roped you a fine piece of ass to squeeze at night and how many kids because of it?”

“Merle,” Y/N warned.

Daryl could feel his anger rising.

“What, ain’t you relieved I can’t call you ‘sweet little virgin’ no more, son?” Merle kept egging on.

“Daryl, this isn’t really him. Don’t get angry or we’ll both disapp—”

“—So, my thinking is, Daryl, that you just won’t be able to help yourself from bringing that little sissy boy to them nutjobs —”

“Shut up!” Daryl burst out — and opened his eyes in real time. Again? Is he that much of an idiot?

His pulse was pounding. Dread and self-loathing flooded his mind, how stupid could he be?

Immediately, he squeezed his eyes shut in a desperate hope to get his wife and brother back. He focused, focused, focused, prayed, pretended, focused…

“Daryl,” came her voice.

He could hear Y/N, but not see her. It was clear that it was all him forcing the memory of her voice back. It was all in his head.

“Why bother caring that it’s in your head, sugar? Breathe slowly and focus on the feel of my body against yours. I don’t wanna leave you."

“Y/N, I need to get back,” he panted. “I can use their help to do that. Those religious people, the Union of Hope or whoever, Isabelle says they got a good radio. I need that to get back home.”

“Well, there you go! I trust you.”

He reached up to tangle his fingers where her hair would be. His imagination wasn’t letting it happen, so he focused with gratefulness that at least he could still hear her.

“Just don’t abuse their trust, and you’ll be alright,” she softly pleaded.

Don’t break their trust? “Angel, you don’t know what I did to end up in this mess.”

Of all the ways he could have daydreamed her reacting, it was that her laughter filled the room. “For the last time, my mangy hick, I am a figment of your imagination and quite literally know everythin’ inside that brain of yours. And I still love you despite that ‘shit-show’ what landed you here.”

He brought to mind the color of her eyes, wanting, wanting, begging for a miracle that would make her truly there with him so he could stare into them all night. “What would you say if I asked ‘that if I don’t find nothing, what good am I?’”

“Y/N, you can blame our raising for that shit right there,” his brother commented.

“You poor boys. Broken people sometimes make for broken kids.”

Gently, he started to perceive the way she would rub her cheek against his chest when she’d lay down with him. “Daryl? If I were here, I’d say things to try and make it stick in your head that your worth ain’t dependent on what you can offer.”

“What does it depend on, then?”

“Careful, you’re treading into religious waters now, and I ain’t sure you’ve got the bandwidth tonight. But God is involved,” she hinted.

This mess was hopeless, wasn’t it? No winning, no out, no happy ending.

“Angel, I can’t come home empty-handed.” He squeezed his eyes tighter and willed himself to not lose his cool yet again. “I can’t come home with no Rick or Michonne, no cure, no nothin’ but a burn, more nightmares, and more lives on my conscience.”

“You can,” she answered simply. “It ain’t all on you. No — please, don’t get any more upset or you’ll wake up again! Daryl, I’ve already slipped so far away!” He heard his wife begin to cry, but the sound went further and further from him. All he could see were the backs of his eyelids.

Still, he held on as best he could. “Please stay here, angel.”

“I-I would, sweetheart.”

“When I’m back, I won’t even want to leave the walls to hunt if it would mean not being next to you, d’you know that?”

“Let someone else hunt. You’ve done enough to last a lifetime.” Her voice was hoarse the way it had been when she’d said those same words to him about a year and a half ago. “More than enough. Oh Daryl, I’m so sorry we’re going.”

“Not yet, angel, please don’t!”

“Use all those things makin’ you homesick as reasons to hope. Do it for me, sugar. Get yourself home again. Don’t die, don’t get bit.”

“I won’t. I’ll get back to you. Tell the kids I love ’em?”

There was silence.

Stillness.

Daryl lay there, accepting that he couldn’t feel Y/N next to him anymore.

His throat tightened. “Angel?”

He doesn’t know why he bothered. She was gone, he knew it. He ran his finger where his ring should’ve been, if he hadn’t lost it.

“Angel,” he tried again.

Silence.

“Babe, please. Please.”

Silence.

“Y/N, please, one more time, angel.”

Silence.

The pain in him was hollow and cold.

Feeling small and helpless, he lifted his arms above his head and held back a wail of despair. He closed his eyes again and, in his head, he cried out in desperation, “Merle?”

At first, there was no answer. He hadn't expected one. Why should he?

But then he heard a quiet, low, “I’m still here.”

Merle spoke slowly and heavily, almost as if it hurt him to admit it. “I don’t think she’s gonna come back tonight, Daryl. You’ve already fallen out a few times. I ain’t gonna be here much longer, neither. You know that.”

Any strength he had left seeped out like a stab wound, leaving him crying like a child. “I can’t see you anymore.”

“I know, little brother.”

“It felt so real.”

“It sure as hell did. I think you needed it, even if it hurts like a bitch now.”

It had felt so, so real!

But it wasn’t. “I’m alone,” he choked out.

“Nothin’ you can’t handle.” For a moment Daryl could make out his brother’s face again. “You’re a tough sumbitch, so I’d advise you act like it. Quit blubberin’ like a baby and wipe the snot out your nose.”

Daryl sniffed and tried to get a grip.

“Good.” Merle’s voice began to echo. He was almost gone, too. “Now listen here: don’t die, don’t get bit. Get your ass back where you belong.”

The room came into view.

The echoing stopped.

The hollow, cold pain he’d felt at knowing they were gone there turned sharp and hot. Turns out, it was actually the throbbing in his arm. Daryl really had turned onto his side, which positioned his burned arm underneath him. He strained to get off it and flip onto his back.

You know what? The pain from his burned arm didn’t hold a candle to the ache in his chest.

Were those tears on his face, too? Guess he must’ve started crying for real in his sleep. Made sense considering how real it all felt. It all felt so real.

If only his pulse would stop racing, he felt sick.

He was getting damned old.

Instinctively, he tried to fiddle with his wedding band, which is when he recalled yet again how he’d lost it. Only a faint tan line remained.

He closed his eyes, exhausted, and chewed at his lip. Another tear or two escaped and ran hot down his cheek.

A strange part of him wished he hadn’t lied to Laurent about having a wife and family back home. At the time he said it so it wouldn't hurt as much, but…

“You deserve a happy ending, too,” the kid had told him. Just like his Judith had, when she saw how low and unworthy he begun to feel. She told her auntie Y/N, too, of course, not that his wife wasn’t unaware of how twisted his head had gotten into thinking he was no good. It didn’t feel twisted to him, it felt honest. He didn’t deserve them. They were too good.

His wife’s words to him played again in his mind. He may have just been making all that shit up in his brain, but he was only remembering a mix of real things that she’d told him before, over and over in the hopes his stupid ass would accept it one day.

“Despite how you feel right now, my vote is you will get that happy ending. It ain’t coincidence that Laurent said so just like our Judith did! How’s that for a reason to hope?”

He did need a reason. It was getting harder and harder to hold onto hope. Any hope.

So, maybe, a weird kid with long hair like TJ’s who drew a picture of some washed-up bum on a beach three weeks before Daryl showed up was reason enough to hope. He could grasp onto that.

If it would get him home, hell yeah, he could do that.

How the same weird kid told him what his niece had and what his wife had could be reason enough, too. He could grasp onto that as well, if it would get him home. He could do that for them.

Daryl ran his hand in slow, gentle circles along his stomach like Y/N would. Maybe he’d been doing this in his dream, which is why it felt so real.

It had all felt so, so real.

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

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[denaliwrites]

Don't Look Away

Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader

Part 1: Don't Blink Part 2: Don't Turn Your Back Part 4: Dreams See Us Through

Summary: You're finally rid of those godforsaken angels.

Requests: Open!

Tag List: @nyxiethesimp, @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce

Warnings: Weeping Angels.

You were so tired.

Between the nightmares and the constant vigilance, there was just... never a moment of rest for you.

Sure, the Doctor whisked you away again, back out into the far reaches of time and the universe, but no matter where you went, you always wondered if the angel was lurking nearby. And when you went back home, you knew that it was.

Out of sight, in this case, did not mean out of mind.

And the Doctor -- oh, the Doctor. He missed the old you. You could see it in his eyes. Every time he looked at you, even if he was smiling, you could see the broken hearts behind those beautiful brown eyes.

You had half a mind to leave him, to spare him the pain of watching you slowly wither away to nothing. And it was happening -- you could feel it, the way your body was getting slower, like it was in the process of shutting down.

Your mind, too, was starting to go. Things that normally would've taken moments to understand took you minutes. The Doctor often found you wandering the TARDIS with little recollection of where you were or how you got there. Your adventures became less frequent, and on the occasions he did take you on one, he was forced to keep a close eye on you so that you didn't trail off and get lost.

And then the adventures stopped.

The Doctor still picked up distress calls and the like -- but he couldn't help people and keep an eye on you at the same time, so you were left in the TARDIS while he went and did his thing.

You didn't mind, though. The rare times you were completely and totally alone gave you the opportunity to cry your heart out.

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

The Doctor... wasn't a fan of problems he couldn't solve.

Did he accept that there were problems he couldn't solve? Of course -- the universe was vast and mysterious, even to him. Planets that by all accounts shouldn't exist existed. He'd met species that by all accounts shouldn't have been able to evolve, but somehow had.

(He still shuddered at the memory of the creature on Midnight.)

But acceptance was not the same as liking. And he did not like problems he couldn't solve.

In fact, he rather hated them.

You were a problem he couldn't solve. Or, at least, adjacently. More accurately, the Weeping Angel that had psychically latched itself onto you was a problem he couldn't solve -- but it was a problem for you, and he couldn't solve that either.

It killed him.

It killed him, it killed him, it killed him.

He just wanted to see you smile again. Hear your laugh. Feel you radiate joy and wonder and curiosity.

One thing the Doctor also hated?

Running out of time.

How did a Time Lord in possession of a time machine ever run out of time? How could he have let himself run out of time?

You were on the verge of needing actual medical attention -- intervention, really. He could see you deteriorating, noted how the process was getting faster and faster every day.

He was going to take you to New Earth, to those cat nun nurses. If anyone could help you, it was them -- loathe as he was to admit it.

But he thought, one more adventure. One more little trip, before he took you to be healed, and one trip to a doctor that could heal you better than he could before he took you home for the last time.

One more trip, one more doctor's office, before he gave himself to the Weeping Angel.

It was the only solution.

Well, the only solution he could see, at least.

So, he landed the TARDIS someplace low stakes. Calm, peaceful. Normal, far as the universe went. A little market planet by the name of --

"Vipitera!" the Doctor exclaimed as he swept out of the TARDIS with a big grin on his face. You shuffled close behind, a hand clutching at his coat to keep from losing him.

"Vipitera," he repeated as he swung around to face you suddenly, his bright and excited eyes meeting yours -- dull and exhausted. His grin didn't waver.

"Vipitera," he said again, slower, really drawing out the syllables. "Vipitera, Vipitera, Vipiteraaaaa." Each time he repeated the name, it sounded goofier and goofier.

Finally, miraculously, he managed to coax out a smile from you. His grin broadened. "There you are," he said with such amazement and adoration. He pulled you towards him and planted a loving kiss to your forehead. "There you are."

He tucked you tightly against his side and led you away from the TARDIS. He'd landed in some kind of supply closet, so it took some walking and weaving through halls, but eventually the two of you stepped out into the market proper.

He watched as your eyes sparked to life and bounced from stall to stall. He could almost feel the excitement flooding your brain, igniting parts of you that had been dulled and left to flicker out for far too long.

He supposed that was his fault.

"Welcome to the market planet Vipitera," he said with a grin and a broad motion to their surroundings. It effectively chased the thoughts away, as he got to see you smile again.

"Let me just -- hold on --" He pulled away from you to dig in his pockets, pulling something out a minute later. It looked like some kind of computer chip. "There's loads of credits on that thing," he said as he passed it to you with one hand and scratched the back of his head with the other. "Off you pop. Go wild."

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

You didn't like the idea of going off on your own, but you figured -- a planet as public as this, with constant activity and very few places a Weeping Angel could hide -- either someone would've noticed a moving statue disappearing people, or there'd be too many eyes and not a lot of moving, generally.

And the Doctor thought it was safe, and he usually wasn't wrong.

The only problem now was that you had no idea where to start. Holding your credit... chip? close, you carefully started making your way through the nearest stalls, browsing what they had to offer.

Some had food that smelled incredible but looked maybe unfit for human consumption. Some had little knick-knacks and trinkets. A handful had jewelry. One had books.

You stopped to browse the book stall and ended up buying the biography of the first human president of Vipitera.

Why? Well, why not?

You also bought an Agatha Christie novel with a special edition, Vipitera exclusive cover, because you thought the Doctor would get a kick out of it.

And then you were off, looking around and buying things until your arms were full -- and, in your defense, the Doctor had told you to go crazy.

It eventually got to the point where you had to make a trip to the TARDIS to drop your haul off in your room.

As you headed back to the market, you thought you felt someone watching you -- you thought the angel had somehow found you, but the feeling passed just as quickly as it had come. Knowing the angel wouldn't have let you off so easy, you figured it was something else and went back out among the stalls.

The Doctor found you eventually, after you'd bought another armful of things, and led you to a human food stall after dropping all your new things off at the TARDIS (again).

Your eyes lit up and your mouth watered at all the options.

"Pick for me?" you asked the Doctor, looking at him with big, round eyes. "I don't even know where to start."

"Well," he started, motioning at something that looked somewhat like spaghetti, except the noodles (were they noodles, even?) were teal, and the sauce was a deep, foresty green. "Can never go wrong with Yuphorian nishles and pine sauce."

"... Nishles?"

"Fish noodles. Yuphorian fish meat is that color because of the algae they eat."

You blinked down at the curiously colored meal. "It's... good, though...?" you asked, finding it hard to get over the fact it looked like candy.

"Oh, yes. It's delicious."

"I'll try it then."

While he ordered you the nishles and a couple other things, you went to find a place to sit and decided on a nice shaded table in one of the far corners of the dining area.

A cool breeze blew past as you settled into one of the chairs. Barely a moment later, something was draped over your shoulders and you looked back to see the Doctor laying his coat over you.

"What about the food?" you asked, drawing the coat tighter around yourself.

"They're gonna bring it," he replied as he sat next to you.

"Thank you."

"I couldn't leave you shivering--"

"No, not for that -- I mean, yes, thank you for lending me your coat. But... no. Thank you for today."

The look he gave you was so sad. It broke your heart and confused you in equal measure.

"What's wrong, Doctor?"

The smile he shot your way was forced, and the glimmer in his eyes wasn't from joy but from unshed tears. "Oh, nothing," he replied. "Nothing at all."

He obviously wasn't convincing, but you knew pressing the matter wouldn't get you anywhere. Instead, you decided to rest your head while the two of you waited for your food.

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

The Doctor had forgotten what you looked like when you were sleeping -- he'd forgotten what peace looked like on your face.

You were only taking a light nap while you waited for alien pasta made out of fish oil, but to him, you were the pinnacle of beauty in that moment. Of everything he'd seen in all his nine hundred odd years traveling through time and space, this moment with you was the most remarkable. The most stunning. The most breathtaking.

How he hated that he had to wake you up.

He waited, at least, putting it off until the waitress was gone and then for a little bit longer before he shook you awake.

You grunted, every cell in your body desperate to stay under to the point of protest, but he kept at it until you stirred.

"Time to eat," he told you as your eyes fluttered open. "Come and get it while it's hot."

He saw the heaviness of sleep in your eyes as you looked up at him and oh, how he adored it. How he'd missed it.

"Mmm," you replied, making him chuckle.

"I promise I'll let you rest when you're done eating," he said, pushing the plate of nishles towards you. "C'mon, before it gets cold!"

He could see how begrudging you were to get up, but you did so anyway, and grumpily stabbed at your pasta for effect.

"Oh, come now, what did the poor nishles do to deserve this?" he asked teasingly.

He saw a flicker of a smile on your lips.

Emboldened, he continued. "All that work being processed and cooked to be eaten, just for you to stab it."

That little secret smile grew, just a bit.

"Those poor nishles."

He watched as you broke at the word nishles, dissolving into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. They were probably spurred on by delirium, but it had been so long since he'd heard you laugh that he didn't care.

"Oi, why are you laughing?" he whined playfully. "Those fish didn't give their lives just for you to laugh at them!"

Your giggles grew into a full belly laugh, and the Doctor thought that if he were to die in that moment, he'd die happy, because he would've gotten to hear you laugh -- really laugh -- one last time.

Your fit of laughter eventually died down, helped along by you taking a few deep breaths and putting in a concentrated effort to stop.

"So..." you said, biting back another bout of giggles. "Ni--nishles..."

"Nishles," the Doctor agreed, watching you.

He continued to watch as you took the first bite, watched as your face shifted across a vast array of expressions, and watched as it eventually settled on bewilderment.

"What... is that...?" you asked, blinking rapidly at the dish in front of you.

"That'd be the pine sauce, made from the needles of the Yuphorian fir."

"It... but it doesn't taste like pine," you whimpered in confusion, eyeing it.

"Well of course," the Doctor said with a grin. "It's not Earth pine sauce, it's Yuphorian pine sauce. Earth pine sauce would be disgusting -- well, I suppose juniper sauce might not be. Or gin sauce... oh, there's an idea..."

He didn't realize you were staring past him until he paused and took in your suddenly stricken expression.

"What is it?" he asked softly, watching you carefully.

"I-I thought I... I thought I saw..."

Oh, no.

He turned to look behind him, but whatever you'd seen was gone.

If you'd even seen anything.

Not that he didn't believe your experience, but he was in a difficult position; you were deliriously tired and paranoid (rightfully, of course). Both things could lead to hallucinations.

He knew this, and yet he knew without a doubt that he had to take you seriously, for your sake.

"C'mon," he said quietly, moving to a stand. "We can finish lunch in the TARDIS." You nodded your assent and grabbed the food, then stood and tucked yourself into his side.

He led you through the market, through the building you'd materialized in, and to the TARDIS.

He slotted the key into the door, turned to unlock it, then turned back to look at you --

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

You didn't need to see the Doctor's stricken expression to know the Weeping Angel was behind you. You could feel its presence like a breath against your neck.

It felt like every hair on your body was standing to attention. It felt like your whole body stopped. You couldn't hear your heartbeat, but you could swear you heard the Doctor's hearts hammering away.

With a shuddering breath, you whimpered his name. You saw his eyes twitch -- he wanted so badly to look at you, but couldn't take his eyes off the angel.

"Get into the TARDIS," he commanded, "don't worry about me, I've got an eye --"

"Doctor," you interrupted, voice small but surprisingly steady.

You could see tears gathering in his eyes. He was desperate to look at you.

"I can't move."

Understanding dawned on his face, and you watched as his hearts broke right in front of you.

"I'm sorry, Doctor."

"You?" he asked in a tearful growl. "What have you done to be sorry for?"

"I'm sorry we won't have more time together."

He let out a hollow laugh. "No. I'm sorry. I couldn't save Rose, couldn't save Astrid, couldn't save Donna. And I can't save you."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. It's not okay! Why you? Why you?"

"Doctor."

You could see him struggling to keep his eyes open, now. He struggled, and soon he'd fail.

"Doctor, let me go."

"I can't lose you, too."

"We don't have a choice."

He struggled. His eyes were twitching more now, desperate for relief, and he still so desperately wanted to be looking at you rather than the angel.

And then finally, the inevitable.

He blinked.

And your world went black.