#a hole has been carved into me since the day you left me

[sillyfudgemonkeys]

Ok but the biggest cope I'm ever going to have is thinking MPGIS is ever going to come back. TT0TT My beloveds! My assholes! I need you!

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 31: Forced Proximity

Summary: John and Kyle are gone. You have no choice but to lean on the alpha you've betrayed, the alpha that hates you.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 11,071 words

Warnings: ANGST, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, anxiety, reader has a panic attack and several breakdowns, Simon being mean, ANGST, depression, lots of mentions of vomiting and the reader does get sick quite a bit though it's not descriptive in any way, ANGST, heat cycles, pseudoscience, medical stuff (that's probably very wrong), brief mention of needles, medical procedures (nothing very detailed), ANGST, very heavy emotionally again, some very light fluff like barely there but nothing compared to the ANGST

A/N: I did it. I finally got it up. It's uh...it's a heavy one again, I'll tell you that much. You'll hate me even more but oh well. I expected that through this part of the story. I'm so evil I know.

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“I don't like this. It's too...”

“Convenient?”

“Suspicious.”

“I know. But we don't have much of a choice in this.” John says, staring at Simon and Johnny. “You keep your eyes on her at all times. Stay in the barracks when you can. If you have to leave the barracks together, she goes with you.”

“We won't let her out of our sight.” Simon says. “If anything happens, Kate will be the first to know.”

“Good.” John says. He trusts the two of them to look after you. Yet he can't deny the timing of this is a bit suspicious. “We'll be back as soon as we can. Take good care of our girl.”

Two weeks. 

It’s been two weeks since John and Kyle left. 

Despite the fact it’s not the longest someone has been gone, it doesn’t ease the ache in your chest, the pain slowly carving its way into your very soul. You haven’t spoken to them. There’s been no word. Nothing. It could be a good thing. Sometimes no news is good news, and you suppose it’s better than a phone call saying they’ve died in some horrible accident. 

You keep waiting for that phone call. 

Every time Johnny or Simon’s phone rings, you begin to panic, fear eating away at that hole in your chest. It’s bad news, it’s Kate calling to tell them your alpha and beta aren’t coming home. 

You’ve hardly been able to relax, tense and jumpy at the littlest things. Being enclosed in the barracks at all times isn’t helping. You haven’t left once, not even to the med center. Dr. Keller has been coming to the barracks, more than she normally would for your appointments. You wonder if it was Johnny’s doing to try and help you relax, or Simon’s doing in hope you stop stinking up the barracks with the sour scent of nerves and fear. 

Simon has been distant still, avoiding you as much as he can. It’s impossible to avoid you completely, though, as Johnny can’t watch you 24/7. It’s a bit claustrophobic, the way they hover, always keeping one eye on you. It’s been a bit suffocating for the last three weeks, but with John and Kyle gone...it’s almost worse. 

Johnny has tried to fill that void, tried to support you in any way he can, but it hasn’t worked. You know it’s Johnny, you love Johnny, yet not even he can fill the void that has become your life without your alpha. 

You hate it. 

You hate their job, you hate that it takes them from you. You hate the uncertainty, the constant fear and worry that makes you sick. You hate that it’s dragged you into it. You know they were digging for the perpetrator of the cameras, who put them up, who ordered them to be put up, who potentially wanted to look into your personal life in such a violating way. The sudden deployment feels too suspicious, too sudden to be coincidence. 

But as John says, entertaining conspiracies won’t get you anywhere. 

Still...it smells fishy to you. 

The hole in your chest has left you in a constant state of uneasiness which has left you on the verge of tears constantly. Every day that passes without word of a tragedy or that they’re coming home makes your stomach churn, tears constantly brimming in your eyes. John’s shirt is constantly in your grasp, a dirty one you’d fished out of the bottom of his laundry basket, soaked in his scent. It’s beginning to fade, slowly eroding away until there won’t be anything left. Then you’ll grab another and another until you have none left. His room still smells like him, his pillows still fresh with his scent. 

You know it will fade, though, and fade fast. 

You’ve been avoiding spending too much time in his room and Kyle’s in favor of keeping their scents in there as long as possible. The fading of their scents is like an omen, marking a fading of their presence in your life, of the bond between you. The constant fear that you’ll forget them, what they sound like, what they smell like, what they look like. 

It makes you physically ill. 

That painful churning in your stomach is back as you sit on the couch in the rec room, curled up as far from Simon as you can get. Simon is still angry at you, at your betrayal of his trust. So much progress down the drain because you proved you’re not trustworthy after he trusted you enough to begin opening up. You still hate yourself for it, for keeping the secret for that long. Even a month would have been better and would have had less consequences for everyone. Maybe then you might have caught the camera in the bear sooner, and not been so violated during some of your most private moments. 

Some of those moments with Simon. 

How violated does he feel, having such vulnerable moments between you recorded and viewed by someone out there? You can’t help but think back to that night when he came back, and the morning after. Someone watched you. The bear had been right there, those black beady eyes staring right at the two of you. How many times had you fucked the others in your bed, the bear sitting there, watching, projecting those moments to whoever was on the other side. 

Your heat. 

The bear hadn’t been looking then, but it had been listening. It knows what happened, every last detail, every slam of the bed against the wall, every knot. 

It makes you sick. 

Your stomach churns, your arms wrapping around your middle as you let out a shaky breath. You’re going to puke again, the bile rising in your throat. The intense tingling in your hands is starting again, your fingers curling in as your extremities begin to go numb. You’re panicking again. 

Instead of vomit, a choked sob leaves your lips, your tears hot and burning on your cheeks, stinging like they’re composed of acid. 

Simon glances up from his phone, his face the mask of indifference that it has been for three weeks. A mask that he had worn for the first few months after your arrival. “What?” He asks, his tone flat and voice rough. 

You can’t answer him, too busy hyperventilating and sobbing where you sit. You can’t even think if you wanted to, your body aching as your muscles begin to tighten. You can’t distress. You’ve been fighting the urge since the day the truth came out. 

You can’t trust Simon to help you. 

You’re not even sure he knows how to. 

Of course, it would be easy to call Dr. Keller, get her to help him, but you’re not sure he’d want to. Could he be so angry and betrayed he’d just stand there and watch you distress yourself to death? 

He wouldn’t. He’d have to explain himself to John, why he let it happen. It would tear the pack apart. It would tear them apart. You wouldn’t put it past John to try and rip Simon’s throat out with his teeth in anger. It would be a bigger betrayal than yours, and Simon wouldn’t let you lose your spot at the top of that list. 

“Fuck.” Simon breathes, setting his phone down before moving in front of you. He lowers himself onto one knee, reaching for your arms. If you had been more aware you might have flinched away, but the lack of oxygen to your brain is making everything fuzzy. 

Simon grips your elbows, tugging you forward gently. Your legs are forced off the edge of the couch, your body upright as Simon holds your arms in his grasp, your legs between his as he kneels in front of you. You stare down at him, the sudden change in position shocking you for a moment. You choke around another sob, eyes blurry as you try to look at him. 

“I need you to breathe.” He says, squeezing your arms gently. 

You can’t. 

Your breaths are sobs, wracking your body, tearing at your lungs. Your chest hurts, aching and burning as you quickly begin spiraling out of control. 

“Look at me.” He says, shifting his hold to your wrists, taking them into one hand before he grabs your chin with the other. He keeps your head still, locked on his face. His eyes are blurry to your own teary ones as you look right at him, looking through the mass of blurry black that surrounds him. “Breathe.” He says, his voice rougher than normal, rumbling with the command of his alpha around the edges. 

It goes straight to your head, a shiver running down your spine. Your body shudders in response, your next sob catching painfully in your throat. You cough, lungs spasming as your body suddenly begins to follow his order automatically. Simon lets you go as you attempt to gain control over your out of control body. One part of your brain is still panicking, still pushing towards distress while the other fights to follow the alpha’s command. It’s a battle, your instincts at war with each other. 

The next inhale is a gasp, inhaling until your breath stutters and your lungs ache. You let it out slowly, the flood of oxygen making you shake in Simon’s hold. He keeps his hand around your wrists until your inhales stop stuttering and your muscles start to relax. 

He slowly releases you, pushing himself up to sit on the coffee table. You’re surprised it can hold so much weight after it’s been sat on so many times. Not even a creak as Simon lowers himself onto it. 

He rests his elbows on his knees as he stares at you. His figure begins to get clearer as your tears slow, no longer blurring your vision. You're expecting the sharp sting of his harsh gaze, or worse the indifference you've grown used to over the last three weeks. 

Instead there's a soft look in his eyes. Not soft as you would describe Johnny's, but soft compared to what it has been. Pity, you think. 

“You're a fucking mess.” He finally says. 

You laugh. You can't help it. The deadpan delivery of such a him statement in response to everything has a laugh escaping your lips. You wipe your eyes, sniffling. He hates it, hearing your sniffles. It annoys him when you cry, it always has. 

You push yourself back onto the couch, pulling your knees up again as you stare at him. There's a slight tremble to your fingers still as you sit there in silence for a moment. 

“I'm sorry.” You say, still looking at him. “If I had just said something sooner...” You swallow thickly as you stumble over your words. “None of us would have...the camera would have been found sooner...we wouldn't have...both of us...”

“You shouldn't apologize if you don't even know what to say.” He says, the softness in his gaze hardening again. 

“It's not that it's just...” You take a breath, trying to straighten out your thoughts. “I feel so guilty. This is all my fault and if I had just said something sooner, none of this would have happened. What happens next is my fault too. I know you and John have been digging into who is behind it and I know how risky that is. They know that we all know now, and...I'm scared of what might happen.”

You let out a long breath at your confession and attempt at an apology, squeezing your fingers together as they begin to tremble even more. You want to look away, his gaze piercing into you again. You're reminded of the moment the words had fallen from your lips that had caused this in the first place. Your heart begins thumping in your chest, your breathing picking up slightly at the memory. Will he get angry again? Will he snap at you and drag you down the hall to lock you in your room until John and Kyle get back, or Johnny calms him enough to rescue you?

“I feel so violated.” Your voice shakes. “I can't even imagine what it's been like for you. It took us so long to get to that point and...” You swallow the bile trying to rise in your throat. “I'm so sorry.” Tears blur your vision again. “I didn't know...I didn't think...I was so stupid.”

He scoffs. “You are.” His words are sharp, and they sting as they slice through you. “Fucking stupid, I'd say.” You wince at his words. “But you’re inexperienced. You don’t think about things like we do. No matter how much everyone has tried to drill it into your head, you’ll never truly understand until you experience it yourself.” He holds your gaze for a moment. “I hope you never have to.” 

You stare at him, the meaning of his words not lost on you. You’ve put yourself in danger, you’ve put all of them in danger by keeping this all a secret. Whoever put those cameras up knew you were keeping it a secret and hadn’t done anything in retaliation against you for finding them and destroying them. Maybe that was their plan all along. They knew you’d keep it a secret and use that to their advantage. Strike when they least expected it, or perhaps wait for the moment the truth inevitably came out and then strike. 

The thought has a cold chill running down your spine. 

You’re afraid for a different reason now. 

John and Kyle are gone. Anything could happen to them and it wouldn’t look suspicious. Or whoever put those cameras up wanted everyone split up. Attack when there’s less knights defending the castle. 

A shiver runs through you, making you curl in on yourself. The feeling of being watched is back. The darkness peeking out from around the blinds over the rec room windows suddenly feels very threatening. 

“What’s goin’ on in here?” 

A startled yelp leaves your lips as you whip around to face Johnny where he’s leaning against the door to the rec room. Simon’s body tenses in response to your fearful yelp, an unconscious motion he has no control over. Alphas will always have the drive to protect the omegas in their pack. It’s a natural protective mechanism, no matter how they may be feeling about said omega. 

Simon’s body relaxes as you do, putting a hand over your heart to try and calm yourself down again. 

“Jumpy this evenin’.” Johnny says, entering the rec room. He steps up to the couch, bending down to rest his hands on the arm next to you. “Didnae mean to scare ye.” He says softly. “Ready tae get to bed?” 

You nod. “Yeah. I am.” 

“Come on.” He holds out his hand and you take it, letting him help you up off the couch. “We’re usin’ yer shower, Si.” He says. 

Simon rolls his eyes. “Course.” 

“Simon?” You say before Johnny can pull you from the rec room. The alpha turns to look at you. “I am sorry.” 

He stares at you for a long, tense moment. “I know.” 

Johnny leads you down the hallway, his hand on your lower back. He’s gotten touchy again, letting his hand rest lower and lower on your back, brushing your breasts as he pulls the covers up around you at night. He refuses to let you shower without sitting on the toilet lid. You know the chances of Simon opening up like that again are slim, if at all. You’ve ruined that opportunity, and you’ll have to be satisfied with where he draws that line permanently. 

“Have a good conversation?” Johnny asks. 

You nod. “He called me ‘fucking stupid’.” 

Johnny nearly chokes for a second, covering his mouth to hide a laugh. “He’s certainly not a man of eloquence.” 

You shrug. “I mean, I don’t exactly disagree with him.” 

Johnny leads you into Simon’s room, steering you to the bathroom. Your stuff is already inside from the unanimous decision to solely use Simon’s bathroom for ease and also safety. 

Your towel is neatly on the rack next to Simon’s and Johnny’s, all folded the same way and hung evenly apart. Your soap and shampoo are neatly placed next to his, along with your toothbrush and other products on the sink. Always so neat and organized, despite his anger at you. 

Can’t break his system even after you break his trust. 

You pull your shirt over your head after starting the water, letting it get warm. Johnny stands behind you in the doorway, and you know he’s watching. You strip your shorts and underwear off, Johnny grunting quietly as you bend over to add them to your pile of dirty clothes. You’ve been tempted to leave them on the floor for the past two weeks just to peeve, but you’ve riled Simon up enough. With your luck he’d just toss them in the trash. 

The water is hot as it pelts your skin, your shoulders relaxing as it begins to loosen the stress of the day. The emptiness in your chest continues to eat away at you, never disappearing despite what happens. Your stomach churns, the nausea returning. You stand under the spray, letting the water pour over your head as you attempt to calm the continuous twisting in your abdomen. 

The shower door slides open, another body joining you before it slides closed. Warm skin presses against your back as arms slip around you, pulling you out from directly under the spray. You rest back against Johnny’s chest as he leans his cheek against the top of your head. 

“I miss them.” You say quietly, just audible over the shower. 

“I know.” Johnny says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“When will they be back?” You ask him, even though you know he can’t tell you. 

“Hard tae say.” He says, grabbing your strawberry scented soap from next to Simon’s. He’s just been using Simon’s soap, something you probably assume he does often anyway. “Kate will update us as soon as there’s a possible ETA.” 

“I don’t know how much longer I can take.” You say as he begins to wash your back. 

“I know.” He says, gently massaging the knots in your back, trying to help you relax. “I wish I could get them home faster. I wish it had been us instead of them for your sake.” 

His words make you feel guilty, but you both know it’s not anyone’s fault. John is your alpha, you belong to him, you were claimed by him. You’ll always hurt more about your alpha and beta’s absence than the other members of your pack can comfort you. If Simon had claimed you, things would have been different. The ache in your chest would have been less intense as you would still have an alpha you could lean on. 

You’d always miss John, but if you had Simon, the black hole slowly devouring you would have slowed its progress. 

Four weeks. 

A month. 

It's been a month since John and Kyle left. The familiar hole in your chest has widened, a gaping black hole now threatening to swallow you and string you out until you’re nothing but particles lost in its center. It’s worse than the hole Simon left when he went on his solo deployment, it’s worse than the hole they all left when they went on their first mission. Neither of those previous deployments lasted this long, and despite Johnny's attempts to console you, you don’t feel any better. 

There’s been no contact. 

A month with no contact, a month with no word. You'd know if something had happened. Even if you got no word on it, you would know. That sense that omegas have when something happens to the bond would be screaming. 

It's been a rough four weeks.

There’s a heaviness that’s started to permeate the air as you try to adjust to the prolonged absence of your alpha. It’s nearly every day that you’re breaking down now, standing in John’s room to catch any whiff of him that’s left. You’ve worn the scent off his bed, his pillows, his clothes. You’ve run out of shirts that smell like him. 

You’re terrified they might fade from your memory entirely. Kyle’s scent had disappeared quicker, fading fast until you were left unable to even picture the sea. The beach is a blurry, distant memory, the smell of the salty air faded and wiped away. 

Still you cling to their shirts, as if you can hold them through the fabric. You carry them everywhere, packing them from room to room as you float around in a daze. 

You’ve left the barracks once in four weeks for a training session that neither of them could miss. You’d gotten looks as you sat there, the sole audience member, but you're not quite sure what had happened or even what the training was far. You had been far away, lost in your own head, the haze of depression and grief numbing you to everything. 

Dr. Keller continues to visit you in the barracks, still more than you normally would see her. You miss her office, the soft warmth of it, the plants and the colors lacking from the sterilized prison that is the barracks. It has become like a prison. You’re trapped inside, unable to even wander around alone. You feel like the princess locked in her tower under the watchful eye of the guards keeping her trapped inside. You need someone to come and rescue you, someone to set you free so you can at least wander the tower alone. 

You want your alpha. 

You miss John and Kyle desperately, their absence chewing away at your insides. The hole in your chest continues to widen as the days pass, consuming more and more of you as you slip deeper and deeper into the black hole of depression. Johnny is being affected too, sucked in by the gravitational pull of the black hole you have become. Even Simon is starting to feel it, softening a bit more towards you. He’d even let your hands brush a couple of times when he’s escorted you places, and he didn’t yank them away like you might pass some disease onto him. 

You wouldn’t necessarily call him affectionate, even before all of this, but this is the first glimpse you’ve gotten of him being back to where the two of you were before you fucked everything up. You know it’s not going to happen overnight. It might never get back to what it was. He might simply be acting out of sympathy, and out of necessity because of your pain and grief being channeled through the pack bonds. Sometimes you wonder if John and Kyle can feel it too from wherever they are in the world. 

You miss them so much it hurts. 

The tears slip down your cheeks as you sit on the couch in the rec room. Johnny is off taking his turn to work out. It’s early, the sky still grey outside, the perfect epitome of how you feel inside. Simon is seated in his usual spot, book in hand. Your own that he had grabbed is still on the coffee table. You’re staring at it, tears gliding down your cheeks as you hold your knees against your chest. It’s become almost a normal occurrence, the tears, the blank staring, the lack of desire to do anything, even the position you’re seated in.

Simon glances up at you as you sniffle again, lowering his book slightly. “What?” His tone isn't annoyed per se, but you know he has to be tired of your constant blubbering. 

“Tell me they’ll be alright.” You say, your voice shaking. 

“You know I can’t-” He starts, but you cut him off. 

“I need you to tell me.” You sob, your gaze lifting to the black screen of the TV. “I can’t take it. I can’t do this.” 

He lets out a sigh, closing his book. You jump as the couch sinks down on your left, Simon taking a seat next to you. The flinch is subconscious as he reaches over to grip your chin and turn your face to look at him. Your tears slide down your cheeks, wetting his fingers. 

“They’ll be alright.” He says, eyes hard as he looks at you. He’s lying but you need to hear it. “They’ve been gone for far longer than this before. Trust Price knows what he’s doing. He’s going to do everything in his power to come back. We’ll know if something happens. Laswell will let us know.” 

You know that, you know all of it. Yet it does little to calm the pain in your chest. “I miss them.” You sob, Simon’s eyes softening as you continue to cry. “My stomach hurts.” 

You’ve been nauseous since the day the truth came out almost five weeks ago. The nausea has been churning in your stomach, making you constantly on the edge of vomiting. It’s the stress, the combination of the truth coming out and your alpha being gone. You’ve been choking food down, eating only out of necessity. 

Simon lets out a sigh, releasing your chin to wrap an arm around you. His other hand drops to rest on your stomach. It’s warm through the fabric of your shirt, applying gentle pressure. He smells like alpha, different from John, but still an alpha. The tears continue to fall as he holds you, your body slowly leaning closer and closer to him. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t even try to push you away as you fall against his side. 

Your stomach is churning, gnawing. It’s not an unusual feeling. It’s felt this way for the last few weeks. It’s never woken you up before, though. You blink in the darkness of Johnny’s room, his arm still thrown over you. The gnawing continues to intensify as you continue to be pulled from your semi-peaceful sleep, becoming more and more aware. 

You’re hungry. 

You slowly unravel yourself from Johnny’s snake-like hold, ready to slip into the rec room to peruse your snack stash. Instead you’re pulled back onto the bed by the arm that slips around your waist. 

“Where ye goin’?” Johnny rasps, still half asleep. 

“I’m hungry.” You whisper. 

He lets out a groan, letting go of you to rub a hand over his face. “Give me a minute.” 

You rise from the bed as he stretches, slowly sitting up as he draws himself from sleep. It’s just past one in the morning, neither of you having been asleep for long. You feel wide awake as the gnawing in your stomach continues to intensify. You rock back and forth on your feet, debating just going and letting him catch up. It’ll force him to wake up faster, and ease the gnawing hunger threatening to turn you inside out. 

Finally Johnny rises from the bed, stretching again as you impatiently open the door. He pads behind you to the rec room, watching as you dig out a bag of chips. He leans against the back of the couch as you stand there, devouring the chips like you haven’t eaten in days. You haven’t really eaten much in the last five weeks, so perhaps it’s finally catching up to you. You finish the bag but it’s not enough, so you grab another, devouring it halfway before you freeze. The bag begins to tremble in your hand, nearly falling from your grasp. 

Johnny is alert immediately as you begin to panic. “What?” He asks stepping closer to you, ready to defend you from whatever has you on edge. 

Your brain frantically does the math, thinking over the last few weeks. The bag falls to the floor as the realization slams into you like a bus. You turn to face Johnny, eyes wide in shock, fear shooting through you like lightning and clouding the rec room in the sour stench of omega fear.

Your lips tremble, the words stuttering out as you fight the panic rising in you, the nauseous churning of your stomach threatening to bring up the bag and a half of chips you just ate. Your fingers are shaking, clenching into fists again as they begin to go numb. Ragged breaths wheeze from your lungs as you stare at Johnny’s worried face, brows furrowed as he tries to understand what has you in a sudden panic at one in the morning. 

“My last heat was eleven weeks ago.” 

“The timeline is right,” Dr. Keller says, taking the blood pressure cuff off your arm. “The symptoms point to pre-heat.” 

You take another bite of your candy bar, eating half out of necessity and half because you’re nervous. You hadn’t even considered this when John left, but of course you didn’t know how long he would be gone. 

“Any word from John yet?” Dr. Keller asks as she packs the blood pressure monitor back into her bag. 

“None.” Johnny says, crossing his arms. “Kate sent out a message, but there’s been no response.” 

You’re numb to that fact, the hope that had filled you two days ago gone now that there’s been no word, not even for something like this. Simon had gone out of his way to call you when you needed him, but John can’t even send a simple message through, even a simple no. 

“We may have to consider alternative options if he can’t get back in time.” Dr. Keller says. 

He won’t get back in time. They’re all saying it silently. They all know it and so do you.

Your hands close into fists. You had hoped with your new pack and alpha you wouldn’t have to go through this again. But, of course with them having to put their job first, this was always a possibility. It was bound to happen eventually, you just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. 

“We’ll wait as long as we can.” Dr. Keller says, looking at you. “We don’t have forever, though.” 

You shove the rest of the candybar in your mouth. You don’t want to say anything, you don’t want to do anything. You’re numb except for the incessant hunger. You’ll know when it’s getting close, when the hunger fades and you’re facing down the reality that your alpha won’t be here. You know he won’t. Even if Kate can get ahold of him, he won’t make it back in time. 

You’re going to have to do this alone. 

Well...perhaps not. 

Maybe there is someone that can help you after all. 

You’re terrified. You’re not sure how to even approach this, how to bring it up. It’s eating you alive, but you have to ask. You have to know. That small bubble of hope still rising in you that maybe, just maybe you can avoid the horror awaiting you. It’s a big request, but perhaps you can be convincing enough to play to his pity. 

“Simon?” You ask, your hands curled into fists so they’re not visibly shaking. Your hair is dripping onto your shirt, soaking it but you don’t care. The cold is keeping you aware, keeping you from floating away into your head again. 

He grunts, looking up from his phone. You’d used the shower in his room again so he could watch you while Johnny took his own shower. You won’t sleep in here. You’ll stay with Johnny just like you have for the last almost five weeks. It’s safer, should your heat start in the middle of the night again. And also because he doesn’t want you to stay with him.

This is stupid. It’s a stupid decision but you need to know. 

What if he says yes?  

“Can I...ask you something?” You say, shifting nervously on your feet. 

He pockets his phone before pushing himself up to stand. He towers over you as he moves closer, staring down at you as you look up at him. Sometimes you forget just how big he is, just how commanding his presence can be. You fight the urge to cower, to submit to him in fear. “What?” 

The nervous lump in your throat threatens to choke you, the memories of his anger directed right at you burning right through you. What if he gets mad again? What if he reacts the same way? You can’t know what he will do, though. You steady yourself, wrapping the fabric of your shirt around your hands. 

“Will...” You clear your throat. “Will you help me through my heat?” 

It’s a big request. A huge request. You’re asking him to jump past barriers he’d kept up even before, something he’d never even suggested or hinted at wanting to do even before your last heat. You’re asking him to jump past barriers he’s put back up since your betrayal, making it clear you’re not welcome back in, you’re not going to get to where you were before. The most he’s done is let you lean against him that one night in the rec room. 

You hope maybe he’ll agree out of necessity, maybe he’ll take pity on you and save you from the horrors of going through a heat without an alpha. It may be stupid, but you’re terrified of what’s awaiting you if he doesn’t agree. You don’t want to do it, you don’t want to be put to sleep and then wake up a week later sick and disoriented, and then spend the next few days still in the same state. 

It makes your stomach churn, and not from hunger. 

His eyes widen in shock as your words register. His hands tighten into fists at his sides, his shoulders tensing. You fight the urge to flinch at the movement, the sudden hardening of his stance before you. He wasn’t expecting it, obviously. You came out of left field with it, but you have to ask. You’ll beg if you need to. You’ll get on your knees and beg like your life depends on it if he wants you to. Anything just to avoid what’s looming in the near future. 

His eyes harden as he stares down at you, and you suddenly begin to regret your decision to ask. His gaze is piercing, taking you back to when you confessed. You’ve made a mistake. You’ve made a huge mistake. 

“No.” 

The word is simple, two letters, one syllable, yet it slices right through you. You should have expected it, should have known that would be your answer, but it still hurts. He knows, he knows John isn’t coming back in time. He knows you’re going to have to do this alone. You had hoped maybe pity would push him into saying yes, maybe he’d open up a bit more before your heat started, maybe he might be merciful. 

“I can’t.” He takes a step back, then another. His gaze softens to what you almost perceive as panic. He shakes his head. “I can’t.” 

So maybe it wasn’t anger at you keeping him from agreeing. You can feel it, the edge to his scent starting to cloud it, the way his hands open and close as he squeezes them into fists over and over. 

Tears burn your eyes as you stare at him, lifting your hands so they’re laced together in front of you. You knew that would be the answer, yet you can’t stop the disappointment. “Oh.” That's all you can say. You don’t trust yourself to say much else. 

You swallow the lump in your throat as Johnny appears in the doorway, looking between the two of you before his eyes settle on you. He can tell something happened, something transpired between the two of you while he was gone. How much of it he heard, you’re not sure. Perhaps none at all judging by the look on his face. 

“Ready for bed?” He asks, his gaze cautious. He’s trying to assess the situation, figure out what could have transpired to cause such a reaction between you and his alpha. He’ll never know. Not unless Simon tells him. 

“Yeah.” You breathe, scurrying out of Simon’s room before you can make more of a fool out of yourself. 

“H-How long will it take?” You ask, your heart thudding in your chest. Your pre-heat symptoms had stopped earlier this morning, the hunger gone, the itching beginning under your skin. 

“As soon as your temperature goes up, we’ll get started.” Dr. Keller says, sticking electrodes to your chest. You’ve already got the blood pressure cuff around your arm and pulse monitor on your finger. 

“Ye were prepared for this.” Johnny says, sitting next to the hospital bed. You’re in a private room, well away from any others, even though no one will know you’re in heat. There won’t be any scent projecting, no neediness, no aching. You won’t be aware at all that anything is happening as your body rapidly cycles through that sudden flood of hormones. 

Dr. Keller nods. “This was always a possibility, so I made sure I had everything on hand for when it did happen.” She takes your temperature again. “Tell me when you start to feel warm. The last thing I want to do is send you under too late.” 

Your skin crawls at her words, memories flashing back to the time you were put under too late. You trust Dr. Keller to take care of you, though. She’s far more competent and aware than that nurse had been. It’s her job to take care of you, to watch after you in moments like this. 

You just wish you could talk to John before you go under. 

You want to remember his voice when you come back out. 

“I’ll be here the whole time.” Johnny says, taking your hand, obviously sensing your discomfort. 

He’s brought a bag of things with him, since he’ll be staying with you for the few days it’ll take to get through your heat. It won’t be as long this time, your body being forced through those hormones quickly. It won’t even register it needs a knot, flying through those symptoms. 

The wait is the worst part. It takes forever, every minute seeming to take an hour. Johnny waits dutifully by your side. You wish this wasn’t the first heat he would be here for. You wish he had at least gotten some experience with a normal heat, just so this one wouldn’t scare him off. Even Kyle might have been shaken by it, though, even with his experience. 

Eventually the heat begins to prickle under your skin, your heart rate jumping. Johnny calls in Dr. Keller, looking nervous as sweat begins to bead on your forehead. 

“It’s time.” Dr. Keller says, taking your temperature. It’s jumped quickly, your body starting to prepare for the onslaught of hormones about to be released. 

She turns your arm, hooking up the IV that will deliver the sedative as well as fluids to keep you hydrated. The heart monitor beeps rapidly as you grow nervous, Johnny squeezing your hand gently. You know he’s trying, and there’s nothing more he can really do. There’s no stopping this. It’s going to happen no matter what. 

“I’m going to administer the sedative. You’ll start to feel sleepy.” Dr. Keller says. “I’ll put in the feeding tube after you’re out.”

You swallow nervously, sweat starting to bead on your forehead. “It’ll be okay right?” 

Dr. Keller gives you a soft smile “You’ll be just fine. It’ll be a few days for us, but it’ll be a few seconds for you. It’ll be over before you know it.” 

You swallow nervously before nodding. Dr. Keller pushes the sedative through the IV, your body starting to relax as it begins to take effect. The itching under your skin stops, the heat fading as the ceiling gets further and further away as your vision tunnels. Johnny squeezing your hand is the last thing you remember before everything goes dark. 

He’s seen a lot of things, done a lot of things that would make the average person violently ill. He’s no stranger to blood and gore, yet he can’t watch as Dr. Keller inserts the feeding tube into your nose. The thought of having it in his own body makes him nearly gag, his eyes closing as he breathes. 

“I’m done.” Dr. Keller says, a small smile on her face as he turns back around. 

“About gart me boak.” He says, looking at you where you appear to be sleeping peacefully. He supposes you are, blissfully unaware of anything and everything around you.

“You’re not good with needles either, are you?” She asks, obviously noticing how he had turned away when she put in your IV. 

“Not my favorite.” He admits. 

“She’s all set.” She says, stepping back. “You’ll want to move her every few hours, turn her on one side, lift her legs up. Keeps her from getting bed sores or blood clots. I’ll be next door, and I’ll check on her periodically. If anything happens at night, I’ll have my phone on full volume.” 

“Thank ye, doctor.” He says, squeezing your hand despite the fact you can’t feel it. 

Dr. Keller takes her leave, the room going quiet aside from the beeping of the heart monitor, and the occasional buzzing of the blood pressure cuff as it tightens around your arm. He stares at you for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest as you sleep. It’s probably the most peaceful sleep you’ve gotten in the last few weeks, despite the changes happening internally. Dr. Keller had explained it to him, the hormonal changes, how sedation works differently than going through a heat consciously. Omegas do go through heat cycles awake and aware without an alpha sometimes. Institutes cycle between isolated heats and sedation. 

The thought of you going through both makes his stomach twist. 

Sweat beads on your forehead as you lay there, something that will continue for the next few days, the doctor said. Your heart rate is higher than normal, another sign that you’re in your heat as your brain cycles through the sudden rush of hormones. He’s not quite sure what to expect, not quite sure what it’ll look like if something goes wrong. He’s never done this before, and the little research he’d done doesn’t feel all that helpful. Dr. Keller trusts him to know, though, and he supposes it’ll be pretty obvious should something go wrong. 

You’re not going to be doing much aside from laying there for the next few days. 

The hours seem to drag on and he can’t help but wonder if this is how Kyle feels during your heats. At least Kyle had a job to do, had to focus and listen for the breaks in between rounds when he’d go in, ensure nothing was wrong, nothing happened, that you’re being fed and taken care of. All he has is the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the occasional buzz and crinkling of nylon as the blood pressure cuff expands. Dr. Keller brings him meals, keeping him fed and occasionally keeps him company as he watches dutifully over you. His back is aching from the uncomfortable chair and the makeshift bed, but he can hardly complain. He’s slept on worse. 

He’s sketched a lot in the silence between watching videos on his phone and napping. It’s been a peaceful time, aside from his initial worry. You sleep away, sweat still beading on your forehead. Every so often he grabs a wet paper towel, wiping away the sweat. 

He jumps as his alarm on his phone goes off in the silence, his pencil falling to the floor. He picks it up, setting his sketchbook to the side before he gets up. He’s careful as he slips his arms under you, easing you over onto your side. He bends your legs, making sure you’re steady and not cutting off circulation anywhere. He runs a hand over your hair, the strands starting to slip out of the braid he had put in before your trip to the med center. 

He moves around to the other side of the bed, pulling the tie out before undoing the braid. He’s careful as he redoes it as best he can, making sure not to pull too tightly on the strands. The last thing you need when you wake up is to feel like your hair is being yanked out of your head. 

He ties off the braid before moving back to his seat, staring at your peaceful face for a moment. It’s nothing new to him, but he can’t help but stare. He’s seen you sleep many times, held you, watched you blissfully unaware of the world. The softness in your face, the worry and the stress and the weight on your shoulders of just being who you are gone. 

He picks his sketchbook back up, going back to drawing. 

His stomach churns nervously. There’s a subtle shake to his hands, something that doesn’t happen often. He likes to think he’s prepared for anything, conditioned enough to not be shaken by anything. Yet he can’t help but feel unsure as Dr. Keller closes off your IV. 

“She’ll be coming out of it soon.” Dr. Keller says. “She’ll be confused, disoriented. She might get combative. Your job is to talk to her, try to calm her and help ease her back into awareness. She’s a crier after heats, so I don’t doubt there will be tears. She may get sick as well.” She gives him a reassuring smile. “It’ll be alright. Coming out of a heat is hard, and so is coming out of sedation. Both at the same time is always a struggle.” 

There was a time he thought maybe sedation would be the easiest way to deal with a heat, but from what he’s hearing, he might have been wrong. Sure it might be easier in the moment to not have those week long symptoms of intense desire, the fever, the desperation. Coming out of it though? From what he’s heard so far, it’s not as easy as it sounds. He’s been through it, coming out of sedation after an injury in the field. It’s a confusing feeling, disorienting enough before you find out days or weeks have passed. It’s hard to conceptualize without all those hormones going crazy in your head. 

You start to stir, your brows pinching as you slowly begin to wake. You let out a groan, reaching for the feeding tube immediately. Dr. Keller gently pushes your hands away, nodding to Johnny. Your brows furrow deeper, a groan leaving your lips as you begin to move more and more. 

“Easy, kitten.” He says, leaning down close to you, projecting his scent so you can hopefully get a whiff of it to help calm you. “I’ve got ye. Yer alright.” He brushes your hair back from your sweaty forehead as you continue to groan. He takes your hand as you reach for the tube again, squeezing it gently.

You crack your eyes open for a moment before quickly pinching them shut. Dr. Keller reaches up, turning off the overhead light before leaning down close to you again. She’s projecting her natural beta scent as well to try and help calm you. “I’m going to remove the tube, I know it’s uncomfortable.” 

Johnny has to look away again as Dr. Keller removes the feeding tube, pressing his face into your hair as he projects his scent even more. You squeeze his hand back, the other gripping the side of the bed. You take in a harsh, gasping breath before you begin to cry, tears spilling out of your eyes as you sob. He had heard that you’re a crier after your heat from Kyle, he’s just never witnessed it before. 

It takes him back to just a few weeks ago in John’s office when you had sat there crying as they interrogated you. It had made him uneasy, the stress and the fear clouding your scent. The fear he’d felt in those moments, listening to you cry and panic, nearly sending yourself into distress before John had calmed you. He might have done more, but he had been angry, angry at whoever put those cameras in your room, and slightly at you for keeping it from them for so long. 

He can’t blame it completely on you, though. That had been back in the time where you still weren’t sure if you could trust them, before you fully opened yourself to them. Maybe they were slightly at fault for not making you feel like you could trust them, for not being realistic with you about the dangers. Sure you had been warned, had it drilled into your head why your safety was paramount, but maybe they had kept too much hidden from you. Maybe they had put you in more danger by trying to keep you safe. 

Your eyes are still pinched closed as you continue to cry, sobs wracking your body as you grip his hand tightly. It tugs at his chest as he whispers quietly against your hair, trying to get you to recognize him, pull you out of the confusion and disorientation you must be feeling. You begin to hyperventilate, your hand slipping from his as you try to push yourself up. Dr. Keller already has the bed lifting, her other hand holding a vomit bag in front of you. It seems almost instinctual, but she’s been through this many times before. She had told him how many during one of their talks, when he’d asked her how long she's been working with omegas. He hadn’t realized just how little he really knew about your doctor before now. 

Johnny has to look away as you vomit into the bag, his own stomach churning. Not just because of you being ill, but also because of how distressing this all seems. How you haven’t gone into distress is a miracle to him, but perhaps you’re still too out of it to be that aware. 

Your breathing has calmed just slightly, your forehead beaded with sweat. Dr. Keller removes the vomit bag from in front of you, grabbing another and setting it on your lap. 

“I’m going to dispose of this.” She says. “She’s going to be sick for a while. I’ll grab more fluids and I’ll be back shortly.” 

Johnny nods, wiping at the sweat on your brow. You lean into his touch, letting out a quiet whine. His touch is gentle, almost scared he might hurt you in your fragile state. You’re still crying, the tears cascading down your cheeks. His chest hurts, guilt and sorrow churning inside of him from seeing you in this state. All thought that sedation was the best option goes out the window as he holds the vomit bag for you, keeping your braid out of the way. 

Kyle had told him about what it was like during your heat and after, partially to feed his curiosity, but also in case something like this happened where he had to be the one taking care of you. He’d heard about the pain, the tears, the disorientation. This is different, though. This is far worse than what Kyle had described to him. 

Dr. Keller returns, IV bag in hand. She removes the empty bag and replaces it with the full one, hooking it up to your IV. You have to be thirsty after a few days of having nothing but a feeding tube and the fluids to keep you going during your fever. 

Johnny catches her hand as she pulls out a syringe, small enough to be discreet. Something tickles in the back of his mind as he stares at it, his instincts on edge. 

“What is that?” He asks, starting to get defensive, his metaphorical hackles rising.  

“Pain medicine.” She says simply, handing it to him. She has to be able to read him, sensing the sudden protectiveness wafting off of him. 

He takes the syringe, reading the label. Morphine. He feels silly for distrusting the doctor. She’s never proven herself untrustworthy. While he knows they can’t be too trusting of anyone, she’s never done you any harm, never given them a reason to suspect her. She wouldn't hurt you, not after the dedication he’s seen from her these last few days alone. 

“She might need it later once she’s more aware.” She continues, taking the syringe back when he hands it to her, putting it back in her pocket. “Her body just went through an intense hormonal cycle and those hormonal levels are now dropping suddenly. It can cause a wide range of symptoms from crying to illness to physical pain. When omegas are allowed to go through that cycle naturally, usually with an alpha, the symptoms of coming down from that cycle are typically less severe compared to when sedation is used, of course besides the physical pain. The pain with sedation is obviously quite different from the pain when the cycle happens naturally with an alpha.” 

Johnny’s brows furrow as he rests his hand over yours, your breaths stuttering through your sobs. Your hands are clutching at the blanket, one of yours he’d grabbed from your room in hopes the familiar comfort might help you through the process. He hates that you’re in pain like this, he hates that you’re in pain at all. He’s beginning to feel the bubbling anger deep in his stomach at Simon for letting you endure this. He has no idea. He’s isolated himself for your safety, and he’ll never get to see what this is like, what you’re going through right now. 

Dr. Keller says your name softly, leaning against the side of the bed, electing to ignore the swirling emotions of her fellow beta. He’s not her concern, you are. “Can you open your eyes for me?” 

You continue to cry, but you manage to get your eyes opened, squinting at her through your tears. Dr. Keller takes your face in her hands, using her thumbs to gently pull down your lower lids, trying to get a good look at your eyes. You try to jerk away, letting out possibly the cutest defiant sound Johnny has ever heard, and he might have reacted had it been a different situation. Instead he leans over the side of the bed again, talking to you quietly so you calm a bit. You do relax at the sound of his voice, his scent projecting even more to try and comfort you, bring you back into reality. 

“There we go.” Dr. Keller says, looking at your eyes before she gives you a soft smile. “Welcome back.” She removes her hands from your face leaning against the bed rail again. “It's all over. You did perfectly.”

You let out another groan, lifting a hand weakly before letting it drop back against your stomach. 

“I know you're thirsty.” Dr. Keller says. “I'll get you some soon. We need to make sure your stomach has settled for now.” 

Your eyes squeeze closed as you start to cry again, your inhales shaky as the tears start sliding down your cheeks. Johnny shushes you gently, petting your hair. Sweat still drips down your face, your hands curling around the edge of the blanket. 

You try to push yourself up to sit, Dr. Keller immediately understanding what you need again as she lifts the vomit bag up to your mouth.

Johnny peels your hand from around the blanket, holding it tightly. His own stomach is churning but he swallows it back, bringing your hand up to his face. He kisses the back, the skin clammy and warm to the touch. Your scent is a swirl of things he’s never smelled before, drowning out the natural sweetness. Kyle had mentioned how your scent and John’s change during the heat and after. He hardly recognizes it right now, and he finds himself missing the sweet scent of strawberries. 

Your fingers squeeze around his as you lay back against the bed, eyes cracked open and sniffling as the tears continue to slide down your cheeks. You let out a groan, tugging weakly at his hand. 

“Hi kitten.” He says, leaning over the bed rail again. “Yer alright. Get ye feeling better soon.” 

Your inhale is shaky, catching in your chest. You weakly tug his hand towards your face pressing your sweaty cheek against his skin. You nuzzle against his hand, your tongue darting out to lick his skin. He can't help but chuckle, wiping at a tear that falls with his thumb. You’re still out of it, but he knows that’s a sign that you’re starting to come through, starting to come back to yourself through the haze. 

You let out a long groan as you pull away from his hand, licking at your lips. They're horribly chapped, almost rivaling Simon's, but at least you have an excuse.

“Thirsty?” Dr. Keller asks, returning to the bedside with a cup of water. “Drink slowly, you'll get sick again.” She warns, holding the straw up to your lips. 

You manage to do as she says and take small sips of the water despite how thirsty he knows you must be. Johnny keeps caressing your face with his thumb, your fingers still laced with his. 

“Let me get your vitals.” Dr. Keller says, setting the cup of water on the table. You let out a groan in protest, smacking your lips, obviously wanting more. “You can have more in a minute. Too much on your stomach could upset it, and I’m sure the last thing you want to do right now is get sick again.”

You let out a quiet grunt, leaning your cheek against his hand once again. Your skin is still a bit warm to the touch, but that could just be from the exertion of trying to come out of sedation and being sick. Dr. Keller takes your vitals once more, recording them on her sheet. She’s been tracking them your entire heat, using them to judge how far along you are since she doesn’t have the benefit of you being awake to track the symptoms that way. He had wondered why she tracked them on paper, but then he remembered John telling him about how Shepherd had requested all of your private records and Dr. Keller’s notes. 

She is smart. He’ll give her that. 

“Things look good, even if you might not feel like it right now.” She says.

You try to shift on the bed but you let out a quiet groan, freeing your hand from his. 

“Hurting?” Dr. Keller asks.

You nod, letting out a whine. It tickles in the back of his brain, his beta wanting to reach out and comfort you, but he knows he can’t. He can’t ease the physical pain. One downside to beta evolution. Their ancestors never learned how to fix physical pain. Maybe that would have made them too perfect. All he can do is try to comfort you through it. 

“Let's get some pain meds in you.” She says, pulling the syringe out of her pocket again. “Then we can get you somewhere more comfortable.”

She injects the pain medicine through your IV, giving it a few minutes to begin working before disconnecting you from all the machines. Johnny helps her get you in a sweatshirt, wanting to keep you warm. You are shaking, though what that might be related to he’s not sure. Perhaps everything. 

Dr. Keller hands him the cup of water. “Keep her drinking. I'll go grab a car, then we can get her back to the barracks.” 

You feel far too light in Johnny’s arms as he carries you from the car into the barracks. Simon is nowhere to be seen, though he hadn’t expected a welcome back party from his alpha. He’s probably still hiding out in his office, or in the gym, his usual hiding spot. Johnny is kind of glad he’s not here, though he would like to rub it in his face, the decision he’d made. 

Johnny takes you to his room, still avoiding yours. It’s almost like a crime scene, Johnny tempted to take it off. He knows placing you in there might make you panic when you wake up after everything. That’s the last thing he wants. So instead he takes you to the place you’ve spent the last almost six weeks in, somewhere you’ll recognize the scent and be comfortable when you wake up. 

You roll onto your side as soon as he lays you down, curling up on his blankets. He drapes yours over you, tucking it around your shoulders before he steps back out into the hallway. 

“Keep her hydrated. Lots of water, tea, clear sodas.” Dr. Keller instructs him. “She'll be drowsy for a while because of the pain medicine. Give her a couple hours and once the pain meds wear off and her stomach settles a bit, try her with some bland foods. She did well with mashed potatoes after her last heat. She’s going to be out of it and sick for a few days. Keep an eye out for anything abnormal. Vomiting blood, can’t keep food down, if she complains about pain somewhere or is hard to wake, give me a call.” 

“Got it.” Johnny nods, committing everything she’s told him in the last ten minutes to memory. 

“You did really well.” She says, giving him a soft smile. “You should be proud of yourself.” 

“Thank you, doctor.” He nods, internally beaming at her praise. 

“Keep me updated, and don’t be afraid to call.” She says. 

He watches her walk to the door, Simon’s door opening as soon as she’s gone. He at least looks guilty, like the shame is eating him alive. Johnny hasn’t seen him like this in a long time, not since he caused you to distress. It makes him a little too happy to see him in such a state. 

“How is she?” He asks, not moving from in front of his door. 

The sound of you vomiting into a vomit bag reaches their ears. Simon at least has the decency to flinch at the sound. It’s subtle, probably unnoticeable had Johnny not been able to read his alpha like a book. 

“Sick.” He says, trying to hide his anger and disappointment. They’re complex feelings. He knew Simon would turn you down if you asked for his own reasons, but now after seeing what happens when there’s no alpha available during a heat, he almost hates Simon for doing this to you. “Confused. Still a bit out of it.” 

“You know I couldn’t do it.” Simon says, using that uncanny ability to read everyone around him. 

Johnny hates it sometimes.

He turns to glance at you through his open door as you continue to be sick. You’re going to be miserable for the next few days, likely more than you are usually after your heats. This one will be less physical pain after taking knots for a week straight, and more pain from being sedated, pain from being mostly immobile, pain from just being alive and carrying this status. Such pain omegas live with, physically, mentally, emotionally. 

He hates it. 

“Ye don’t know what it was like.” He says, his hands closing into fists. “Seeing her like that.” 

You let out a long whine, a sob tearing from your chest as you inhale. Tears prick behind Johnny’s eyes as he holds Simon’s gaze. “Ye just had to say no.” He shakes his head, turning to go back into his room. 

He doesn't want to tell you. He can see the look on your face already. The disappointment. The pain. The agony. He can smell the souring of your scent already, the painful grief filling it and there will be nothing he can do to ease it. It's a rare moment they've left you alone in the last month and a half, forced to after a call with Kate and Shepherd.

He's not even sure how to approach it. 

He opens his bedroom door slowly, his stomach clenching as he looks in at you. You're on the bed, wrapped in a blanket where he left you, cuddled against your big bear. He doesn't want to wake you, especially not for this but he has to. He has no choice. You have to know. 

He lets out a sigh as he sinks down on the edge of his bed, gently putting a hand on your shoulder. “Kitten?” He shakes you gently. “Kitten, wake up.”

You inhale sharply, startling awake despite his attempt to be gentle. There’s a sharp spike of fear in your scent for a moment as you’re yanked from sleep suddenly, but it fades as soon as you realize where you are and who is with you. You turn over onto your back, winding up resting against his knee as you rub your eyes. 

“Johnny?” You croak, still partly asleep. 

“Si and I just got off a call with Kate.” He says carefully, not wanting to scare you too much. 

You're wide awake immediately, pushing yourself up to sit. You swallow nervously, your scent already souring. “What is it?” Your voice wavers as you ask, eyes already shining with tears. 

“John and Kyle are fine.” He says, regretting not starting with that. He can see the temporary relief on your face. “But, they need some backup for this one.” 

It takes a moment for your brain to process his words. A hole tears through the center of his chest as he watches the realization hit, your face falling as your scent begins to sour even more. Your arms wrap around yourself as you stare at him, the relief gone from your face as you stare at him. He swallows the lump in his own throat, your scent causing his beta to stir, the drive to comfort you itching in his brain. He can’t though, he can’t comfort you through this. 

Your voice shakes, a tear sliding down your cheek as you figure out what it is he woke you to say, why Kate had called. Your inhale is shaky, catching in your chest before you speak. 

“You're both leaving too, aren’t you.” 

NEXT ->

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[burningcheese-merchant]

"Hair Care" - BurningCheese Short #6

I promised a "Burning Spice is snuck into the Golden Cheese Kingdom" story, and I've come to deliver. I also promised wholesomeness, which... I mean, I hope it comes across that way. These two have their own brand of "wholesome", I think lol.

Special shout-out to @cheesecakemermaid1048 for coming up with the original concept of "bonding w/ Burning Spice via brushing his hair" (although I did go an extra mile in my interpretation here lol). Thanks so much again for letting me use this as a writing prompt! I hope you enjoy it especially!

"Grrrr..."

"I already told you that giving me attitude won't change anything, Burning Spice."

"Would razing your palace to the ground change anything?"

"Leave behind even a single scratch on a single one of my walls or columns, and I shall impale you with a thousand earthen spears on the spot."

"Do you promise?"

"It's inevitable."

"Even better, then."

Golden Cheese quickly shot him a pointed glare over her shoulder before turning her attention back to the hallway ahead of them. Completely empty, thank goodness; no one traversed this particular one at this hour of the day, she remembered. Or... they didn't tend to. Usually.

... It was a gamble she knows Mozzarella would've taken, had she been in her place. Calling for the palace to be temporarily emptied and closed would have been too easy, too simple. Daring to challenge one's own understanding of time and people's habits was a far greater risk, with a far more satisfying reward. Guaranteed victories are boring, after all.

Mozzarella wasn't there with them then, but Golden Cheese nevertheless found herself smiling and thanking her old friend for inspiring her in such a way.

Burning Spice, meanwhile, was currently the most miserable man on the face of the earth, and has been since Golden Cheese had the nerve to dictate where she would be taking him today (and instead of having their scheduled duel, as well, to add insult to injury). His petulant stomps left charred imprints all throughout the desert sands where they reunited - she demanded he control himself when they made it to her kingdom, so as not to draw attention and to not ruin her precious walkways - and echoed through the glittering halls and corridors as she dragged him along. How they haven't been spotted by any of her countless little subjects until now, he did not know, nor did he really care. He was frustrated enough that he almost preferred them being caught then whatever fresh hell she had in store for him in the rapidly approaching future.

So irritated was he, that he couldn't even bring himself to enjoy the fact that they were holding hands.

She eventually led him through some fancy doorway - past sky blue curtains and an archway and columns decorated with intricate carvings - and waiting for them beyond it was their promised destination: a fairly large and airy room with a great pool at the very center, with gold and white lilies dotting its calm surface and reeds sprouting in its corners. Surrounding it was an array of ornate stone and wooden tables, towel racks, smaller pools and individual baths, as well as beautifully carved shelves that seemed to be stocked with soaps, oils and incense. The afternoon sun shone through a massive hole in the ceiling, bathing much of the room in a warm, bright, golden light.

Burning Spice observed it all with a look of cranky disinterest. "A bath, huh?" His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "If you wanted to see me naked, little bird, all you had to do was ask."

"A spa, Burning Spice," Golden Cheese retorted. "This is the primary room for rest and relaxation here within my palace. My attendants are free to come in and put their minds and bodies at ease while they're on break, or after they've been relieved of their duties. They're also welcome to bring their friends and families, so long as they ask for permission first."

"'Ask for permission?' Pfft." A low chuckle rumbled deep within his throat. "How generous. How... soft. Of you AND them."

"It's civilized. That is what civilized behavior is like, Burning Spice. As we both know you've long since forgotten."

"'Civilized behavior'... heh. You think I care about such a pretentious, meaningless thing?"

"No, and it's evident by your appearance. Moreso than even the sun shining in the sky on a desert morning, in fact."

"Oh, don't pretend you don't enjoy seeing me- huh?!"

She didn't wait for him to finish his flirty diatribe and began dragging him over to one of those little baths, tightening her grip on his hand enough to earn an honest wince. When they reached it, she used her spear to nudge a nearby chair over, then whipped around, grabbed Burning Spice by the shoulders, and forced him down onto it before he could protest.

"Wait here a moment," she told him. "Let me go grab what we need."

"Who's 'we'?" he called after her indignantly as she walked off. No use; she moved along as if he'd never spoken in the first place.

To tide himself over and pass the time - that one minute that bore the weight and ache of an eternity - he made a game of letting his eyes go back and forth between scanning the room more closely and drinking in the sight of Golden Cheese's alluring backside as she gathered supplies from a shelf.

She seemed to sense his enamored gaze right away, though, and bristled accordingly. "Keep your eyes to yourself," she snapped at him without turning around.

"Or else what?" he fired back with a smirk, still raking his eyes up and down her body without remorse. "I'm already being punished, am I not? Now you can punish me with all this nonsense for a REAL reason."

"Clearly you aren't," she said as she made her way back to him, a towel hanging from one arm, and a bottle and hairbrush in each hand, "if you still feel bold enough to behave like this."

"But of course I do. How can I not, with such a pretty bird perched in front of me? Only the blind would ignore such beauty, do you not agree?"

She set the supplies down with a huff, her cheeks flushing pink at his words. "Well then, let's see if you still feel that way after we're done."

His flirtatious smile evaporated as she gathered all of his long, wild hair into her arms and narrowed her eyes at it. "Honestly, Burning Spice," she said, "how do you tolerate this... this mess?"

"By ignoring it," he said flatly. "So long as it isn't cut off, then I don't give a damn what happens to it otherwise."

"Well, I'm not tolerating this barbarism any longer. If you won't do anything about it, then I will."

"I could just get up and sit in the bath myself, you know." That suggestive look made a brief return. "And you could join me, if you wanted."

"I'd sooner join you in Hell," she said.

With that, she tossed his hair into the bath, watching as it floated and waved along the water's clear surface. She reached for the bottle, stowed away underneath the chair for safekeeping; the smell of eucalyptus wafted through the air as she popped it open and poured its contents into the water, turning it a pale green.

"What the hell is that?" Burning Spice asked, making a face as he sniffed at the air.

"Soap, you filthy animal," she snapped. "Shampoo and conditioner mixed into one solution. This particular bottle is from a very high-quality brand that is well-liked in my kingdom. I suggest you act grateful."

"Me, grateful? For what? For you kidnapping me and forcing me to endure a... a spa day that I wouldn't ask for in a million years?"

"Precisely," she said, staring down at him with a confident smile.

...So enchanting did Burning Spice find that smile of hers, that he softened just enough to let her work without further resistance.

She worked slowly but deliberately, the calm focus written on her features and the deft movement of her hands betraying her years of experience. His hair was thick and unkempt, practically an untamed jungle; so desperate for love and care that it almost seemed to seek her out on purpose, jet black tendrils creeping and coiling around her fingers and wrists as soon as her hands touched the water.

"When was the last time you even brushed your hair? These knots are atrocious."

He didn't answer her right away, instead scowling and shifting uncomfortably in his seat as she tugged on the strands closer to his scalp. "What does that matter?" he eventually scoffed. "Fussing over one's appearance is a complete waste of time, anyway."

"One's appearance is a cornerstone of one's overall well-being," she countered. "In my kingdom, cleanliness is seen as a form of godliness. It's all a matter of pride, of confidence, of proper self-esteem. Always look your best, always put your best foot forward, and others will be encouraged to see the best in you."

"You think taking a bath makes you a god? HA! Such foolish arrogance- OW!"

"Oh, stop it," Golden Cheese chided him as she pulled on and unraveled a particularly terrible knot. "To think you'd be such a big baby about something so trivial! If I'd known this while we were still enemies, I would've gone ahead and acted like a baby myself, and spent all of our battles pulling on your hair to make you cry."

He grunted in frustration, staring daggers at her as she freed the last remaining strands from that dreaded knot. She ignored him and continued on undeterred.

When she finished the first lather and rinse, working her way up to the top of his head and back down again, she shook her head. "Honestly, Burning Spice," she sighed. "I'm disappointed in you. Even a brute ought to take proper care of himself. How have you allowed this to stand for so long?"

"Because it doesn't matter to me at all," he muttered. "I'll give you that answer as many times as I need to, to get it through your pretty head."

"Of course it matters," she said, her eyes narrowing in annoyance again. "How can you even say that? Do you not hold yourself in any high esteem at all?"

"No."

She stopped, the wad of hair she'd been tending to now sitting limp in her hands. She looked at him in genuine shock - and he returned her look with one of... not quite anger, no. He was not angry. What she saw on his face, in his eyes, was... resignation, tinged with bitterness.

An awkward silence hung over them both before Golden Cheese cleared her throat. "Well, then," she said slowly, "If you can't be bothered to take care of yourself... then I shall do it for you. Alright?"

He softened again, a glimmer of pleasant surprise shining in his eyes. The silence quickly returned, right after Golden Cheese herself returned to her work... but it felt lighter this time.

Soon enough, she was quietly tapping on his shoulder. He understood what she wanted, no explanation necessary, and he slowly lifted his head up, sitting up straight once again. She gathered his hair in her arms and wrung it all out the best she could, then lifted it out of the bath, letting it fall and cling to his back. The soft pitter-patter of water droplets dripping from rogue strands of hair onto the floor filled their ears.

The silence otherwise persisted as Golden Cheese dried Burning Spice's hair with the towel she'd tucked away beneath the chair. He sat still, arms crossed, and neither said nor did anything to disturb her efforts, much to her continued surprise.

Soon enough, she traded the towel in for the hairbrush and quickly set about combing through those still-unruly locks. "It really is a shame, you know," she murmured. "You have gorgeous hair. You shouldn't treat it so poorly."

"Hmph..." He shrugged. "Whatever."

"I mean it, Burning Spice." She combed through another knot - more carefully than she'd done to the others in the bath, out of a newfound sense of concern for his comfort. "Even animals groom themselves better than you. I know you care enough to at least bathe, but there's more to self-care than just that."

"I bathe. I eat. I sleep. Those things are enough to keep me alive, are they not? I don't need anything else."

"They're enough to survive, yes..." She paused. "But... not to live, I don't think."

"You think bathing makes you a god," he muttered. "Of course you would say that."

She set the hairbrush aside for a moment and placed her hands on his shoulders, giving them a light squeeze. Instantly - perhaps instinctively - he leaned back, further into her grasp. Silently reveling in her touch.

"Burning Spice..." She sighed softly. "I have long since vanquished you. You're no longer a threat to this world." She hesitated, searching her mind for the right words to say next. "You... you can't hurt anyone anymore. Not on my watch. Perhaps... it's time you included yourself there, as well."

At that, he tensed, but still said nothing. She pulled her hands away (did she sense... disappointment from him when she did so?) and grabbed the hairbrush again, once more returning to grooming the man in front of her. She tried her best to be efficient, but still gentle; combing through each and every lock, more eager than ever to leave them looking better than they did before.

She took longer than she probably should have. (Perhaps she'd started allowing herself to enjoy how... soft and luxurious his hair was.) But even so, when she was finally done, she set the hairbrush down again and circled around to the front.

"There," she said. "What do you think?"

Burning Spice ran a quick hand through his hair and gave her a nod. "More pleasant than before."

"Wonderful." She beamed at him. "I'm glad."

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of that bright, warm smile. It stole all of the light in the room. It outshined the sun itself.

If this was what it took get her to look at him like that, then Burning Spice would gladly let her fuss over his appearance every single day for the rest of his life.

"Now, then..." She clapped her hands together, her eyes now glinting with mischief. "How about we take care of your wardrobe next?"

"My what?!"

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

What GC said about cleanliness was something Ancient Egyptians actually believed. They were very, very fussy about hygiene and legitimately thought that cleanliness was godliness. They didn't have spas or bathhouses or the like, though (not before the Greeks and Romans stopped by), they usually just bathed in the Nile. They used something called natron (it's like a salt mixture you get from dry lake beds, tastes like baking soda) as soap and shampoo. There's your history lesson for the day. You're welcome. I have more if you're interested.

And... well. I'm sure it's common knowledge that depressed people can start really letting themselves go if it gets bad enough. I don't really get the impression that Burning Spice is happy, even with that Joker smile he's got on and how much he enjoys trashing everything... I think all the Beasts are plagued with a certain melancholy, really. They're handling it entirely incorrectly, but even so. (And I think the Ancients can and should be the ones to help them overcome that. They're just the right ones for the job, in my opinion. But that's probably just me trying to bait you all into asking me about my Reformed Beasts AU again lol)

[avernusreject]

Warning ya'll this is gonna be a long post. But please join my descent into insanity, as I deep dive into the vague wormhole that is the durge betrayal pre bg3 timeline.

Before we start, it’ll help if you have context around the faerun calendar. There are twelve months in total, each having exactly 30 days. Additionally, weeks don’t exist in faerun. Rather months get broken down into chunks of time called tendays, which you guessed is literally just ten days. If that was too straight forward for you, don’t worry, they add in five extra days to the calendar that fall outside of the months (ngl I still have no idea where these are located) to make the full year 365 days. 

At the beginning of the game, the nautiloid crash occurs at 20 Eleasis. Which means, the game starts in the middle of summer. Obviously, the way you play the game is going to influence the speed of events, but for my playthrough I reached moonrise towers around 12 elient (total time being 22 days). When you get to moonrise, in Bathazar’s chamber you can find his journal that explains that Kressa (the crazy necromancer chick) managed to keep durge alive. This entry is dated “two tenday ago”. But in game, that makes no sense because we know that the nautiloid should have crashed around that point. So either Balthazar doesn’t understand how the Faerun calendar works (I mean same, my guy) or we have to change our frame of reference. I think its more likely that the implied frame of reference is the start of the game, 20 Eleasis (since the developers can’t control how fast the player goes). 

If true, durge was saved by Kressa around 1 Eleasis. Her vivisections took place after this in the following days. However, durge is taken away before the end of the following tendays (at least before 10 Eleasis).

Now when you talk to Kressa in the basement of moonrise, she states that she found durge only hours after they had been given the tadpole.

In the fight with Orin, she states that when she attacked durge she carved out a hole for the worm (ignore the Half-Elf part, that's just from the moment Orin turns into durge during the pre-fight convo).

The part that we're missing is when specifically the tadpole was inserted into durge. But given how the game describes just how utterly fucked durge was, there's a high likelyhood that the tadpole was given to durge moments after their fight. Which if true, places Orin's betrayal at 1 Eleasis. Giving us twenty days till the start of the game.

The piece that threw me for a bit was this piece of the narrator's dialogue when durge examines the pod, stating that durge had no idea how much time had passed.

But the blood in the pod is still fresh enough that Astarion is able to ID it as durge & in another dialogue choice if you examine the blood further the narrator states the blood hasn't been there long enough to rot.

I think this dialogue is more explaining that durge is actively being tortured by Kressa so time feels unending (kressa being the one who put them in the pod to begin with).

I've seen in other posts that Gortash's draft memoir explains that Orin's betrayal occurred during or just around the crowning of the brain (I don't have a screenshot of that unfortunately). But we have to take that with a grain of salt because Gortash is the definition of an unreliable narrator.

Personally, I don't think he's lying though. Orin's betrayal occurred in moonrise and there's really no other reason that Orin and durge would be in moonrise that the game has provided. Not to mention, the warden explains the last time that durge was in moonrise, they never left.

I don't think durge came to moonrise more then once given the fact that the warden, who had clearly been there a while, had no clue who they were. I find it hard to believe their identity would be kept under wraps had they been at moonrise multiple times. Employees have to gossip about something.

I think its likely that Ketheric, Gortash, and Durge tamed the brain in the days leading up to 1 Eleasis (like ~20 to 30 Flamerule).

In summary, the dead three had a Phineas and Ferb summer vacation by deciding to create the cult of the absolute.

And yes if you are wondering this is how I look now.

[acapelladitty]

`♡° kinktober 2024! ---

☆ kink: biting

☆ pairing: the ghoul/lucy maclean

☆ summary: A quick bit of teasing falls into something more as Lucy chooses to bite at Cooper's skin.

kinktober '24 ☆ main masterlist ☆ ao3

Tucked as firmly into his side as physically possible, Lucy rubbed the ball of her foot harshly against Cooper’s ankle as she wound her leg within his to give her a more thorough anchor to his wider frame. The afternoon heat had proven too much for either to tolerate, a sudden heatwave knocking even the sturdiest of the wastelands freaks to the wayside, and they had taken the opportunity to hole up in an old bunker which housed a decent sized cot – one large enough to house both their frames.

Clothing peeled from their sweating skin, the joint relief was palatable as Cooper had barricaded the door and dropped his holster by the cot before joining Lucy as she stretched out like a cat. That was only about ten minutes ago and already the two were deep in the throes of some obnoxiously heavy petting.

A cool breeze swept in from somewhere and Lucy pulled her hair up a little to allow it to ghost across her neck, shuddering at the gooseflesh it left in its wake as she enjoyed the relief.

“Shivering for me already, sweetheart?” Noticing her shudder, Cooper couldn’t help but offer her a shit eating grin as he dragged his hand up her side, tracing along the shape of her waist with rough fingers.

“Not for you,” Lucy denied in an instant. “The breeze. It’s lovely.”

“Well, fuck me then.”

“Maybe. If you can behave for more than five minutes.”

“Now that,” Cooper drawled, “is a hard bargain. How’s a man supposed to be good when he has all this pressed against him?”

Groping her ass with a thick hand, Lucy scowled at how roughly his fingers dug into her ass and responded in kind by digging her nails into the textured expanse of his inner thigh. A move which made him inhale a sharp hiss and let her go as a low insult was muttered in her direction – one she wasn’t quite able to pick up on as she flashed him a full smile.

“Damn, vaultie. And you say I’m too violent.”

“You’ve created a monster.”

Shifting his body to allow her head to fall to his shoulder, Cooper fixed her with a suspicious glare. “Next you’ll be sneaking my knife to carve more bits off me.”

“More bits?” Indignant at the accusation as a very definite memory of a certain ghoul carving her finger from its place flashed in her mind, Lucy flicked at his chest with her hand. “Hey! I think you’ll find th-”

“Carving. Biting. It’s all the same shit on a different day.”

Interrupting her as always, his constant overstepping guaranteed to get a fun rise out of her as she struggled to take control of the conversation again, Cooper tightened his grip of her side as he pulled her flush to his chest – forcing her to wrap her arm around his stomach to ensure that she stayed comfortable.

“Oh, is it now?

Her teeth sinking into the curve of his shoulder without warning, Cooper grunted as she worried at the skin for a moment, squeezing her jaw hard enough to hurt while not breaking the skin. At his grunt, Lucy smiled into his flesh, the textured skin feeling weird as hell against her mouth as she rolled her tongue against it.

“Biting you is like biting into beef jerky,” Lucy complained.

“Shit talking me like that will get you punished, Miss Maclean.”

“I can’t believe the big bad ghoul would punish an innocent vaultie like me just for telling the truth.”

“Innocent,” Cooper huffed with derision, his disbelief pairing with his hand as he reached over to tug playfully at Lucy’s right nipple – pulling at the nub between textured fingers until she shuddered and arched into his touch. “You’ve been about as innocent as a whore on shore leave since I had the misfortune of stumbling on your sorry ass. Do it again though.”

“What?”

“Bite me again,” giving her the demand, Cooper guided her hand to his cock shamelessly – allowing her to feel the growing hardness there as his body responded to her beastly attack. “It’s something’, vaultie. Watching you bite at me like a feral kitten and feeling those teeth attempting to tear my hide.”

Tucking her dark hair behind her ear, Lucy couldn’t deny the flush of arousal which dampened her cunt as she traced her tongue along the skin she had just bitten. Her body felt so light against his own, her soft skin brushing along the pitted mess of his and she gasped as his hand slid down her side to pull her lower body tighter against his own – his cock grinding against her hip.

Lucy bit him again, this time slowly increasing the pressure on her bite as she clamped her teeth around the sensitive juncture where his neck met his shoulder. Cooper’s reaction was immediate, his cock jerking in the heated space between them as he inhaled sharply through his teeth.

“Keep going, vaultie,” Cooper hissed and a wicked determination settled in Lucy’s thoughts as she considered how much it would take to get him off like this. His teeth were more than familiar with her skin, his delight in taking her into his mouth in all the ways that he could having driven her to absolute madness as she screamed and writhed beneath him.

It was only fair that she got her own back.

Continuing to bite along his neck, the texture of his skin felt so wrong against her mouth but also familiar in a way that made her hand want to drop between her legs and take care of the ache that was making her thighs wet with arousal. Cooper’s body was more than making up for her lack of action, every sharp bite of her teeth making his groin grind against her hip as his cock desperately sought the friction of her skin.

He was unashamed in his pleasure and she was unashamed in teasing it. With only a few brushes of her hip or easy-to-misinterpret wordplays it was never too difficult to have him pressing against her back roughly and suggesting they pause for a quickie on whatever available surface would house them.

And, in the wasteland, sex was one of the few activities which didn’t directly involve murder or violence.

Well.

Most of the time.

“God-fucking-damn!”

Coming back into her thoughts as Cooper’s lips sealed around her neck with a brutal pressure, Lucy knew that the mark left would be absolutely livid against her skin as it healed and she scowled at the thought.

Responding in kind with a particularly vicious bite against the crook of his shoulder, Lucy gasped into his skin as a low grunting noise slipped free of Cooper’s lips and the wet heat of his release splashed across her hip – his mess immediately being ground into her skin as Cooper continued to buck his body against her own.

Delighted, Lucy gave a little giggle as she tucked her arm around Cooper’s chest, anchoring herself to his body as his pecs rose and fell with every laboured breath. “All this mess from just a little biting? Wow.”

“Hey now, can’t a man enjoy having his balls emptied without being put up on the firing line?”

Lucy smirked despite herself, “I’m grouchy. I don’t think it’s fair that only one of us gets off when I was the one doing all the work.” But her lips formed into a quick ‘o’ shape as Cooper’s fingers shifted to press at her soaked cunt in an instant.

“Hmm, yeah, I can feel that. Well, we can’t be having that can we? What kind of gentleman cowpoke allows a lady to go without her own?”

Muttering the word gentleman with as much disdain as she could muster, Lucy spread her legs without hesitation and settled in to get as good as she gave.

[wyn-n-tonic]

That's a Real Fucking Legacy: I Chose You

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/former Tommy Miller x f!reader Word Count: 2.6k+ Warnings: Unprotected PiV. Soft Joel. Talk of death. The gif is JUST a gif, there are NO descriptions of reader, it's just a visual reference of movement. Author's Note: Thanks for all the patience with this installment. I have been working very hard on DoYaM and fit in bits and bobs of other things where I can. Cannot fully convey how grateful I am for all the kind words, I really hope you like this, too.

Please follow @wyn-writing and turn on updates for notifications. You can sign up for my taglist HERE.

That's A Real Fucking Legacy Masterlist

Everybody said it was an accident, that it could’ve happened to anybody.

But it didn’t happen to anybody, it happened to him.

Stopped for a pick up at a site out in Colorado, Joel left you and the baby to finally contribute and pull his weight—to feel useful. He’s been itching for it this whole time, getting out there and working off the energy that’s penning up inside his chest. He said he wanted to partake in something other than just keeping your daughter at peace.

You didn’t tell him he’d be taking yours away, too. 

They were ambushed by another group, a bunch of men looking for food to take back to their women and children apparently. It was a fucking gun fight and if the blood on his shirt was just from a bullet, maybe this wouldn’t feel like having all the air sucked from your lungs.

Baby could sense it, too, the fear and devastation seeping through your body as they brought him back with another goddamn hole in his body.

He’s got plenty at this point, angry red and deathly white scars pockmarking his body like some kind of topographical map. 

That’s all it is, just another scar to add to his collection and reminisce about as you trace it in the darkness of whatever shared space you end up in.

Except, they’re saying this one might not scar.

It might not even heal.

All the things he’s done throughout these years, all the things he done to protect you—to provide for you.

That’s all he was doing this time, too, and it breaks you down all over again as you pull Baby closer to your aching, carved out chest.

Everybody you have ever loved has either left or been taken away.

Tommy’s hand lands gently on your shoulder but it might as well have been a goddamn hit with the way you pull away from him.

“What do you want?”

“I brought some food,” he whispers, setting down a small plate between where you’re sitting and where Joel’s body is laying. “And I came to check on you, see if there’s anything I could do for you.”

He pulls away when you look up at him, hands falling to his side like he’s been fucking burned. You know what you must look like—bloodshot eyes and hollow cheeks.

“Yeah, Tommy, you can fucking fix this.”

You watch as he swallows thickly, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as his eyes flicker from yours to his brother’s body and back. Not a day has gone by since he was brought back that you’ve left his side, doing your best to keep it together through every aching mile along the way to Jackson.

They look for medicine at every stop you make, coming up empty handed time and time again. If we don’t get to Jackson soon—to the doctor they have there—then he will die.

“I'm doing the best I can, sweetheart.”

“Don't you fucking dare call me that,” you tell him. Baby fusses in your arms like she can feel the hurt that’s heavy in your voice. “You were supposed to protect him, Tommy, you were supposed to bring him back to me alive.”

“He is alive,” he says, nostrils flaring as he points down at his brother. “He's right there, he’s breathing, and we are all doing the best that we can.”

Baby looks up at you, stung by the subtle anger that Tommy’s words hold. Her father may be trying to make nice with him, but you fucking won’t—you can’t. Not so long as he lays half clung to life next to you.

More words come at you—assurances and platitudes.

We’ll be in Jackson in two days.

They’re still looking.

He’s a stubborn piece of shit, he’ll make it through.

This is everything that he’s been afraid of this whole goddamn time. This is that fear come true that he’ll leave you or you’ll leave him or your daughter will leave you both and neither of you would survive that.

“Tommy,” you call his attention back on you as he turns. “I grieved for you,” you say. “God, I mourned and I wailed and I wept for days if not weeks or more.”

It’s like he’s understanding for the first time, truthfully understanding, as he stares down at your worn down body speaking all these fragile and broken words. Realization of just how much you hurt for him is dawning on him and he’s trying to give you more comfort, more words to say everybody will be okay.

But it won’t be true so long as your daughter is looking up at you with eyes that ask why your heart has stopped beating.

“I don't think you have heard me at any point that I have explained just what I feel for my family, Tommy,” you say. “I told you that I would’ve bled for you but that I would die for him so I really need for you to listen to me right now—if he goes, part of me will go with him.”

Jackson is like life before it stopped.

There is power here and children laughing.

There are babies and clothes and running water.

There are houses and furniture and trinkets and shops.

You haven’t been able to take any of this in, not really. Not when you’re walking around the halls of Tommy’s home like a ghost.

Tommy found penicillin after that night, came hauling ass into the room and injected his brother before you were even fully awake and registering what he was doing. Because, for a moment, you thought you were under attack. You though a runner had burst in and you couldn’t find the gun and this was the death you had feared beyond the walls—first Joel and then Thomi and then you. The last of those you love taken from you in the last moments that would make you welcome being ripped apart with open arms.

When you realized it was just Tommy, your heart half settled down and then you feared that maybe Joel had stopped breathing next to you. But that couldn’t have been the case because it was the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he fought against infection and the increasing cold that gave you any sort of hope or peace at all.

Joel woke up just as you made it through the gates of Jackson, one eye half cracked and already crying the moment he saw you next to him. Instead of going to the doctor, the doctor came to him. Modern medicine isn’t so modern anymore though, not the way it was when it all fell down. The penicillin likely wasn’t as potent as it once was but the doctor said it would do the trick and that the right thing was done by keeping his wound as clean as possible and bandaged tight.

Tommy said it was all you and the doctor was offering you a job before he’d even learned your name. You’ll get to that eventually, you told him so. Begged him to let you settle in and find a home, find a way to feel okay in this new space where you’re told fear doesn’t have to be your primary emotion any longer.

Now, though, Joel barely wants to sleep. He’s antsy, fidgeting and restless and begging to get out of bed and walk around.

He’s even bouncing Baby and talking with his brother on what jobs he can pull around town to earn his keep.

Fucking jobs.

You almost lost him to him pulling his own weight and he’s asking about fucking jobs with a half healed hole still gaping in his abdomen. 

Thomi’s been down for about an hour, she was your excuse away from the bathroom. With Joel up and about, the survival mode has turned off in your brain and now you want to crumble every time you look at the knotted over flesh.

But there’s only so much pacing that you can do until you’re sitting back in the room and staring down at Thomi with tears in your eyes. She came so close to being just another orphan in this fucked up world because you weren’t joking with Tommy when you said what you said. Part of you will go when Joel does, you will not be the same and you’ve prepared for it, you just hope she’s old enough to understand when that time comes.

There’s also the hope that everybody understands that it’s Joel who has to go first. Between you and him, he has to go first because he cannot watch another person he loves die; he cannot add another name to another gravestone in the cemetery of his heart.

That’s where he finds you, saying something about how he can’t believe there’s an actual crib that she actually gets to sleep in.

That fact and the exhaustion of his voice hits you, drags the tears out of you finally after all these days of having to be strong. She has a crib and she’s sleeping peacefully inside of it with a soft toy somebody in town sent over. Joel has a voice and he’s using it as if just a week ago you hadn’t convinced yourself that you’d never hear it again.

“How can I fix this?” He asks, gentle hand resting on your shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

“You're breathing,” you say, pushing the tears from your face. “That's enough, it’s all I’ve been hoping for.” Because while you want him to be the first to go, you can’t lose him yet. Not yet.

He smells good. Like himself but different, the sweet scent of the mint soap Tommy gave you mixing in with the natural musk and heat of him. You don’t even realize you’re crawling into his lap until you are.

Tears fall down on his face as your fingers thread through the slicked back hair until you’re cradling his head in your hand; holding him to you with open mouths breathing heavily into one another. 

He’s hard already and laying back with ease, thick hands gripping into the meat of your hips. It’s fucking embarrassing how close you are already but there was no privacy for sneaky touches on the journey here. 

“Off,” he commands, tugging at the hem of your shirt. 

Trailing his hand along the skin exposed as you comply easily to his demand, he fights against the pain you know he feels to pull himself forward enough to reach you and pull you back down. 

Days asleep fighting, literally, for his life and, yet, he’s still got all this strength radiating out of his body. You know that’s why he was able to hold on for so long but it doesn't mean it doesn’t wow you and bring another wave of sadness all at the same time.

Because if such a strong man can fall so easily, what’s stopping this world from taking you, too?

Like he can read your mind, his hands settle on your hips and he pulls back just enough to look up at you with the same big brown eyes your daughter shares. “Are you gonna get off of me if I tell you this moment was the focal point of all my fever dreams?”

Head cradled in both of your hands, you take his lips again. “I might never get off of you again, Joel Miller.”

Fighting against the pain he feels, he pushes his hips against your core as he pulls you down against him, whispered words of gratitude and love falling pushed right into your mouth from his.

“I heard every word you said,” he breathes out. “The entire time you were by my side, sweetheart, I heard it all.” 

Tongues flattened against each other, you reach down and pull off the new underwear—another offering in a gift basket to welcome your family to the town. You never thought you’d see these kinds of things again. 

Clothes in good condition; sturdy houses; friendly people; fresh vegetables.

It’s something else that drips tears from your eyes and down his cheeks.

As if he knows how overwhelmed you are by all the newness going on all around you, he takes charge to push up against your lips harder and with more hunger.

Joel’s goal in every moment between your bodies is to be the only overwhelming force you feel and he does just that with the gentle push of his solid length through your soaked channel. 

He takes the gasp you feed him, pulling back with a smile to trail the tip of his nose down the length of yours and studies you as he waits for your fully seated comfort to kick in.

“Mmm,” his head falls back and he relaxes down into the soft blankets. “I’m sorry if I bust too quick,” he breathes out. “It’s been a while and I missed you.” 

Laughter. Because that’s a feeling coiling deeper in the pit of your being than he’s pushing into and he catches your moan as brings the long awaited friction you’ve ached for. 

“I think I’m right there with you,” you whisper against him. This shared laughter and the feeling of his chapped lips on yours are the unburdening you’ve needed for so long. Even in the so called safety of the QZ, your shoulders were heavy with the weight of grief and fear both for those that were and those that will be taken away.

This is light and restful and full of peace and happiness because he turned it all around—he came back.

He heard every word you said at his side.

“None of these,” he says against your lips, swiping at the heavy salt water tears that streak down your cheeks. “Not anymore, sweetheart, not right now. You don’t need them right now.” 

Your bodies are already tightening up against each other; working in time with each other all slow and steady movements made with intention and pulling back when necessary.

Because the intention isn’t to get off, it’s to be together and share this peace and relief together.

“I love you,” falls from his lips like a prayer, something sacred and quiet that he keeps close to his chest.

Even still, he may have said no more tears but they rush from you in body racking sobs. Because you know, of course you know, but he’s never said it. Not out loud, not like this. This isn't just a mere glimpse of a long gone, past life Joel Miller and who he used to be. This is him. That sweet and romantic boy he’s only told you about in the cover of night.

He doesn’t ask if he’s hurt you, he knows that he hasn’t. All he can do is cage you in closer; kiss you harder; hold you tighter until the broken sobs are turning back into shared moans as your involuntary movements of sadness and happiness combine to push you both over that edge.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he exhales. “My strong, beautiful woman.” Those rough hands frame your face, thumbs swiping over the swell of your cheeks in mirrored movements. “You can relax now, baby, I’m right here.”

Every press of his lips against your face is so soft and full of everything else he’s struggling to say.

That you’re safe.

That you’re healthy.

That your daughter is both and can sleep peacefully not yet knowing what nightmares truly are.

He heard every word you said at his side and these are his answers—his reassurances. He’s here, he’s right here and he’ll fight like hell even against himself to make sure he’ll continue to be.

[quigzahhutt]

hiiii could you please do sargebon + 💗? thank you sm 🫶🫶

ouhhhhh tenderness ....

for the kiss prompt ask game !

"💗 / slow kiss / gentle kiss / inevitable / soft"

doomed lovers, non-racing, college au sargebon.... this request sent me down a rabbit hole and I somehow ended up with approximately 1.2k words of sargebon in front of me

The club was hot, sticky all around and it is absolutely not the environment Alex wants to be in right now.

But, Logan is here, and that's why he's here as well.

Logan had called him, his despairing voice crackly over the phone as music thumped loud enough for Alex to hear it on his end, the bass almost rattling the pencils on his desk.

He practically dropped everything to grab his keys at that point, a sickly drop of sweat forming along his eyebrow as he listened to Logan's strained breathing over the speaker. He had texted him the address earlier that day with a futile offer to come along; Alex had rejected him. He regrets it now.

Because Logan had sounded so unlike himself over the phone– he was frantic, panicked like when you remember you have a class in 20, and you're an hour commute away. He's always so cool, level headed, so him sounding like that made Alex's stomach churn something ugly.

Logan's shaky syllables echoed through his skull on the entire drive there; he had definitely broken multiple traffic laws, but he just had to remind himself that thie was for Logan's sakes. It would always be worth it for him.

Alex has to shove himself through body after body, almost feeling like he needs sunglasses with how bright the strobing lights are. He has no idea where Logan might be, and that thought horrifies him.

It shouldn't be so worrying– they're both adults; Logan has proven multiple times that he's capable of taking care of himself, and Alex feels silly being so worked up over it, but something about him tends to twist his heart that way.

It's like Logan has taken Alex's psyche and popped it into his mouth, swirled it around, tucked it under his tongue for safe keeping like a hard candy, left to melt until all that's left is Alex's raw, earnest core.

Sometimes Logan will laugh and it makes Alex feel 15 all over again; soft cheeks and Halo on his Xbox 360, immaturity slowly being replaced by taller bones and responsibilities. He makes Alex feel the same way he did when he got his first kiss, naive and full of teeth, desiring nothing but to eat the other person whole.

His train of thought is cut off once his eyes fall on a familiar slouched figure wedged into the furthest corner, crumpled into a soiled couch. He has his hands over his ears, and an uncharacteristic grimace has made itself home on his features.

Alex barely remembers walking up to him; someone had grumbled at him, told him to fuck off and watch where he's going, but none of that matters because Logan is safe, and he's looking at Alex with so much relief, like he's salvation.

He doesn't even attempt at talking to him– the music is too loud, the bass heady and overwhelming in their ears that it's basically pointless. Alex just grabs one of Logan's hands and carefully moves it away from his head so he can properly grasp it.

It's an imitation of something far too intimate for Alex's liking, the soft lines of Logan's smaller hand fitting gently into his own like it was carved for that very purpose.

The club is crowded, unsurprisingly considering it's a Friday night, and the wall of bodies has seemingly thickened since he arrived, so Alex tugs on Logan's hand a little too hard, ensures he sticks close. He didn't come all this way just to lose him again.

They eventually make it, and the sticky night air has never been such a blessing. The humidity tastes salty against his tongue and it's, in all honesty, a little too hot in Alex's opinion, but he can happily ignore it because Logan's finally relaxed, no longer wide-eyed and frightened like an alley cat.

He hasn't let go of Alex's hand, and he's pressed so close like he's afraid he might get lost again if he drifts too far. So, Alex shuffles, shifts his arm so it's wrapped around Logan's waist instead, safely securing him to his side.

The walk to the car isn't too far, but it's far enough that it gives both of them time to think. It let's Alex wonder– wonder why that whenever Logan is nearby, he feels like he should run away and hide, overwhelmed by emotions he hasn't felt since year 8. Why is it only Logan who's capable of tapping into the most beastial parts of Alex's psyche. Why is it him that can make him feel so scared and so brave all at once.

Logan murmuring something into his shoulder pulls him out of his own head, and Alex instinctually grasps Logan tighter to his torso when they walk past a group of rowdy teenagers, bottles of alcohol hanging loosely in their hands.

"What was that, sorry?" Alex whispers, wanting desperately to keep this moment between them, exclude themselves from all outside forces even though they're walking along a very public street.

"I said 'm sorry. I was being stupid, 'nd I only- I wanted..." Logan suddenly scoffs, a hard, labored breath that seems like it surprised him more than anyone, "I'll just tell you in the car,"

Alex just mumbles a soft 'okay' and leaves it at that, trusting that Logan will actually tell him, instead of doing his usual song and dance of avoid-distract-forget. Except Alex doesn't forget, he never does; how could he when there's been a conversation hanging between them that they should've had months ago.

"Here we are," Alex says a bit too loudly, miming triumph as he gestures towards the car. He cheers a bit mentally when Logan giggles, and when he pushes away to open the door, Alex spots an easy-going smile on his lips. It's ridiculously relieving seeing it, reassures him that this is still his Logan, and not some random kid he plucked off the street.

Although, that is kind of what happened. His roommate at the time was moving out and he had mentioned that there was a transfer student coming here for a semester, an American, who's housing plans had bailed on him, and Alex had rolled his eyes. He was absolutely not going to house an American.

But here he is, picking up said American at half past 1 in the morning from some club in the middle of town. And now that same American is slithering his hand over the center console, clumsily lacing his fingers with Alex's own.

"I was only going to go if you came with me, but then you kind of shot me down and I guess I felt... I dunno, betrayed?" Logan speaks slowly, and his words feel like they from the middle of a sentence that Alex didn't hear.

"I only wanted to be there with you."

The confession sends a dizzying pang of guilt through Alex's sternum, and he can't think up a reply. All he can do is bring Logan's hand up to his lips, pressing them gently against the soft flesh on the back of his hand.

It's hardly even a kiss, or really anything of the sort, and Alex can't begin to explain why he does it, only that it felt like the only appropriate response. Tenderness for the sake of articulating something he's been incapable of for months.

"I'm sorry, I should have been there with you," Alex mumbles into the back of Logan's hand.

When Alex finally chances a look back at him, Logan is already meeting him there, his eyes hooded and so exhausted, bogged down from the alcohol in his system. He can't help but unclasp his hand from Logan's and drag it up to thumb at his jaw, heal whatever ache might be present.

Logan is practically sitting on the center console now, and they're both leaning in, the closest they've ever been to each other, and yet it still feels like there's still a monumental distance between them.

"Alex," Logan whispers, "we should've- so long ago-"

"I know, I know," and their lips finally meet.

thank you for the request❤️

[withlovebuccellati]

Rendezvous, regrets and reconciliations ☆彡

Summary: Living life through Italy's mafioso lifestyle, Guido Mista broke his lover's heart to keep her safe. But when a dangerous mission leaves him wounded and desperate, he's back outside her door, sparking up a long awaited reunion.

A/N: Couldn’t find many Guido Mista works that I loved so I had to take matters into my own hands :p The lack of drama in my life kinda prompted this lol

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･* *･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'･*

Guido Mista had always lived on the edge, his existence bound by the unspoken rules of Passione, the most powerful criminal organization in Italy. His days were filled with peril and uncertainty, a constant dance with death. It was this treacherous life that had driven him to break her heart. Months ago, he had ended things abruptly, leaving her with cryptic words about her safety and his duty. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being caught in the crossfire of his violent world. Every day since, the decision haunted him, but he convinced himself it was ultimately for the best; for her.

Tonight, everything was bound to change. A mission had gone disastrously wrong, leaving him wounded and desperate. There was only one person he trusted with his life, the only one who knew how to heal his wounds—her. Swallowing his pride, he staggered to her door, blood seeping through his shirt, each step a painful reminder of his vulnerability.

When she opened the door, her eyes widened with shock and anger. They hadn’t seen each other since the breakup, and the sight of him, battered and broken, ignited a storm of emotions. Her hesitation was palpable, the instinct to care for him warring with the hurt he had caused.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury. “I had nowhere else to go,” he replied, his voice strained with pain.

Reluctantly, she let him in, her heart pounding with a mixture of apprehension and unresolved feelings. She guided him to the couch, where he sank heavily, the tension between them palpable in the heavy silence that enveloped the room. His labored breathing echoed in the stillness, a stark reminder of the danger that he had narrowly escaped.

As she carefully tended to his wounds, their hands brushed, sending a jolt of electricity through them both. Memories of their shared past flooded back, each touch reigniting the deep connection they had once shared.

"I never wanted to hurt you, you know," he said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence that had settled between them. "I thought leaving was the only way to keep you safe."

Her eyes flickered with a mix of emotions—pain, confusion, and a flicker of understanding. She swallowed hard, grappling with the conflicting feelings that his words stirred within her. The weight of his confession hung heavily in the air, mingling with the scent of antiseptic and the soft murmur of distant traffic outside. In that moment, they both realized the complexity of their shared history and the fragile hope of a future still uncertain.

"Do you have any idea how much you hurt me?" she shot back, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and pain, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that threatened to spill over. She stood before him, her posture tense and her hands clenched into fists. The weight of his absence had carved a hole into her heart, a void of unanswered questions and lingering pain.

"You left without a word, without an explanation," she continued, her voice wavering as she struggled to contain the emotions that surged within her.

"I thought I was doing the right thing," he admitted softly, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze fixed on the ground as he finally met her gaze. "But I was wrong. Being away from you has been torture."

His words hung in the air between them, heavy with regret and longing. The room felt suffocatingly small, filled with the echo of their unresolved feelings and the ache of lost time. She searched his face for any sign of the man she once knew, grappling with the complexity of forgiveness and the undeniable pull of their shared history.

“Do you think it was any easier for me?” Her voice broke, trembling with the weight of unspoken pain. She clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white, as tears welled up in her eyes. “Every day, I wondered why you left, if you were alive, if you cared at all.”

The room seemed to close in around her, the air thick with the tension of years of unanswered questions. “I spent sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, hoping for a sign, a clue, anything that would tell me you were out there somewhere.” She turned away, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, unable to meet his gaze. “Each day was a battle against the crushing silence, the unanswered questions that gnawed at my sanity.”

“I cared too much,” he said, wincing slightly as he shifted on the couch. His eyes held a mix of pain and regret, haunted by the decisions that had led them to this moment. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt because of me.”

She was visibly frustrated now, her emotions raw and unfiltered. “But you did hurt me, Guido,” she replied, her voice tinged with disappointment and lingering hurt. “You hurt me more than anyone else ever could.”

Their words hung in the air between them, heavy with unresolved tension and the weight of unspoken truths. As she finished bandaging him, their heated conversation simmered into a tense truce. The raw honesty of their exchange began to dissolve the walls that had kept them apart.

Mista reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently took her hand in his. Their fingers intertwined, a silent acknowledgment of the tangled emotions that bound them together. The raw honesty of their exchange began to dissolve the walls between them. Mista reached out, gently taking her hand in his.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick with regret as he looked deeply into her eyes. “I was a fool to think I could live without you. I truly do think that we’re soulmates, there’s no one who could make me feel things you do.”

Her long-surprised emotions had finally hit her as Tears finally escaped her eyes, freely trailing down her cheeks. She nodded slowly, her body trembling with the intensity of their reunion. The pain of their separation mingled with the overwhelming relief of his return, creating a whirlwind of emotions within her.

In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them standing together. The room, with its dim lighting and soft murmurs of distant conversations hailing from the show that she was *previously* watching, became a distant backdrop to their long awaited reunion. They had both realized that no matter the dangers and uncertainties that lay ahead, they couldn’t deny their love.

They had found solace in each other’s arms, slowly piecing back the fragments of their broken hearts. Their reunion was a testament to the strength of their bond, a love that could withstand even the darkest of worlds.

Suddenly, the raw tension between them shifted like a gust of wind changing direction. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached out to touch the bandage wrapped around his torso, the reality of their dangerous situation looming large in the air around them.

"How bad is it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes searching his face for reassurance.

"Bad enough," he admitted with a grimace, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before meeting hers again. "It was a setup. They knew we were coming."

Her brow furrowed in concern, a mix of fear and anger surfacing in her expression. "Who did this to you, Guido?" Her voice quivered with a mixture of emotions, betraying her worry and determination to get to the bottom of the betrayal that had left him wounded and their mission compromised.

He hesitated, a shadow crossing his face as he revealed the danger that had brought him to her doorstep. The weight of his words echoed in the dimly lit room, where the silence between them held the gravity of their shared past and uncertain future. “A rival faction within Passione. Someone wants me out of the picture.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening with alarm as she grasped the implications. The room felt smaller, suffused with tension thick enough to cut with a knife. “And you came here? To me? You know they could follow you.”

“I had no choice,” he admitted, his voice urgent yet tinged with a hint of desperation. He shifted uncomfortably, aware of the risk he had brought to her doorstep. “I couldn’t trust anyone else. And… I needed to see you. To make things right.” Her hands trembled slightly as she reached out, a mixture of fear and unresolved feelings bubbling to the surface. The hierarchy of their shared history, the bonds and betrayals of their intertwined lives, loomed large in the space between them. “What if they find you here? What if they come after me?”

His grip on her hand tightened, a silent vow underscored by the weight of their entangled fates. “I won’t let that happen. I’ll protect you, no matter what.”

“How Guido? …By leaving me again?” Her voice trembled with bitterness, the wounds of past abandonment still raw despite the years that had passed. “No,” he said firmly, his resolve stealing his voice. “This time, I’m staying. We’ll figure this out together.”

She searched his eyes, seeing a glimmer of the man she had once trusted implicitly amidst the shadows of doubt. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he affirmed, pulling her into a fierce embrace that spoke volumes of unspoken apologies and renewed determination.

“We’ll face whatever comes. Together.”

[truearchangel]

𓆩♡𓆪 - ( @sparkinglove ) Charlie & Michael ; starter call.

   TO BE HONEST, Adam’s death was more an inconvenience than anything else. Sure, there were the–handful(?) of people that were upset with his death. Mostly Lute barging into his office declaring it an injustice somehow, but at most to the rest of them he left a hole now. One that Michael now had to attempt to fill on his own. The actual paperwork involving Adam’s death fell on Azrael as the Angel of Death but everything else that Adam was handling for him? Now Michael’s problem. 

   Including the exterminations of sinners in Hell and this new Hazbin Hotel that he hadn’t even been aware was something Hell had going on until a sinner actually got up here. Which, circling around, was where the problem of the exterminations was coming back in point. 

   Michael can’t technically justify murdering the sinners if there was a chance this hotel in Hell might actually be proving what it claims to do correct. Washing the sins from damned souls and carving holy virtues onto them instead. Michael personally thinks it’s a joke, but when looking at an actual sinner in Heaven it gets a bit harder to keep thinking that. But sinners? The worst of the worst, the most disgusting and depraved walking amongst the clouds? Why would anyone actually want that? 

   And the person running this Hazbin Hotel? 

   The Princess of Hell herself and Lucifer’s own daughter. 

   Michael hasn’t been to Hell or talked to his own brother since that day he attacked Heaven. Sometimes, he has a hard time even believing it had been that long. Standing in Hell now? He almost wishes he had stayed in Heaven and let the silence continue. An unsure and disgusted glance was thrown over his shoulder at the Pride Ring before he turned back to the hotel doors and raised his hand to knock. Three quick, far too loud sounding, knocks. He dropped his hand just as quickly and tucked it behind his back, watching with a blank expression as the door swung open. 

   “Oh, you do actually look just like him.” 

   The red cheeks, the bright eyes, that blonde hair. He supposed, technically, doesn’t that mean she looks just like him too? Maybe. Michael does not carry any of these new demonic (puppet?) traits that Lucifer had now. 

   He nods his head toward the Princess. “Hello, I’m Saint Michael. Much to Lucifer’s dismay, I suppose that makes me your Uncle. We need to talk, Little Princess.”  

[hellowitchlingg]

Eris in Faerûn - pt. 3 SPOILERS!

♥ ACOTAR meets Baldur's Gate 3 with Eris x Astarion ♥

The graveyard is appropriately silent - there isn't a proverbial soul around.

"Nearly two hundred years and I never came back. Not since the night I woke up down there.

I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt. Then when I finally broke the surface, retching up dirt and congealed blood, Cazador was waiting.

From that day on, I was his. Until today."

"You were never his. Whatever he had, he took by force."

"Maybe, but he did take it. There's almost nothing left of the person I was. Just a name on a rock.

For nearly two centuries I stalked the streets like a ghost while the person I was lay here, dead and buried. Now, I need to figure out who I am. What I want."

"And what do you want?"

"You ... I want you.

You were by my side through all of this. Through the bloodlust and pain and misery. You were patient. You cared. You trusted me when that was an objectively stupid thing to do.

I feel safe with you. Seen. And whatever the future holds for me, I don't want to lose that."

"You won't. Whatever comes next, I've got you."

"Thank you ... well, I should probably fix this."

Eris picks up a flower and lays it on the grave. It reads:

Astarion Ancunin 229—268 DR

Astarion carves the current date, symbolizing his rebirth.

"Cute.

I've been dead in the ground for long enough. It's time to try living again. With everything that life has to offer."

"Meaning...?"

"If a night of passion is on offer, I could be persuaded."

"Sounds good to me."

"You know, I didn't care for you when we first met. But now I do. Being with you is about more than lust or manipulating you into a tactical alliance.

I love you. I love this. And I want it all."

Eristarion is my hyperfixation lately and y'all have to suck it up and deal with it :)

[pastafossa]

The last day of 2023.

And holy shit has it been a chaotic ride, one which you all shared with me, or that's what it feels like!

The Major Moments:

Feb: Cato's cancer diagnosis and discovery of weird mutated cells that likely won't be explained until after he passes away. He's still with me, fortunately! No idea how much time he has left but I'm grateful for every second

April: a small leak in my dining room ceiling turned into a bigger leak which turned into a massive hole in the ceiling, at least it wasn't winter???

May: DD Born Again Photos give us all a goddamn heart attack

May: I FUCKING REACH MY OVERALL 1,000,000 WORD COUNT ON AO3. 🎊 🎉 🎊 Next stop is 1mill for TRT!

June: Went to my first con since Covid! Drove all the way down to Philly to see Charlie Cox, WHICH WAS FUCKING AMAZING, HE HELD THE RED THREAD FOR OUR PHOTO, MY FANFIC DREAMS HAVE COME TRUE, AND I TOLD HIM WHAT DD MEANS TO ME AND HE WAS SO NICE I COULD CRY

June: At that same con, I finally FINALLY got to meet my bff @wonderlandmind4 in person after many many many late nights of chatting, and we just CLICKED like we'd been friends for years, which I should have expected, but still! And then I got to meet a bunch of my readers, too! Best con experience EVER

July: enter Whoops Covid Finally Got Me After 3 Years But Charlie Was Worth It ™

July: Finally dusted off my draft of Pasta's First Dark Fic cause even if my brain was too fuzzy to write, I figured I could edit a bit. And I did! And was pretty happy with the results!

August: Shit Now There's A Long Covid Heart Issue And I Can't Be Seen Until Late November Thanks Covid ®

August: leak in the garage leads to me losing about 65% of all the beautiful, special woods pieces I'd gathered over the course of six years for carving. Within a week I am gifted a huge bin of wood from a kind soul at my local witchy shop

Sept: TRT's 6th anniversary!

Nov: I was slowly getting back into the swing of things, doing a bit of writing in between learning to manage whatever was going on with my heart (which we'll hopefully figure out in January when I get all the results of testing in Jan)

Early Dec, and the worst week of my life: mom got sick. Within one day she went from not feeling good to needing an ambulance. By the next day, she was in the ICU - flu induced double pneumonia that was interfering with her breathing and heart issues. And with one more day, she was put into an induced coma and ventilated, without any of us sure if she'd pull through. They told us she'd likely be under for two weeks, potentially longer even if she made it. The amount of messages and supportive comments I got from all of you, the talks I had with @wonderlandmind4 and @shouldbestudying41, just the general sense of having a community to help me means more than I can ever say as you all helped me through that terrible, horrible moment, even if it was just gently messaging me to remind me to try to eat.

Mid Dec: against ALL odds, Mom was off the ventilator in a week. By week 2, she was out of the ICU. By week 3? Off to the physical rehab center. She was there a grand total of 1 week before she was allowed to come home to finish her recovery. Early December was the worst moment of my life, and yet it was also bookended by the best Christmas of my life even if it was spent at the rehab center, because I got to have my mama back, and hug her and tell her I loved her and make jokes, and now she's home and we've been watching Christmas movies and eating grilled cheeses, and as far as I'm concerned, that's what the holiday is to me: not presents and snow and lights, but this moment, this time with her. 'In all the places you find love, it feels like Christmas.'

In just a few hours for me, it'll be 2024. I have no idea what to expect going forward, or even what to plan for, much less a resolution. I know I want to get back to TRT when mom's a bit better (she still needs a lot of help, understandably). I know there are wood carvings I want make; friends I want to visit; witchy events at my local shop I want to go to. But other than that... who knows? If I'm lucky, things will be calmer than this past year. But even if they aren't, at least I know I have dear friends, all of you, and my family, including Pasta Mama, to help me through it.

Goodbye, 2023. Hello, 2024.

[red-dye40]

Please, I beg, a director's commentary on Ancaux or Sexual Trauma Clipshow. Also, P.S, thank you for being the first to plunge into the untapped territory of Phlegm.

PHLEGM MENTION!!!!!!!!!!! ok i can do a little for both :) for you

first is chapter 5 of ancaux which i weirdly have a lot to say about

This apartment has become a hole. No sunlight, no air, no food besides a surplus bag of stale circus peanuts.

when i was little there was this extremely old grocery store in my town, like truly it was 1999 and everything looked like it hadn’t been changed or cleaned since the early 60s, and the most vivid memory i have is this lazy susan of candies near the cash registers and exactly at eye level with me were bags of dusty stale circus peanuts. like the weird orange marshmallow candies?? i remember feeling so. upset by them. and thinking like. this is something a person with no hope left would eat.

i always go back to those circus peanuts when i’m writing a person at their wit’s end.

“Alrighty then…” The employee peers a little deeper into her cart. “Heh. Must be some project you’re working on.” “Home renovations.” “We got a beautiful collection of wall finishes in the paint department if you’re interested.” “I’m not.”

i rewrote this interaction soooooo many times, i had so many different plans for it. originally i had devi ask the guy something like “i’m going camping do you have anything that could kill a bipedal feral dog in one hit” and he would be like “oooh let me consult our expert!” and would lead her to nny. i thought it was too gimmicky and fanservice-y, and it also kept backing me into a corner where i wouldn’t know where to go from there.

something about me is i write little clues in everything bc i love dramaturgy and i love making sure stories are watertight. i put the little mention of the paint department in hopes that maybe readers would be able to connect it to the previous chapter (the little itty bitty one where nny is painting) and figure out ahead of the reveal that nny works at the hardware store??? i truly don’t know if it was obvious from jump or no one even thought about it, bc at this point i didn’t have a tumblr yet and was only posting to ao3 and instagram and had NOOOOOOOO reader interaction. so! who knows. but you can keep that knowledge in your pocket for future chapters, that i’m always dropping lil hints :)

Devi stands in uncomfortable silence while the register sings a little waiting tune. She looks up, into the eye of the camera mounted above the register’s display, and watches herself in the monitor while a message below it flashes RECORDING IN PROGRESS.

one of my first days living in the city i went to a home depot and bought a bunch of sharp things bc i was working on a cosplay and needed to carve a bunch of foam, and i got ID’d for all of it and i was so so fresh to the city and so young and probably very high and just felt mortified, like i just stared at myself in the monitor being like “you’re not cut out for this world” HAHAHAHAHAH anyway. that stuck with me.

The two of them stand at the same height, almost elbow to elbow, wearing distant familiarity and abject horror as they stare into each other’s pixelated faces. Devi watches him in the display as she reaches into her pocket, produces her wallet, pulls out her ID, hands it to him with a shaking hand. He punches in her birthdate without having to look.

somethin else i love is vagueness n ambiguity in writing. i haaaaate when writers spoon feed things to their audience bc it implies TO ME that they don’t trust them or think that they’re smart enough to connect the dots. it really offends me!!!! i made sure i didn’t ever explicitly state that devi is interacting with nny because in a traumatic moment like that it’s hard for my brain to even really put words or a name to it, if that makes sense?? i wanted to try and evoke that feeling of like, you know what’s happening and it’s so bad you can’t even really say it.

Her heart is beating fast against her ribcage, but maybe out of exhilaration more than panic or paranoia. She saw him. He was smaller, more human-like than her brain had crafted him into over the years.

you ever have an absolute mortal enemy, like an ex or a bully in school, and then you get a glimpse of them years later, after you spent so much time molding them into like an evil dastardly goblin in your brain, and they’re just like. a person?? with other shit going on, just like you? and it kind of feels like. huh. okay. and you can suddenly move on??? a special kind of spooky.

and now here’s a lil from stixxx :)

Penetration is penetration, Johnny. What difference does a few inches above or below the belt make, in the grand scheme of things? “That’s a gross oversimplification.”

i remember so vividly getting this little bit of dialogue in my head during work and writing it in my notes app to remember it. it sat at the bottom of the doc for MONTHS (i started writing stixxx back in june 2023 and it was in a much different place) and when i finally was able to place it into the fic proper it felt :) so good

The girl’s been splayed out on her back, propped up on a cinder block that places her a foot off the ground. Her arms are pulled over her head, both wrists zip tied to their own blocks. The same for her legs. With her wavering strength it seems hard for her to keep steady; she shakes visibly on camera.

this whole setup is based on a jthm strip i wrote when i was 13 after /i/ was watching robot wars while eating a chick-o-stick (i was addicted to chick-o-sticks for a while. and charleston chews.)

Her eyes pop open. Purple, syrupy vomit bursts from under her gag and through her nose and fills her throat, stopping up her windpipe.

fun fact about me! i was once severely emetophobic! scariest thing in the world to me! i think the reason i write about vom so much is because 1) it used to evoke such fear in me and i know it does for a lot of people 2) it’s such an insane pretty involuntary thing we do as creatures??? and i think it is one of most vulnerable states to be in tbh. i still think it is icky and i would prefer to never interface with it in person ever but! endlessly fascinating to write about ????

He meanders down the hall. Opening doors. Closing doors. Dining room. Linen closet. Foyer. Staircase leading to the ceiling—how original.

staircase leading to the ceiling is a reference to this little lady at the winchester house

i know lots of ppl make connections between 777 and house of leaves, but i always assumed the influence was very much attributed to the winchester house since jv grew up in san jose (n because jthm predates hol!) those wacky stairs are my favorite part of the whole house. the first time i saw them i felt unease that stuck with me forever :)

Since when do we have a ball pit? My little film screening was only to illustrate just how much you’ve suppressed through the years. But at some point you have to jump in, Nny. Swim through the proverbial multicolored plastic balls of your memory. Fish out all the band-aids and… and missing socks and… little parachuting army men. Johnny stares into the gaping maw of the in-ground ball pit that’s apparently in his house now. “That one got away from you a little bit.” Metaphors ain’t really my thing.

when i wrote this i was like “i am so funny” and i read it now and am still like “i am so funny”

i love to write rev meat. he’s so fascinating to me. i love that he was introduced and barely explained right before jthm wrapped up. so much mystery. what a freak.

thank you for ur interest :) i love to talk

[loneberry]

Notes on Palestine

The geopolitical situation right now is extremely unstable. In such moments it always feels like incentive structures are such that all parties are pushed toward war and escalation. I saw how this all unfolded with 9/11; it left an indelible mark on my psyche–to observe the world careening, the hysteria, the march toward endless war. The Iran hawks in the US are out calling for war with Iran (US intelligence and even the IDF have said Iran did not help *plan* the Hamas attacks, though the idea that Iran was behind the attacks is being presented as fact). 

Days before the Hamas attacks, I was in an article + podcast rabbit hole focused on Iranian nuclear politics, Saudi-Israeli relations, and the current situation in the “Middle East” (I prefer the term “South West Asia and North Africa”/SWANA but will use “Middle East” for readability). I had also been reading that the US’s attempts to broker a US-Saudi-Israeli deal would piss off the Palestinians. It filled me with immense grief—nobody, not even Muslim Arabs, seem to care about Palestinians anymore. The international community has failed. Now it seems that the world has consented to a protracted genocide of Palestinians. It used to be the case that Arab countries would not considered normalizing relations with Israel without Israel making concessions to the Palestinians. The sad reality is that since the Arab Spring, the resolution of the Palestinian issue has become a low priority for many countries in the Middle East, many of whom have their own feud with Iran and see pivoting toward Israel as a path toward greater security. Of course I’m talking about the Abraham Accords, the so-called “peace deal” brokered by the Trump administration that enabled the normalization of relations between Israel, the UAE, and Bahrain, yet excluded any input from Palestinians. That event had brought me so much grief. It really felt like any hope for the Palestinian cause was dying. There seems to be little political will from any side to put pressure on Israel.

In moments of crisis like these I try to be sober and pedagogical, but such a task feels nearly impossible when it comes to the “Israeli-Palestinian conflict”. People say the conflict is “complicated” and rooted in hundreds of years of religious hatred. It is really not that complicated and only requires basic knowledge of 20th century history. Prior to WWI, the territory of Palestine (and much of the Arab world) was under the rule of the Ottoman Empire for over 400 years. The Allied Powers (Britain, France, Russia, and others) were at war with the Central Powers (Germany, Austro-Hungary, the Ottomans, etc). The Brits saw Palestine as a crown jewel and coveted Jerusalem in particular. They recruited Arab assistance in the war by whipping up hundreds of years of resentment against the Ottomans and promising the Arabs that they would break up the Ottoman Empire and help the Arabs create their own nations (see theMcMahon-Hussein correspondence). Yet the Brits were also keen on recruiting Jewish support on the side of the Allied Powers. In 1917 the British government made a declaration (the Balfour Declaration) that announced British support for the creation of a national home for the Jewish people in Palestine. At the end of WWI (which, as you likely know, ended in Allied success), the European empires on the winning side sought to expand their empires while Woodrow Wilson believed more in self-determination. The compromise was the “mandate” system, where the Europeans on the winning side took administrative control of territories lost by the Central Powers—France and Britain carved up the Middle East. Enter the British mandate for Palestine. The Arabs had been betrayed by the Allied Europeans (no surprise there). One form of colonial rule was swapped for another. 

Prior to the end of WWI, the Zionist movement was gaining momentum, partly as an answer to the perennial problem of European anti-Semitism and partly because of the 19th/early-20th century discourse around nationalism. The idea of creating a Jewish state in Palestine began in the 19th century, but it was really in the 1890s that modern political Zionism began with the figure of Theodor Herzl. European Jews began to immigrate to Palestine to form settlements. Yet when the mandate was established, the Jewish population was still relatively small—around 9%. While the territory was under British rule, the Brits facilitated a dramatic increase in European Jewish immigration to Palestine. Between 1922 and 1935, the portion of the population that was Jewish grew to 27%. It’s hardly surprising that violence broke out between Arabs and Jews, as well as Arabs and the Brits (see the Arab Revolt of 1936-39). 

The Brits promised a territory to an oppressed people (the Jews) that was never theirs to give away in the first place. The Arabs were quickly being displaced from their home. All of this would come to a head in WWII, when Europe’s vile anti-Semitism was on full display with the Holocaust. How would Europe atone for the atrocities committed against the Jews? There was much momentum around creating a physical state for the Jews in Palestine. This was also a convenient solution for deeply anti-Semitic Europe, as they preferred that the Jews leave rather than be integrated into their societies. In 1947 the UN voted to partition Palestine into a Jewish state and an Arab state, with Jerusalem coming under international administration. 13 voted against the partition (basically all the countries in the Middle East, plus India and several others). 55% of the land would be set aside for the Jews. War broke out soon after the UN resolution. The (WWII) battle-hardened Zionist paramilitaries (backed by European countries) undertook a campaign of ethnic cleansing and captured additional territory. Between 1947-49, 750,000 Palestinians became refugees—around 40% of the entire Palestinian population. 78% of historic Palestine was taken by Zionist forces. This is the event of settler violence and ethnic cleansing that Palestinians refer to as the Nakba (or catastrophe). 

There is so much obfuscation about the roots of the Israel-Palestine conflict. What ultimately happened: Europe decided it wanted to create a nation for Jews. It picked the territory of Palestine for this project (other territories were also considered) because the Brits controlled the territory and because of its religious significance. There were already people who lived on the land that was to be used to create a Jewish state. Now Palestinians are stateless and live under a brutal military occupation (the West Bank) and even more punishing blockade (Gaza)—or as refugees. Palestinians were ultimately made to suffer for the sins of European anti-Semitism. 

*

There is a lot more I can say here, about the history of the Cold War and how it relates to the US’s alliance with Israel, about internecine conflicts in Palestinian politics (the split between Hamas and the PLO/Palestinian Authority), about the current geopolitical situation, about contemporary domestic politics in Israel (which currently has the most right-wing govt in Israel’s history) and the Hamas attacks themselves. I see friends gleefully posting about the murder of Israeli civilians. I just can’t get on board with that. Neither can I get on board with Israel bombing hospitals and shelters in Gaza, or calling Palestinians “animals.” All life is sacred, all life is grievable. (People are right to point out that most of the world does not grieve the loss of Palestinian life.)

Events do have a context. Gaza is one of the most unlivable places on the planet. Around 67% of Gaza's population are refugees displaced during the Nakba. It has been under a brutal blockade for 16 years. It’s the 3rd most densely populated place on the planet—over 2.1 million people are crammed into a space half the size of London. The residents have been deprived of electricity, clean drinking water, medical supplies, and food. Nearly half of residents are unemployed and civilians have died by thousands under Israeli bombings (6,407 Palestinians have been killed since 2008). It is referred to as an “open air prison” because the residents are literally hemmed in by a high-tech fence. Given these dire conditions, an eruption of violence did seem almost inevitable. 

What I fear: a ground invasion of Gaza. A broader conflagration involving Lebanon and Iran, and potentially the rest of the world. The US going to war with Iran. If the world genuinely wishes to see the end of the “cycle of violence,” Palestinians must be free. Any attempt to bring about “regional security” while ignoring the Palestinian situation is destined to fail.

[bharv]

For Gimmergale: ❛ promise me you’ll still be here when i wake up. ❜

This became A Thing!

Out of Body

He lies on the floor of his bedroom, unable to breathe, sweat on his brow. His body is in this space, the wood of the floor cool on his back, but his mind? Well, it has always been his sanctuary. Now it is his relief, his saviour. Now it is all he has left.

At the worst times he uses what he has left of his abilities to take himself back to the place that he felt closest to her. Yes, it was but an illusion, but he has pulled it together from his memories, from the scraps of drawings he had made over the years as he tried, and failed, to capture its beauty for others, from the notes and diagrams and carefully replicated notes on casting. He takes himself back to the boat on the water, where she would deign to take a more corporeal form to sit in a blissful silence as the outer planes stretched out into an infinity.

It is not something that comes without a cost. Even as he floats here, in the gentle tide of the great body of water, he can feel the pull of his body as it struggles for breath on that floor.

“Not yet,” he whispers to himself. “Not quite yet.”

He pulls the threads together again, the threads of this beautiful dream. He should not be starving the karsite weave of what little magical power he has left, but he needs it, oh how he needs it. It has been months in the confines of his tower, months since he has looked into the eyes of another person. It has been months since he was cast out of her grace. If he sits here for long enough he can pretend he sees the outline of her. If he gives enough of his magic, he can smell the rosewater, he can feel her presence. If he can give enough of himself, perhaps she may show mercy.

Tara will be back soon. She will be back with a solution, and he won’t be left dead on the floor of his empty tower quite yet.

But he thinks about it.

He thinks of where he might go, if it takes him wholly. He thinks of travelling through great snowy tundras, or going through the Undermountain and into some distant part of the Underdark. He thinks of what it would be, to be truly alone.

He wonders if Mystra would forgive him at the last moments, or if he would wander the fugue plane forever in her absence.

Sometimes, in his worst time like now, when the illusion fades and he is left gasping for air, hearing the noises of the streets below through an open window, he wonders what he’s waiting for.

*

He lies on the floor of his tent, his breath shallow, sweat on his brow. The orb cannot be sated, will not respond to even the most potent of magical items, and the pain that settles on his chest now is no mere thrum of discontent, no, it is a tempest, it is a hole that threatens to pull him in entirely.

But he is not alone.

She sits with him, her hand on his heart as she sings a Song of Rest. It is a quaint tune, with soft lyrics about home and adventures and the promise that a new day might bring. It is earnest and it is simple, compared to some of the other songs he has heard her sing, but there is a beauty in the simplicity of it. He wonders if she has chosen something simple so that she can concentrate on the other great trick of hers, that is, the concentration of both channelling her voice towards him, and making sure that the great hole within him does not swallow her entirely.

She is clever. It is a clever idea.

The song comes to an end and the soft light of her magic fades. He realises his hand is on top of hers.

“Did it help?”

“Yes,” he tells her. It is not a complete lie. Her voice is beautiful, and her magic has carved away the twigs at the ends of the branches of the pain. He might, at least, be able to sleep like this. “Thank you, again.”

“At least it’s something. I’ll leave you to rest” she says as she pulls her hand away and stands. He notices her wince as she moves. “I need to find somewhere to bathe, anyway. Or maybe have a quick rest myself. Feels like my undershirt is stuck to my skin even with the healing.”

“I thought you said you weren’t injured?”

“Well. It’s all relative, isn’t it. I’ll live.”

She’ll live. Well. There’s the rub. 

“Promise me you’ll still be here when I wake up?” she says with a forced smile. “No running off to parts unknown, please? I’d rather like you to stick with me.”

He would too, he thinks. Though perhaps in a better place than this. He conjures a thought of the iridescent clouds, the endless reflection in the water. The chimes of the planes, the ever-stretching timelessness… but that is not where he wishes to place her, as lovely as the light would be on her face. No, when he thinks of her he thinks of the piano. He thinks of what it would be, to sit on the balcony with a book and read to her. He thinks of bringing her tea and watching her hands wrap around the cup as she smiles at him in thanks.

When he thinks of her, he thinks of home.

[crossdressingdeath]

Astarion: Nearly two hundred years and I never came back. Not since the night I woke up down there. Astarion: I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt. Astarion: Then when I finally broke the surface, retching up dirt and congealed blood, Cazador was waiting. Astarion: From that day on I was his. Until today. Kyvir: You were never his. Whatever he had, he took by force. Astarion: Maybe, but he did take it. There's almost nothing left of the person I was. Just a name on a rock. Astarion: For nearly two centuries I stalked the streets like a ghost while the person I was lay here, dead and buried. Astarion: Now I need to figure out who I am. What I want. Kyvir: You're the person I love. The person I want. Astarion: I feel the same. Astarion: You were by my side through all of this. Through bloodlust and pain and misery. You were patient. You cared. You trusted me when that was an objectively stupid thing to do. Astarion: I feel safe with you. Seen. And whatever the future holds for me, I don't want to lose that. Kyvir: You won't. Whatever comes next, I've got you. Astarion: Thank you. Astarion: Well, I should probably fix this. ... Kyvir: Pick up a flower and lay it on the grave. Astarion: Cute. Astarion: I've been dead in the ground for long enough. It's time to try living again.

The imagery of Astarion having to claw his way out of his own grave... Once again, Cazador seems to have been being cruel for the sake of cruelty. Unless there's something in DnD lore that I'm not familiar with there was no reason for him to leave Astarion down there and not even clear some of the dirt away! Presumably the graveyard had emptied out by the time Astarion dug himself out, Cazador could've at least tried to help, but he chose not to.

The way Astarion glances back over at you as he's carving the new dates onto his tombstone is fantastic, I love it. The way he's having to come to terms with the fact that the person he was back then is gone and he needs to move forward is sad but also very satisfying! And it's great how having avoided his grave for almost two hundred years Astarion wants you at his side when he finally does go back. The way you can support Astarion and be there for him throughout his quest is so good. I also love how in the middle of all this serious emotional stuff there's that brief moment where Astarion just straight up says that trusting him was incredibly stupid. He's not wrong, either; you meet him when he tries to kill you, you learn he's a vampire when he tries to drink your blood in your sleep, he's constantly pushing for you to make Evil Choices, there's really very little reason to trust him! But if you do trust him and put faith in him ultimately being a good person he proves himself completely worthy of that trust. Like so many things in DnD and related media, it was very stupid but worked out perfectly. We love to see it! And him feeling safe with you when his desire for safety was a huge driving force in him wanting to go through with the ritual to begin with... hhhhhh it's so good I love it. He might not entirely know who he is right now, but he knows he is the person you love and whatever else he may end up becoming he has that for the foreseeable future!

Also, Astarion finding you putting a flower on his grave cute is fantastic. It is cute, I love that you can do that! Just a silly little gesture, but it matters.

[thxrnking]

Imperfect - Chapter 2: Learn

Content warning: implied child abuse - a smack is heard and injuries witnessed on a minor.

[Imperfect Masterlist]

Author’s Note - Jack is approximately 14/younger 15, Wanderlust is around older 15/young 16

----

All Wanderlust has to say is ‘red hair’, and his mother, Si’ha Nova, knows exactly who he’s talking about.

Jack Rose, son of the Night Swan.

Wander knows all about her. He’s heard all the horror stories. The kidnappings, the torture, the murder. Every time she’s tried to stretch beyond the reach of her own Map, Wander knows the stories by heart. Father insists on it. One day it will be his duty to protect the Dancerverse and that comes with expectations. Responsibilities.

“Forget the boy.” Father instructs him.

Only he can’t do that. For weeks he tries, but his thoughts are practically haunted by the image of the boy in red, fists raised and ready to fight, until the second Father walked in. Head bowed, almost cowering. That kid was afraid. And they’d left him there. That wasn’t right.

Father refuses to talk about it, shutting it down whenever Wander tries. As far as he’s concerned the situation is dealt with and there are more important things out there to concern themselves with. Mom understands though. She sees what the Traveler doesn’t. She sees the sadness when Wander thinks no one’s looking, the confusion weighing on his shoulders, and the frustration that comes from being refused the answers.

“Your Father is powerful,” she tells her son sorrowfully, “but even he can’t save everyone.”

Maybe not, thinks Wanderlust, but he could have tried.

Weeks turn into months but the memory of what happened refuses to let him go. He can’t leave it like this, he has to go back. Jack’s the son of a power-crazed dictator, he probably doesn’t have a friend in the world. He could even be dead by now!

Father can’t know. He doesn’t understand. So there’s only one thing for it, Wander has to work on his portals. He has to make sure he can get there and back without needing to be rescued by his Father again.

It takes time, more time than he wanted. Tearing a hole in the fabric of the Dancerverse to travel between Maps is apparently easier said then done. It’s more than just creating a secure portal doorway, it’s making sure you’re connecting to the right place, something that Wanderlust really struggles with.

Almost a year passes. Wanderlust isn’t perfect every time but he’s confident that a portal to Swan Tower and back is doable.

A blue line, fritzing and sparking, tears down through the air. As it touches the floor it bursts wide. The portal seems strong, holding its shape, though just to be sure Wanderlust waits, 1, 2, 3, to make sure it won’t collapse in on itself.

It holds.

Wanderlust strides into a sizable bedroom. To one side there’s a large golden four-poster bed covered in luxurious red bedding and purple plush cushions. An ottoman, a chest of drawers, a dresser, and what looks like a privacy divider; the furniture is old and made of what looks to be carved oak. It looks very nice, expensive, and ultimately soulless. This isn’t a room that was made to be lived in.

By the dresser stands Jack, staring in shock at the portal. Jack scowls at the intruder and grabs for a small bronze statue that sits on the dresser, lifting it above his head and ready to throw it.

“Wait!” Wanderlust holds his hands up as the portal snaps shut behind him. “Don’t throw it!”

Jack’s eyes dart around the room, looking back and forth.

“It’s just me” Keeping one hand up, Wander holds the other out. ��Please put down the statue.”

A few seconds pass and slowly Jack lowers the statue, keeping it in his hands but no longer threatening to throw it. That’s progress at least.

You can tell it’s been a while. Jack’s grown more than a few inches since last time, almost standing taller than Wander. Meanwhile his face has definitely gained more definition. He’s clearly still a kid, but there’s no doubt this isn’t the same one Wander unwillingly left behind.

“You’re Jack Rose.” Wander says, holding a hand to his chest. “I’m Wanderlust.”

The statue shifts to one hand as Jack raises the other to tap his fingers to the side of his forehead.

Wander stares. He points to Jack before tapping just below his own ear.

“You can hear me?”

Jack nods.

“But you don’t speak.”

Shake.

“Why not?”

The statue raises again and Wander backs away. Stupid question.

“Sorry. I just-” he takes a moment, thinking how to explain, “I’m here because I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Jack gestures to the room around them. The cold, soulless room that no one would mistake for a child’s bedroom. He then points to himself before he holds his fingers out in an okay.

“I know who your mother is.”

His grip on the statue tightens but Jack merely shrugs with a look of disinterest.

“That can’t be easy.”

Parents are complicated at the best of times. It’s like they’re always at war with their kids, torn between giving them the world and keeping them safe. It’s worse when your parents are crazy powerful beings known throughout the Dancerverse with high expectations and confusing standards. Even then, compared to Jack, Wander won the parent lottery.

“You know, I can easily get you out of here.”

It happens fast. Wander’s barely finished speaking before the statue’s raised and hurled at him with force. He practically has to throw himself down to keep it from hitting him in the chest, watching as it flies overhead and lands with a harsh thunk on the other side of the room.

“Hey! That could have-!”

A flying cushion to the face interrupts him as he moves to stand up. Another one flies at him which Wander catches, standing and frowning.

“Stop throwing things!”

Jack’s by the bed now, a third cushion in his hands when a chilling voice bellows from outside.

“Jack!”

Panic crosses Jack’s face as he drops the cushion, rushing forward and grabbing Wander by the wrist before dragging him to the side of the room. Wanderlust tries to say something but Jack pinches his fingers together in Wander’s face. Shut up. From beyond the door there’s a faint click-click-click as Jack snatches the privacy divider from where it sits and jabs a finger at his intruder. Stay. Down goes the divider to block him from view just in time for Wander to hear the door smash open.

“You shouldn’t be in here.” Feminine, dripping with ice cold detachment and unmistakable resentment. Wander covers his mouth his eyes going wide. Night Swan. “You’re supposed to be-”

She stops before she finishes, her heels clacking much louder now as she crosses the room.

“What’s this doing on the floor?”

The statue!

“I go out of my way to give you luxurious things and you just throw them around like an animal! Why do I even bother? Get over here!”

There’s a soft tread against the floor. Likely Jack doing as he’s told.

The harsh SMACK that cracks through the air makes Wander flinch. She didn’t….

“Clean it up.” Night Swan says. “Then get back to your duties.”

The clacking leaves, echoing into the distance leaving nothing but a painful silence in its wake.

Wander doesn’t move. He can’t. She didn’t. He didn’t just hear that. The privacy divider is pushed out of the way and Jack stands in front of him. The statue is in his hand. One cheek is flushed a bright red with cuts in just about the right position for fingernails.

“She hit you.”

It isn’t a question. Wander reaches for the cheek but Jack’s free hand catches his wrist and holds firm. His lips are a firm line, his eyes looking anywhere but at the blue man before him. Jack throws the arm away and points to the door. A clear message. Leave.

Wander doesn’t wait to be told again, opening a portal as Jack returns the statue to the dresser. As he goes to step through, Wander looks over his shoulder again in time to catch Jack wincing as he touches at his cheek.

He steps through the portal, allowing it to sew itself shut behind him. His hands are shaking, he’s that disgusted by what he just witnessed. That’s not right.

Jack shouldn’t be there. It isn’t safe. It isn’t right but it doesn’t seem like Jack particularly wants to leave. Even so Wander cannot and will not leave him alone to that monster. As long as there’s breath in his body, Wanderlust will make sure Jack Rose has at least one friend in the Dancerverse.