#and 'if he licks me I will have a panic attack and I would rather not'

[iztarshi]

People I have met while pruning lavender as a volunteer:

Jehovah's Witnesses who made some nice small talk and left me with a card. Considering I'd also been making nice small talk with them in hopes of making them think well of the Community Garden I couldn't even mind. Ulterior motives all around.

A lady with a dog who wanted to ask whether she could also volunteer when she moved into the area.

A guy with a dog who wanted to let his dog say hello to me. Embarrassing for both of us when I backed away sharply and said, "please no". He left after telling me that he had asked and I agreed that he had (he had not although he did come towards me slowly enough for saying no to be possible).

A woman and a child who I didn't really meet, but she did stop to point out the lovely smell to her child.

A man and a woman who wanted to tell me how good the lavender smelled and say "hi", which was nice.

A man on a bike who wanted to tell me I was pruning lavender wrong and shouldn't be pruning it at all (I was doing what I'd been told, but I did stop to google just to check I wasn't going against all lavender pruning advice before continuing with what I had been doing).

A guy who wanted to know if the afternoon's event had been cancelled but didn't know what the afternoon's event would have been when I asked. (He left at that point so I didn't find out whether there was one.)

A lady with two dogs who wanted the lavender, which I was very happy to give her since we had entire binfuls of it. Unfortunately we only had one carrier bag and she didn't have her own.

And my fellow volunteers who have all been lovely.

[prythianpages]

A Man After Midnight | Eris x Reader

summary: though engaged to Sawyer Vanserra, you feel utterly and completely alone with only the company of autumn winds, blowing outside your window. that is, until, Eris shows up. Your man after midnight.

warnings: mentions of assault (reader gets touched against her will but nothing explicit or anything that goes beyond that), blood, bruises/abuse/bullying; reader having a panic attack

a/n: This originally was going to head a different direction but I decided to make it like a part three to this instead. You can also read this as a stand alone one-shot. I love ABBA and I knew I had to use this song. One of my favs but you'll find that I say that a lot. You can find the masterlist to my ABBA x ACOTAR series here.

Your eyes light up as you spot Sawyer stepping out from the High Lord’s study. Overridden with excitement, you eagerly fall into step with him, the sheer brightness of your presence outshining the dimly lit surroundings. You pay no mind to the fact that his other brothers, Hunter and Oliver, are not too far behind.

“Good morning, Sawyer! Will you walk with me?” you beam up at him with a smile. It's the kind of sight that would make many fall to their feet–that even Oliver wants to bask in the glow of.

But Sawyer? He doesn’t even spare you a glance, his dark brown eyes fixed ahead as he replies, his tone detached. “I’m doing that right now.”

You can hear his brothers snicker behind you–too close for your liking that it has you quickening your steps. “But I was hoping you’d walk with me in the gardens? Or maybe we can have lunch together? We are to be marri–”

“Our marriage is nothing but a business deal arranged by our fathers.” He cuts you in sharply and you find your resolve faltering.

“Love may not come from our marriage but perhaps, we can be friends?” You offer, hating the desperation that seeps into your tone, as you trail behind Sawyer.

Sawyer stops abruptly, causing you to crash into his chest and stumble backwards. You catch yourself, a hand rubbing at your forehead where you’re sure an imprint of the necklace he wears marks your reddening skin. Your betrothed looks down at you in a way no one has ever before. Ever since your father left, it appeared that so did Sawyer’s patience. It’s as if the male you met when you first arrived was a facade. Pure disgust simmers in his heated gaze and his nose wrinkles as he lets out a scoff, causing you to shrink back.

“Friends? I don’t want to be friends with you. I don’t want to be anything with you. You’re the bane of my existence.”

Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, and instinctively, you take another step back, as though the physical distance could somehow lessen the impact of his words. It doesn’t. Your lip trembles as a frown threatens to overtake your features. 

“How can you mean that when you barely know me?” you ask, your voice a mere whisper but you know by the way his steps stop, that he catches every word. So you decide to remind him and add: “I didn’t ask for this either.”

Sawyer doesn’t bother to turn around or answer you, simply choosing to keep walking away. Hunter pushes past you aggressively, turning to smirk at your distraught expression as he catches up with Sawyer. It is Oliver who stops you from colliding into the wall. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, steadying you and pulling you close to him.

“Oh, sweet girl, you’re too pretty to cry.”

Oliver’s free hand reaches up to grip your chin, forcing your gaze to him. His lips form a slight pout that contrasts the mischief twinkling in his amber eyes. He leans to lick the single tear trickling down your cheek and you wince. You want to run but his grip on you is strong.  

He then directs your attention forward, where Hunter has Sawyer in a similar hold. “Tell her,” Hunter says, gaze darkening with a thirst to torment. He flashes his teeth as his smirk widens. This is all a fun game to him. “Tell her why you don’t like her.”

Sawyer looks like he would rather die than answer Hunter’s demand. He glares at you as he struggles to free himself from his brother’s grasps but Hunter is much stronger. He realizes that he won’t be free until he says something. Finally, between clenched teeth, Sawyer answers. “She’s not my type.”

Hunter throws his head back in laughter, the sound echoing through the room with a dark and menacing resonance.

“What a shame,” Oliver says, his breath tickling your ear as his hand roams down the length of your neck. You swear your heart misses a beat when his hand stops right over the swell of your chest. His nails dig into your chest at your struggle to free yourself.  “She’s exactly my type.”

Your entire body tenses at the unwanted touch, eyes widening when you feel heat prick at your skin. The smell of burnt fabric reaches your nose and a chill permeates, displacing the warmth as Oliver lifts his flaming hand from you. You rush to cross your arms over your chest, desperate to cover your exposed skin from Hunter’s and Oliver’s hungry gazes.

“Just look at her,” Oliver continues, pushing you forward so harshly it sends you to your knees. His chuckle makes goosebumps rise on your skin. “So pretty, so docile.”

As you blink away tears of humiliation, your eyes remain fixed on Sawyer, pleading almost. He’s determined to look anywhere but you. You curl your arms tighter around yourself and lower your gaze. You don’t want to give the other Vanserras the satisfaction of seeing you cry. You suspect it will only prompt them to torment you further.

“Then have at her. I don’t care.”

Sawyer’s words reach you with a devastating force like the last blow. They pierce through the core of your naive heart and you can’t help the tears that escape and spill onto the floor. Hunter peels his gaze away from you to roll his eyes at his younger brother, releasing him with a rough shove.

“You’re no fun, Sawyer,” he says with a disappointed sigh, his expectation for a different response lingering unfulfilled. Hunter then looks back at you, you can feel his heated gaze, and you curl in further into yourself. “But it looks like you are.”

“What is the meaning of this??”

**

Beron’s cold eyes take in the sight before him, gaze sweeping over your slumped form on the floor. It’s Hunter who moves to speak but at the lift of Beron’s finger, his mouth closes shut. Beron comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t care as there’s other pressing matters to attend to. Such as dealing with your father and ensuring he keeps his end of the agreement. He turns to his oldest, who stands at his side with a perfectly donned mask.

“You deal with whatever this is.”

“Yes, father,” Eris replies with no hesitation and Beron pats him on the shoulder–the same shoulder he left a bruise on the other night.

Eris bites back a wince. He waits until his father is away from sight to take in the situation before him. The torches lining up the halls flare. With a simmering intensity that could rival a raging inferno, Eris turns his attention to the brother closest to him. The searing authority of his gaze has Oliver raising his hands in a gesture of surrender and stepping away from you.

“We were just having a little fun, brother.”

“Fun?” 

Eris releases a disbelieving exhale as he grasps onto Oliver’s shirt. He wants to burn his hand through his brother’s skin until he’s screaming and crying, the same way Oliver had intended to do with you. Because how dare he touch you, hurt you. It’s as if Oliver can hear the crackling roar of the fire burning within his older brother and his eyes widen in fear.

Under the weight of Hunter’s hawk eyes, Eris grudgingly settles on shoving Oliver further away from him. And you.

“If you want to have fun, go to a fucking brothel. This is our home.”

Oliver releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He doesn’t waste another second, happy to leave the hall before his brother can take back his mercy.

"And you," Eris seethes, his voice a low, rumbling growl as he turns to face Hunter next. Eris effortlessly surpasses him in both stature and might, looming over him like a formidable mountain casting its shadow. “Shouldn’t you be making haste to quell the riots in town? Or should I add that to your growing list of incapabilities?”

Hunter's fists clench at his sides, the dance of flames flickering along his skin, but in the presence of Eris, his fire pales in comparison. The fire raging within Eris burns brighter, stronger. A force that demands respect and obedience. Much like their father’s. Without uttering another word, he turns on his heel and leaves.

Stepping forward, Eris finally allows his gaze to fall on you and he feels a violent tug in his chest that threatens to weaken him. The desire to sink to his knees beside you and envelop your trembling form in his arms is an overpowering one, coursing through him like a forbidden current. Yet, the harsh reality holds him back. It’s too dangerous. He cannot act upon the fervent emotions that entwine his heart and it pains him, seeking to destroy him almost.

But he can’t just leave you there. Helpless. On the floor. So he masks his emotions–something he is well accustomed to–and dons a facade of annoyance. With a deft, almost dismissive motion, Eris removes his tailcoat, flinging it carelessly in your direction. The seconds stretch into a languid dance as your eyes, wide with surprise, meet his. You gratefully slip his coat over your smaller form, clutching it tightly to your chest.

There’s a bittersweet ache that lingers within Eris at the unexpected intake of breath you give.

A fleeting flicker of sweet agony passes through his eyes. It vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared, leaving you to wonder if it was a mere figment of your imagination. 

"And lastly," Eris starts with a deep sigh, the once-fiery intensity in his eyes dimming as he regards his last remaining brother. The only brother left that harbored some redeemable qualities but now, Eris questioned it.

"Is this any way to treat your fiancé?"

A ripple courses through Sawyer's jawline. “Why do you care?”

"I don't." Eris retorts with a glare. He's skilled at weaving falsehoods, and though this one is way far out from the truth, it slides effortlessly off his tongue like all the other ones. He immediately senses the weight of your gaze pressing into the expense of his back.

"But I do care about the consequences if she runs away. You should too."

Though it pains him, he doesn’t turn back around to you. He looks at Sawyer once more in warning. Then, he begins to walk away, every step pulling him further from the one he yearns to be with. Your gaze, burning into him like a relentless brand the entire time.

**

Weeks Later..

Autumn winds blow harshly outside the window as you look around your room. They mirror the melancholy that lingers in your heart. Your room is big and spacious, seems fit for a princess, adorned with sculpted art and paintings. In one corner stands a massive wardrobe crafted from the richness of dark cherry wood filled to the brim with a variety of dresses that would make any lady of your status swoon. Beside it, there’s a lovely vanity with golden carvings that hosts an array of makeup and beauty products. On the opposite side, is a desk that matches your wardrobe. It bears the weight of books, letters from your father, threads, unfinished embroideries and your untouched dinner. 

At a glance, it appears you have everything.

Yet, as you sit on the bed, a pitiful truth echoes louder than the winds outside. Your gaze meets a reflection in the full-length mirror positioned next to the desk, capturing the solemn expression that dances across your features. Dark, sad eyes stare back at you and the weight of isolation is evident in the downturned corners of your mouth. You miss your home. Your friends, your horse, your father, and gods do you miss your mother. 

Upon your arrival, eager anticipation filled your heart as you looked forward to getting acquainted with your future husband. You knew not to expect love to come from it as you were mere strangers but you had hoped for a friend. The promise of a lifelong companion, a partner to share laughter and weave a tapestry of memories together, stirred excitement and nerves within you. It’s what your father and mother had shared. Your foolish heart had eagerly counted down the days, each one a step closer to a shared future.

But now? As the appointed days draw near, the once-cherished anticipation morphs into a heavy sense of dread, casting a haunting shadow over you. Your husband to be looks at you as if you’re the scum on his boots.

The High Lord, your future father in law, is cruel and terrifying. You avoid him at all costs. Your future mother in law, Lady Autumn, is often busy and away. She helps you plan your dreadful wedding during the times she isn’t busy but you find that she is quiet and reserved. There’s a lingering sadness always present in her amber eyes that you assume comes from all the sorrow and grief she’s had to endure. You’ve met one of her sons–Lucien, you remember– during your travels with your father and you used to wonder why he no longer resided in Autumn but not anymore. You can only imagine the horrors he’s had to endure that made him leave.

Hunter enjoys berating you every chance he can. There’s a darkness that burns in him and you can’t help but think about what would become of you if Sawyer was interested in you. One day, while walking through the garden you overheard from some gossiping servants that Hunter was once married. His wife died shortly after the marriage and rumor has it that the frightening Vanserra had something to do with her sudden disappearance. They wondered if the same fate would befall upon you. A thought you didn’t want to linger on as it was absolutely terrifying.

Then, there’s Oliver. Though kinder, only in comparison to Hunter and maybe even Sawyer, he is not to be trusted. He undresses you with his eyes in every glance and vulgarly welcomes you to his bed. You do your best to stay away from him because as lonely as you are, you’re nowhere near desperate for his company, and fear the day he’ll grow wary of your constant rejection.

You find yourself, however, desperate for another’s. Eris. 

You haven’t seen him since that day Sawyer broke your heart, since he let Oliver make a spectacle out of you. Eris had been the only one you’d look forward to seeing during dinner and his noted absence was the reason why you stopped joining the Vanserra dinners yourself.

Days, even weeks have passed, and he hasn’t fulfilled the promise of returning your book, its absence on your nightstand a constant reminder. He hasn’t even asked for his coat back. It remains draped over your desk chair. He’s a rare sight to see when walking amongst the grounds of the Forest house, prompting a question to rise. Is he purposely avoiding you? The mere thought stirs an unexpected pain within you.

There’s no one here for you. 

A little over a month into your lifetime stay at the Forest house and you already feel so alone. So utterly and completely alone.

Suddenly feeling suffocated, you rise from your bed and head toward your favorite area of your room–the window seat. Kneeling on the soft cushion, your fingers reach to open the window, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation. The Autumn winds continue to howl through the darkness of the night but their chill does not reach you. Your eyes open and you raise your hand. A surge of electricity courses through you as your hand meets an unseen force. A magical barrier.

Turning your head toward the door, your gaze dips to the bottom where shadows dance. You can make out the planted boots of an Autumn guard and hope deflates. Nothing can come in. Nothing can go out. Not only are you alone but you’re trapped. 

A taste of what’s to come, of what’s to be of the rest of your miserable life. Lonely. Trapped. Locked away into oblivion. No breath you take is enough as you’re suffocated by the storm of emotions flooding through you. This place is your hell. Impending doom. You’re going to die here. Alone. There’s not a soul out there…

Water. You should drink some water. Tremors take over your body as you make your way toward your nightstand. Water spills onto the floor as you pour yourself a glass. You bring the water to your lips but your throat feels like it’s closing up. You glance at the pocket watch on your nightstand and notice it’s half past twelve.

There’s not a soul out there…

You extend your hand towards the watch—a cherished heirloom passed down from your mother. The gentle, rhythmic ticking of it has long been a source of solace and comfort for you. But it’s too late.

The hand clutching onto your glass of water shatters against the dark wood of your nightstand as you clutch the watch to your racing heart. You can only pray to the Cauldron, the Mother, to anyone as the room spins around you. But there’s no one to hear your prayer…

There’s a deep agony in your chest that tightens with every passing second, an inescapable loop of gloom that envelops your every thought and emotion. There’s not a soul out there. You can’t breathe. No one to hear your prayer…

“y/n.”

You catch the faint murmur of your name being called, yet a lingering doubt creeps in. You must be going mad because there’s no one here for you. Not a soul—

“y/n.”

And there it is again. Your name is being called. Louder, firmer this time. It’s real. The cruel clutches of your sorrow that held you captive begin to shatter like your glass from earlier. The sound of your name acts as a lifeline, pulling you from the depths of despair you inadvertently locked yourself into.

“That’s it. Breathe with me, angel,” the soothing voice persists, a gentle anchor for your drifting thoughts. And you can finally hear it. Your beloved watch. Though it's fast, it becomes a comforting undercurrent, a familiar melody that helps steady your racing heartbeat.

You feel like you can finally breathe again. As you blink away the haze clouding your vision and come back down, you are met with a pair of familiar amber eyes. The warm hues flicker like flames as they fixate upon you. Intense but tender and full of concern.

**

“Eris.”

You breathe his name so heavenly, like an answered prayer as you take him in. His dark red hair is tousled as though he emerged hastily from a slumber. Adorned in a thin, un-tied linen shirt, the fine contours of his chest are revealed, and his pants, creased as if donned in urgency, complete the picture of a man who arrived in haste yet with purpose.

"You're here," you say, your tone teetering on the edge of question and you glance toward your door, confirming that the Autumn guard is still stationed there.

You called, he wants to reply but instead, settles on, “I’m here.”

“How?” You ask, aware of the wards in your room preventing winnowing. At first, you thought they were meant to protect you. Now, you’re aware they’re really meant to keep you from escaping.

The corners of his lips lift into a small smirk. “I have my ways. I know every secret tunnel, every little crevice of this estate.”

Your head turns, eyes scanning your room in search of said secret tunnel. Eris lightly grasps your chin, focusing your attention back to him to keep you from spotting the secret door hidden behind your full length mirror. He wipes at the lingering traces of tears on your face, watching as your eyes dip and fixate on the golden chain encircling his neck. A sigil of three hounds captures your attention—an emblem unfamiliar to your discerning gaze, sparking a curiosity that mingles with the relief flooding your senses.

He finds his own breathing to steady at your calming state but at the sight of blood trickling down your hand, a knot twists in his stomach. “You’re hurt.”

You pull your gaze from his necklace, eyebrows furrowing as you look up at him. “I thought you didn’t care,” you tell him, echoing his words from the last time you saw him.

Again, Eris does not answer you. His eyes scan your room for a moment before abandoning whatever he was searching for. In his haste to aid your bleeding hand, he’s slipping his shirt off without another thought. 

“It’s fine,” you insist.

“No. It’s not.” He shakes his head at you as he guides you to the window nook. If only you knew the effect you had on him. The horror that crashed over him like a bucket of ice cold water, waking him so abruptly from his sleep. At your pain. Your agony. It nearly destroyed him the way it had been destroying you.

Eris pushes you gently to sit while he uses his shirt to wipe your blood off, frowning to himself when he can still hear the irregular beat of your heart. Too engrossed in cleaning your injury, he fails to catch on that the fluttering rhythm of your heart is now stirred by an entirely different source.

His expression transforms into one of genuine surprise as he encounters the gentle skin of your palm. Untouched, unmarked. His gaze flickers back to the shattered pieces of glass by the foot of your bed and then back to your hand. There’s no way. Not even with your healing abilities as a high fae. The amount of blood he had seen, the stinging he had felt through the bond–

“I told you it was fine.”

“But you’re not.” Eris counters and sucks in a sharp breath. “Angel–”

“Neither are you.” You point out, deftly redirecting the focus from yourself.

Your glistening eyes, pools of concern, flicker toward him. Toward his chest, where scars from injuries that had not healed properly and lingering bruises taint the muscles beneath, painting an alarming image. 

Eris averts his gaze, withdrawing slightly, reluctant to confront the vulnerability of the moment. Though your touch is gentle, the softest caress, his entire body tenses at the unfamiliar sensation. Your palm presses against a nasty scar that runs down the length of his abdomen, making him shudder at the memory it came from.

You suspect the answer but you can’t stop yourself from asking anyway. A blend of hurt and anger seeps through your voice.  “Who did this to you?”

Eris stands abruptly, caught in the tumult of conflicting desires–of longing to bask in the warmth of your touch and the simultaneous impulse to flee from it. “You should go to bed,” he says, voice strained. “Get some sleep.”

You stand up as well. “But I’m wide awake.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Eris, please,” you nearly beg and he finds his feet rooted to the ground. He watches as you walk over to your chair, retrieving the coat he let you borrow. You extend it toward him–a silent promise you won’t push him further on his scars.  “We can talk about other things.”

He feels his throat tighten at the urgency in your eyes.  “Like what?”

"Like…" Your voice trails off, your attention turning to the scattered items on your desk. "Embroidery?" you suggest, showing him one of your unfinished projects. It’s an outline of a yellow flower he has seen before but cannot recognize at the moment. 

"You want to talk about...embroidery?" His tone lightens, a subtle easing of tension as he slips into his coat and watches you raise another one. Unlike the first one you showed him, this one is finished and beautifully depicts a white horse with a brown mane and tail.

“This one is of my horse,” you share with pride, a subtle smile gracing your face. The warmth in your expression acts as an irresistible pull for Eris, compelling him to sit back down. "His name is Maximus.”

"I think I miss him the most," you add, the smile on your face faltering. 

It prompts Eris to speak–to keep it from falling. “It’s beautiful.”

Your smile, like the sun breaking through clouds, brightens once more. You’re beautiful, he wants to add.

“Would you like me to teach you?”

Even though he knows he should leave, he finds himself nodding. Because the prospect of your smile faltering, of you returning to your state from earlier becomes an unbearable thought. 

He secures a glamor in your room to keep the guard outside your door from hearing you. Having spent centuries studying the wards in every room, he’s learned how to unravel some pieces of them. Eris allows you to teach him the craft of embroidery. He tries to take in every instruction of yours and finds himself not lost in the craft but lost in the light in your eyes, the delightful curve of your smile as you speak.

As the daughter of a powerful and influential merchant, you’ve stayed in every court and have so many captivating stories to tell. You speak so highly of your father that he doesn’t have it in him to tell you about his dark truth–the real reason behind your arranged marriage. The delicate pricks of the thin needle against his fingers go unnoticed, drowned out by the melody of your laughter, which proves irresistibly contagious. The bond in his chest hums with a resonance that echoes through his being. He wonders, a smaller part of him fervently hoping, if you can feel it too.

Eris stays until your voice trails off–until the heaviness of your eyelids becomes an insurmountable burden, causing you to slump against the softness of the pillows. The temptation to tenderly brush your hair back from your face is strong, but he restrains the impulse.

“Eris?” Your voice, laced with the soft tendrils of sleep, reaches him.

“Yes?”

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

The word—friends—sends a pang through him, but nevertheless, he manages a gentle "yes," reluctant to shatter the moment by uttering the truth that lies beneath the surface of his emotions. He doesn’t want to be your friend. He wants to be more than just your friend. 

A soft content hum comes from you, the only response you can manage. Mindful not to disturb your peaceful slumber, he beckons one of the blankets from your bed with his magic before carefully draping it over your curled up form at the window nook. He quietly draws the curtains shut, shielding you from the intrusion of the rising sun. He positions the embroidery hoop, adorned with the laughable but endearing image of the heart he crafted, beside you. He turns to leave but sneaks one last glance at you. Only then does he allow himself to truly smile.

Eris does not return the following night, even though he desperately wants to. Caution dictates his actions, a week elapsing before a clandestine note passed in the hallway signals his quiet return to your room. It’s during this second visit that he inevitably gives away the hidden door in your room. They lead to the house’s secret tunnels, one only Eris knows well. He promises you to take you through them one day.

It’s half past twelve and as the autumn winds blow outside your window, you're not alone this time. Eris is there with you, weaving conversations that never seem to run dry. An unspoken agreement unfolds–to keep your growing friendship hidden and away from everyone. He continues to sneak into your room, always warning you beforehand as to not scare you. The sacrifice of sleep on these nights becomes inconsequential, for both you and him.

Eris helps you chase your shadows away, taking you through the darkness to the break of the day. Your man after midnight. The soul that heard your prayer.

**

A wrought-iron table, nestled under a cascading canopy of amber leaves, holds an exquisite spread of breakfast delicacies. The air is laced with the enticing aroma of freshly brewed tea, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the flowers that surround you. Lady Autumn, whose name you learned is Raelynn, sits across from you. Her eyes, as deep as the autumnal twilight, reflect warmth back at you–no traces of the lingering sadness you’ve witnessed before in this moment. 

“My apologies, my dear, for not inviting you to breakfast sooner.” Even her voice is as warm as her gaze. “I know this court is not an easy one to adjust to.”

You find yourself smiling in reassurance back at her. Because you understand. If you were her, you’d also be wary of any newcomer.

“Eris tells me you enjoy embroidery?” Lady Raelynn says, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she brings her cup to her mouth. “Among other things.”

“I do,” you answer politely, gaze drifting to the perfectly tended lawn across from the patio you sit at. Targets for archery are neatly arranged.  There’s an arrow embedded into the bull’s eyes of every one of them.

Lady Raelynn follows your gaze. “Are you interested in archery?”

Yes, you want to say and though you find comfort in Lady Autumn’s presence, you're wary of her reaction. What if she deems it unlady like? And decides to forgo any relationship you’ve desperately clung to the hope to?

“I don’t know much about it,” you reply, choosing a diplomatic response.

 “I can teach you.” Lady Raelynn’s smile morphs into a grin. A gasp escapes you, and realization slowly etches itself into your features. “I think we’ll get along just fine,” she laughs, her words sparking hope within you.

“Good morning mother, I’ve come to–” Both of your heads turn to find Eris. He halts mid-sentence, his gaze locking with yours, a flicker of surprise and something deeper dancing in his eyes. It has you averting your gaze with a slight warmth tinting your cheeks.  “I should leave.”

“No, stay,” Lady Raelynn insists with a graceful incline of her head. With a wave of her hand, a plate full of food materializes at the empty spot between you and her, a silent invitation for Eris to join.

Eris bows his head at his mother, acknowledging her command. He takes his place at the table, his movements a bit awkward at first. As he settles in, he can't help the warming relief that washes over him at the sight of both you and his mother taking his advice. He remains relatively quiet throughout breakfast, choosing to chime in only when necessary. He’s content to bask in the soothing cadence of your conversation with his mother, indulging in stolen glances at you that linger.

Something that does not go unnoticed by his keen mother nor the way his grip tightens around his fork at the mention of your upcoming wedding.

Lady Raelynn didn’t mean to spoil the mood but she had taken it upon herself to help you plan the ceremony and reception. Albeit, reluctantly at first. That all changed after getting to know you better. Although the marriage would not be to the man of your dreams, she was now determined in ensuring that the wedding would be. It was the least she could do for you, especially after learning about the mistreatment you had endured at the hands of her sons. 

“I hope my son is treating you well?” Lady Raelynn asks you, carrying a note of concern. Her observant eyes catch the brief exchange between you and Eris, not missing the slightest tint that graces his cheeks. At least one of them is. She suppresses a smile as she awaits your answer.

“Sawyer is…” your voice trails off hesitant because he’s barely spoken to you since the incident. One of the rare occurrences being where he randomly met you in the library. He had reluctantly engaged in conversation with you, awkwardly asking what you missed the most from home. A spark of optimism brightens your tone because for once, you do have something good to say about him.

“He is actually arranging for my horse to come here! It’s silly but my horse was my biggest companion back home and I’ve been feeling a bit homesick recently.”

“It’s not silly at all, my dear. Once your horse is here, let's arrange for a morning ride. The Autumn grounds are the most peaceful in the early hours."

Your smile reflects the gratitude in your heart as you look at Lady Autumn. She, in turn, observes her son, who raises his tea to his lips, attempting to conceal the small smile playing on his face. It does nothing to mask the gleam in his eyes. Lady Raelynn is well aware that the sweet gesture is not Sawyer's doing. It's Eris's.

a/n: sooo I'm literally just going with vibes for this series (vibes to songs as that is what inspires most of these.) I wanted to write a slow burn but tbh, I think I'm too impatient for that 😂

When it comes to Sawyer, I do want to explore more of his character. I know that in canon, the Vanserras are menaces but I'd like to hope there's at least one more redeeming brother. I feel like him and reader can fall into a relationship similar to that of Rhaenyra and Laenor from House of Dragon. I also am still stuck between having the marriage actually go through or something drastic that happens that keeps it from happening. Either way, it will be angsty. I left some references in this from a movie that may prompt for more references from said movie. Any guesses? 👀

tagging: @fxckmiup

[lusmeitli]

Where light in darkness lies

Summary: How helping with a panic attack can lead to something more.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Panic attack, a hint of angst, fluff, a bit of fingering.

A/N: There aren’t a lot of explanations given. I have also taken a great deal of liberties to bend characters at my will.

9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9~9

The kettle seemed to take forever. Wasn’t there a saying… a watched pot never boils? Apparently, it applied to kettles, too. As the appliance imitated sounds of an imminent blast off, you poked the tea bag at the bottom of the mug with the spoon from one side to another, then clockwi–

Suddenly, everything was plunged into darkness.

“Curses.”

You stretched your hand out to hold onto the kitchen counter for something… tactile. Grounding. Darkness was your foe.

The familiar fireball under your skin licked up your back and across your chest. Its heat seemed to suffocate you. Breaths came out faster, shallower, harsher. Fumbling to try and find your phone on the counter your hands knocked something over. It shattered on the floor. The mug.

Not enough air. You just couldn’t get enough air into your lungs. The only sounds you heard was the pounding beat of your heart and the ringing in your ears. The panic rose up like a monster looming in front of you, a cruel smirk on its face, before it would open its horrifying hellmouth and swallow you whole.

And then you felt hands on you, whirling you around. Soft lips firmly pressed onto yours, moving with purpose and absolutely no hesitation. Its spark set a fuse alight, burning through your body until it reached your brain, sending a shockwave through you. It took your body a long moment to snap out of your onsetting panic attack and to respond to the kiss. You nearly sobbed into the lips, at the distraction and relief they provided, your hands fisting in a shirt, warm skin and contracting muscles under your fingers.

The heat you had felt moments before was gone. In its stead grew an all consuming need. A soft moan escaped somewhere from the back of your throat. It broke the spell. You heard the person kissing you take in a shaky breath, before their lips left yours and it was over. Several moments later the lights flickered back on. You stood rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space in front of you and the broken mug on the floor.

Your fingertips ghosted over the spot where lips had touched yours and a blush crept over your cheeks. In the corner the kettle clicked, the water now boiled.

*****

“Loki?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you sure it was him? I mean how can you tell?”

You brought a hand over the receiver, trying to shield the words so only your friend could hear.

“I, um, hacked into the security camera footage from just before the power cut. He had walked into the kitchen literally a second before it happened.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then a heavy breath. “Wow. I don’t know what to say. Ain’t that something.”

“You’re right,” you huffed out, “I mean, this is me we’re talking about, right?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“But it is though, isn’t it,” you said, rubbing your tired eyes. “It’s just little old me. Even if it really was him, it probably just was some silly prank or a dare.”

*****

The Quinjet in the hangar was your favourite place to work. Even though today you were in the tail of the jet downloading the aircraft log from the Flight Data Recorder, which involved squeezing into a rather tight space. All that to plug in the USB cable and to then balance the laptop on the palm of your right hand, whilst operating it with the left. You had tried to talk to Tony about moving the access point, seeing as it was a weekly task, but Pepper had walked past and diverted his attention. Judging by the way he immediately stalked after her, he hadn’t heard a word you said.

Thirty-seven percent through the download, the power in the jet cut out and you cursed. Setting the laptop down, you fumbled for your phone, turned on the torch and made your way through the jet to inspect the fuse box you knew was located just outside the cockpit. No light came in from the hangar, which seemed odd. Maybe it was another power outage that affected the whole tower. You tripped and the phone slipped from your grasp, landing somewhere face up.

“Not again…”

The panic started to rise in you once more. You felt too hot, the air seemed stuffy and heavy. Your breath came out fast and ragged. Hands outstretched, you bumped into something hard. Something that shouldn’t be there. You gulped as hot dread shot through your veins and took a step back. With lightning speed slender fingers wrapped around your wrists, tugging you forward to bring you flush against the hard body. Instead of consuming you, the panic ebbed off. Your body knew this touch. Though firm, it meant no harm.

You felt their chest rise and fall, a lot slower than yours. Slender fingers trailed up your arm, over your shoulder and neck. His fingertips skirted over the skin of your throat, goosebumps erupted all over your body. Someone released a slow breath - presumably you.

The fingers moved into your hair and curled around the base of your head, tilting it up. And then those wonderful lips were on yours again. This time, he angled your head to deepen the kiss. The taste and feel of his tongue moving against yours robbed you of your bones and you faltered, glad that his hands held you pressed so tightly up against him. He seemed hungry, needy. His lips left yours, trailing a few kisses over your jaw, before he rested his forehead against yours, noses touching for a wonderful moment, your short breaths mixing.

And then he was gone again. Your hands fell to your side and you blinked against the bright light in the jet that hummed over your head. Yet again you were left wondering what had just happened and, more importantly, why.

*****

“It only affected the hangar this time.” You pulled a book off the shelf in the shop.

“More hacking?” your best friend asked, finger searchingly running over the spines.

Shaking your head, you thumbed through the pages. “My coworkers told me.”

“So you’re saying he did it on purpose?”

Shrugging, you put the book back. “He knows magic, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Honey, I love you, but before you go down that obsession-rabbit hole, it’s my duty as your bestie to warn you. Just please be careful. This is Loki after all. Hm, where is it?”

“Whatever is that supposed to mean?”

The pitying look in your friend’s eyes was almost too much. “Oh where to start… He’s a god, immortal and several centuries older than you,” she counted off on her fingers.

“Actually,” you mumbled, “he is mortal. Asgardians just have a longer life span of about 5,000 years.”

Your friend blinked, surprised. “Who told you that? Dr Google?”

“Thor, actually. He had to fill in a form for the Quinjet learner’s licence and we joked about his age.”

“I love you, but you’re weird. Happy rabbit hunting then.” A victory cry fell from your friend’s lips as she pulled out what she was looking for and pushed it into your hands. “You want spicy? Here you go.”

“‘Three Swedish Mountain Men’?” you read.

She wiggled her brows. “They’re hot and they like sharing…”

You rolled your eyes, but put it on the pile of books you were getting anyway.

*****

Late shifts were your favourite, because it allowed you to actually get work done, without the phone going off every other minute. The only thing you didn’t like about them was walking back to your room afterwards.

It was 3am when the lift doors slid open and your shoes softly squeaked on the dimly lit corridor. Nightlighting mode, as Tony called it. You hated it and walked faster. Rubbing your stiff neck and rolling your shoulders, you rounded the corner. Just a few more metres to your door. But someone grabbed your hand and pulled you into the refuse room, which was pitch black.

Cool fingers were placed on your lips signalling you not to make a sound.

You nodded your head and the fingers moved from your lips, slowly, tracing. Then both hands were in your hair. His fingers cupped your head and you felt his breath against your lips. Your hands were on his chest, gripping the front of his t-shirt. Soft cotton. You closed your eyes.

“Please,” you said so quietly you thought he didn’t hear.

But he had and his lips brushed against yours, light as a feather. Your head was swimming, your heart aching. His touch was soft and gentle. He had kissed you before, but it was as if he was now seeing you, in the darkness of the refuse room, for the first time. Taking you in, kissing every inch of skin that was exposed. His lips grazed the knuckles on your hand and a lump formed in your throat.

His hands cupped your head and you felt his fingers fiddle with your hair bobble, before the restraint was gone and your hair hung loose. His hands combed through the strands. You couldn’t remember the last time someone did that.

Your hands ran over his biceps, his shoulders, his pecs, his abs. You wished you could say something, anything, but you feared you’d spoil the moment, that he’d pull away. His lips found yours again and he angled his head, his tongue slowly dancing with yours. It was the most erotic thing you had ever experienced.

He changed his footing to come at you from a different angle, pressing his body flush against yours. He peppered small kisses on the corner of your mouth and down your throat. He seemed to have found a spot he liked, because he sucked on it, his teeth grazing, lips easing the light bite. Before he pulled away, he inhaled deeply at the crown of your head, and placed a gentle kiss on your hair. You felt safe, basking in his warmth. And like the times before, he was gone.

By the time your legs felt stable enough to support you again, you opened the door and walked back to your room.

A smile crossed your lips as you realised that this was the first time you hadn’t panicked in the dark.

*****

“Maybe he’s shy?” your bestie suggested as you sat on her couch, both spooning ice cream out of the same tub.

Loki and shy were not words you would have put in a sentence together. But then, sometimes you were wondering if his aloof stance was just for show.

“Have you tried talking to him?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I could never work up the nerve. He seems… so unapproachable in the light of day. Maybe it all really is an elaborate prank.”

“Or,” your friend leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “or he has the hots for you and just can’t find any other way to show it.”

You mulled this over for a while. “But why in the dark? Why isn’t he saying anything ever?”

“When do you see him?”

“At extended team briefings, but the Avengers come in last and sit at the front. Rogers requested it.”

Your friend rolled her eyes. “Any other time?”

“Well, in the hallways, but either he’s with someone or I am.”

“Meh. Where else?”

You leaned back, thinking. “In the canteen?”

“Okay, now we’re talking.”

“But, again, he’s always with someone.”

“Well… looks like you’re screwed.” She made a show of licking her spoon. “Or about to be screwed.”

She laughed as you threw a pillow in her face.

*****

It was just an autumn storm. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for that it was five in the morning and had been going all night. You were standing by the window, looking out onto the soft glow of the city that never slept. Angry gusts of wind whipped big raindrops against the windowpane. Your breath misted against the cool glass. Normally, you slept through storms, but not this one.

The team had yet to return from a mission and you were worried sick. The mission was particularly perilous. You knew this because Tony had called you into his office, shut the door (something he never had done before) and told you that he couldn’t give you any information, but that ‘some serious shit is going to go down tonight’ and to trust - dramatic pause - him. It all was accompanied by a stare with which Tony seemed to try to convey a secret message. You guessed he didn’t mean himself, but Loki. Hence, you had chewed off all your nails for the last few hours.

When the door to your room opened, closed and footsteps approached, relief flooded through you. Not a moment later his hands were on your waist, pulling you back into his chest, his presence seeping through your pores. His arms curled around you, the slightly damp leather of his suit softly creaking, and your hands flew up to grip his forearms tightly. His head nestled in the crook of your neck, his lips soft against your skin.

“Thank heavens,” you whispered.

You couldn’t remember who moved first, but you found yourself up against the wall, his hands on your ass. Your legs wrapped around his hips that pushed into you; his mouth felt hot on yours. The kiss was all teeth and tongues. Desperation mixed with relief. A moan rang through the room - definitely yours - as you offered yourself up to him. And he took, greedily. His hands were everywhere on your body, pulling you close, pushing more into you, closer still. A disgruntled huff made it clear it wasn’t enough. And then his hands were under your hoodie, bare skin touching bare skin. A tug, a pull and the fabric was up and over your head, landing somewhere on the floor. His lips closed around your lace covered breast until he found your nipple and sucked on it.

Your hands weaved through his damp hair - if you had any fingernails left, they’d be scraping his scalp. Instead you tugged gently on the soft strands, eliciting a strangled moan from him. His hips rolled into yours, his desire evident and yours dampening your knickers. His hand slipped into your leggins, his fingers moving over the globe of your ass, slowly, squeezing, as his mouth was plundering yours.

The moment his fingers found your soaking centre, you both groaned. He slid two digits inside you, making you gasp. His hips rocked into you, the leather seams on his crotch providing friction for your clit. Your hands tried to fist in the leather, to get to feel his skin.

The orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, taking you by surprise, propelling you into oblivion. Loki grunted, his movements became jerky, before he stilled and rested his damp forehead against the crook of your neck. His hot breath puffed against your skin, and he just stayed like that, letting you run your fingers through his hair in a comforting rhythm. Then he slid his fingers out of you and gently placed your feet back on the ground. His forearm leaned against the wall behind you as he kissed you thoroughly, with a gentleness that made your eyes sting with unshed tears.

Your thoughts were going a mile a minute and you were thinking of what to do or say now. Would he stay the night or would he vanish again, like always? You heard the soft creaking of his boots as he moved through the dark room and then back to you, handing you your hoodie. You took it, fingers brushing his. The moment you pulled it over your head, your bedside light was on and you found yourself alone.

Again.

*****

The APU of the Quinjet was situated - as in most aeroplanes - in the tail. One of the reasons you were in charge of the upgrade of the jet’s internal bleed ducting was that you were small and slim. None of your co-workers could squeeze in there (thank you, Tony, for prioritising sleekness over practicality). Ironically, there was no air conditioning in this part of the jet. Droplets of sweat gathered on your forehead as you lay under the engine with your torch and toolkit, religiously running through the protocols.

“Five more checks, Y/N,” you heard your colleague, peering down at you from the moveable steps he was standing on, holding up the upper engine encasing with another work mate. A whistling noise became louder. “Then we can test– what the hell?!”

You lifted your head just as a massive explosion tore through the hangar. The space where your co-workers had been a second ago was swallowed up by a fireball. It felt as if the jet was airborne, tossed to the side, then came to a sudden stop. Metal screeched and groaned.

Your head hurt. A lot. There was a ringing in your ears and you just couldn’t see anything. It was dark, so dark. You wriggled backwards but to your horror realised that you were stuck, trapped between the engine and the jet wall. It felt like you were burning up and you tried to shout, scream for help, but you couldn’t get air in your lungs, no matter how hard you tried. Then, mercifully, you fainted.

When you came to, you were in the medical bay. It looked like a war zone, people lying or sitting on the floor, waiting to be seen. Some of them with burns and cuts, others in the bays next to you with drips and field surgeons around them. You spotted your two work mates, both with minor burns and a few bruises, but thankfully alive.

A few stitches on your forehead, one arm plaster casted and in a sling, and a packet of painkillers thrust in your good hand by a disgruntled, stressed out medic later, you limped your way out of there. Anything was better than sitting around in the sick bay, where there were people who were much more in need of a bed than you were. It also helped with getting away from the sight of the body bags that were quietly carried past you. Six, you had counted. The biggest attack on the Avengers Tower so far, people murmured. And the deadliest one.

In front of the debriefing room, you were handed a tablet and sat down. It was standard protocol after an incident like this: you filled in your report and then talked it through with your supervisor. End of. So you filled in the boxes and waited outside Tony’s office for your turn. As you walked in and sat down, he looked at you.

“You okay, Y/N?”

You gave a brief nod. He blinked and then tapped a few keys on his phone, before taking the tablet you held out to him.

“Let’s get this over with.”

In the middle of your interview, the door suddenly burst open. A very out of breath Asgardian god almost stumbled over the threshold, a stony expression on his face. He was like a vision from your dreams, donning his leather suit, covered in dust and blood - not his.

His eyes roamed over you as he stood in the doorway, lingering on your arm in the sling and the stitches on your face for a moment. Then his eyes met yours. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t looked into one another’s eyes before, but this felt different. Intimate.

In four strides he was next to your chair. He stretched out his hand and you placed yours in his, as if it was a practised gesture between you two. A gentle tug had you standing up.

“Loki…,” you started.

“I thought you were dead, love,” he murmured, voice rough, lifting your good hand to his lips to ghost a kiss onto your scratched knuckles. Your insides melted at the endearment and his gesture.

“I give you a thousand thanks, Stark,” he addressed the other man, eyes never leaving yours, “for alerting me that my beloved is okay and with you. However, Agent Y/L/N will have to finish the incident debrief at a later point. I require her presence for an extremely urgent personal matter.”

“Get outta here already, Shakespeare,” Tony grumbled, trying to hide a smirk. “Who’s next?”

But Loki didn’t pay him any heed. He gently cradled your face, his thumbs caressing your skin.

And there, right in front of Tony, with the door wide open for everyone in the very busy hallway to see, right there was the very first time that Loki kissed you in the daylight.

~fin~

[myfictionaldreams]

hello! i was wondering if it was possible to write a poly!marauders story about y/n using their safe word during overstimulation and the boys stopping to help them through aftercare.

i love seeing the proper use of consent in your stories and would just like to see one ab the care given when you sometimes need to stop mid way.

love your stuff!

A/N: I loved this request, thank you for sending it. I hope you (and everyone reading) are having a lovely weekend!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, fluff, angst, rough sex, intense, overstimulation, use of safe word, bdsm, dom/sub, size difference, panic attack, overwhelmed, crying, hurt/comfort, praise kink, aftercare, cuddling

Words: 2.4k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

Overwhelmed. That was one word you’d use for the current situation.

Your body was coated in all manners of different bodily fluids including sweat, spit, your juices and two other clumps of cum, one that was dribbling out of your mouth and the other was being used as lube by the third person involved.

Remus’s towering form was hunched over you, his cock pumping into your highly sensitive, sore cunt. It had been hours of intense fucking from all three of the marauders, so much so that a faint buzz had settled in your ears, muffling the voice of your boyfriend as he tried to coax another orgasm. “I know you can do one more for me love, just one more”.

“No”, was your exhausted response, eyelids drooping.

The word ‘no’ may have been muttered by you but it wasn’t necessarily a stop word, not in the current dynamic of the relationship. The four of you had a very specific dominant and submissive relationship and abided by the colour-coded safe word system, or if one of the three boys deems you’d been going for too long, everything would stop. This was meant for certain scenes to play out, you could say certain words to play along but if red or yellow was even mentioned, all trust was in the men looking after you to stop.

Even in your delirious, fucked-out mind now, you were still aware of these rules and even though it was a relentless session, you were holding out on the hope that Remus would be cuming soon, needing him to find his fulfilment.

However, the minutes ticked by and his thrusting continued with no end in sight. It hadn’t only been a long day, it had been an intense weekend. One day led into another and upon waking the euphoric, happy buzz that filled your veins with adrenaline had you instantly jumping onto one of the Marauders.

Now it was taking its toll, the pleasure seeping away and replaced with stinging, aching and discomfort. The thought of even another orgasm that would cause your pussy to flutter and spasm had a sense of dread, something you never thought would even cross your mind. However, glancing up at Remus, seeing the lust in his eyes, lips still moving in praises meant to make you feel safe and you did for the most part.

The thought of him cuming, finding his thrill and coating your insides to mix with the other Marauders cum was what kept you going and even though the safewords did momentarily cross your mind, the worry of them being upset that you were in pain and the embarrassment was enough for you to hold your tongue.

Remus slowed down his thrust, his scarred hand gripping your jaw sturdily, thumb moving to swipe across your lips, capturing the dribble of cum and pushing it into your lips. Happily, you sucked on his thumb, hoping the sight would excite him and it did for you too, the salty goodness a quick distraction.

“Good girl, you’re doing so well for me, just want one more orgasm Pup”, his lips found yours as he finished his sweet praises. Remus knew the exact phrases to say, he was so tentative and wanted the best for your pleasure and this only added to your own reasoning as to why you wanted him to find his end rather than your own.

James and Sirius were the same, particularly today. This may be why you were extra sensitive, the two quidditch players had sucked, licked and fucked their way to so many orgasms you’d lost count before Remus had even touched you.

Remus lifted his upper body up, leaning on his knees between your legs, still thrusting slowly and you could feel the drag of his cock against your swollen walls. With a hand on each thigh, Remus hiked your legs up higher on his hips, the grip tight, making sure the two of you were moulded together but from this angle, it meant his cock could press that little bit deeper.

This only lasted for a couple of thrusts before the tall Gryffindor was relaxing his hold on one of your legs to idly rub circles against your overused, swollen clit. The feelings almost took your breath away, imaginary sirens blaring in your mind, immediately shouting “no”, eyes clenched closed and then the word was automatically stumbling from your trembling lips, “red”.

The sensations went from overwhelming discomfort to instant relief as Remus within a second was off of your person, hands untouching and cock swiftly pulling out, leaving you throbbing but empty. 

James and Sirius were by your side in an instant as well, all three hovering over you and it was like a tidal wave of one area being overwhelmed from physical to mental. Guilt was the first one, the look of worry etched on each of their faces, you didn’t want them to feel like that, it was supposed to be a nice time, instantly regretted using the safe word.

“Love, look at us, are you ok? Did I hurt you, was it too much”? Remus’ voice was laced with regret and panic as he tried to soothe the skin of your cheek with his thumb.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, your panic was engulfing, your body trembling with anxiety but this only caused the panic to increase as it felt like the world was collapsing in, the air seeming thick so you couldn’t breathe properly.

“She’s hyperventilating”, Sirius was the first to move, shifting his arm underneath your back, lifting up your body so he could easily slide behind, using himself to prop you upright. His lips hovered next to your ear, forcing you to listen to him, as the rest of him enveloped around you so his body heat could try and ground your panic attack.

James cupped your hands, holding them firmly whilst also stroking the back with his thumb in circles as Remus remained in front, cupping your face still.

Even though this situation had not happened during sex before, there had been occasions where you’d experienced panic attacks this severely and after much communication, they’d found that you liked to feel tight and contained, whether it was in a blanket that you were wrapped in or all of their bodies. The four of your bodies were still naked which also helped, to feel warm and safe in their embrace.

You were still struggling to stabilise your breathing into a normal pattern, heart pounding, feeling like impending doom, eyes tightly clenched closed but tears were still streaking down your cheeks. Remus was quick to catch these with his thumbs.

“Love, listen to my voice, I need you to look at me”, his voice was low and calm as he spoke, trying not to let his own panic about the situation dictate how he looked after you.

“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean- to say it-” you choked between quick breaths, beginning to feel dizzy, head attempting to lul back but unable to with the grip on it.

James lifted your hands up to his mouth, kissing your delicate fingers, shushing your words, and feeling his voice vibrate against your skin. Sirius was just the same from behind you, working with the two other marauders to use soft commands to get your breathing to calm.

“Stop talking sweetheart, I need you to open your eyes and look at me”, Remus continued, using a slight hint more authority in his tone, hoping to snap it through your anxiety. It worked as reluctantly your eyes snapped open, expecting to see him angry from stopping but all that was looking back at you were the warm eyes of Remus.

It was hard to try and rationalise any thought when your emotions were so heightened, knowing that it would have been absolutely fine otherwise but this had escalated so much in your mind that only the worst thoughts were circulating.

“Well done”, he made sure to add emphasis to the praise, to hope that you knew he truly meant it. “Now I need you to slow your breathing, keeping your eyes on me”.

The eye contact was helping but it did take a few attempts to stop trying to desperately take a deep breath. It was only when James moved your hands onto his chest that you could ground down to something, feeling his own breaths, how long he would breathe in for compared to breathing out. As you finally found any sort of rhythm with your breathing, were you able to concentrate on the others as well.

For example, Sirius’ soft commands of “in and out” as he moved his chest that was still holding you up, physically moving your body with him which helped immensely.

It took a while of stuttering and being forced to not talk but to only concentrate on your breathing, all the whilst holding eye contact with Remus. Eventually, you were calm, the sensation of doom or passing out having passed, only instead replaced with shame and embarrassment.

“That’s it, keep going, nice and slow”, Remus interrupted you as your mouth opened to speak but this was something you wanted them all to hear.

“I’m sorry”, your voice was croaky and barely above a whisper. The tears were still flowing and you were sure to look like a mess but from the sad smile Remus was giving you, he didn’t give anything away. Sirius’s gentle kiss against your neck made your heart beat a little quicker with how soft he was being, the subtle tickle of his long hair against your shoulders caused a slight shiver to pass through you.

“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for”.

“But you didn’t cum”, again shame was writhe throughout your body, cheeks heating as Remus continued to make sure you looked into his eyes.

“Love, I would never cum again if it meant that you were comfortable during these moments. Don’t ever apologise for using safe words, they’re there for all of our safety, we need to listen to each other.” His words were almost like a warm blanket, muscles relaxing slightly into all of their grips. Of course, you knew he meant those words and that was what had been discussed before and agreed to, just your anxiety and panic for some reason changed your outlook on it.

Finally, the tears slowly stopped dropping and Remus’ grip of your face relaxed, the warmth disappearing was a loss but automatically you were able to relax back into Sirius’ shoulder, turning into his neck as he held you.

“Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?” the words sounded just as ashamed as yours previously did.

“No, no it’s ok, it’s just sore and the thought of having another orgasm just set me off I think, I’m sor-”.

It was James to cut you off, lifting his rough hand to cover your mouth entirely, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’m banning the word sorry from your pretty lips”. Beneath his hand, you couldn't hold back the small smile, which he felt and was speedy to remove his hand so he could see the small spark of joy in your expression. “Ah, more of that please”.

The four of you sat in momentary happiness but the discussion needed to be had so Remus gently tipped your chin in his direction with a single finger. “Talk to me, so we know what we need to be doing better next time”.

“I’m just sore and overstimulated I think and I think I forced myself to go on for too long because I wanted you to cum but it was a little overwhelming”.

“I’m sorry, Love”, it was Remus now to look distraught at causing the discomfort but you were quick to brush that away.

“No please don’t be sorry, you didn’t know I was feeling like that”.

“I think it’s something we can all learn from”, James continued speaking on everyone’s behalf, taking a moment to pause and kiss your temple before continuing. “We’ll be more careful next time and maybe check in more frequently if you’re reaching your limit rather than just using the safe words. However, it is a group effort darling, we have safe words to limit the use of red so please if you’re ever feeling remotely uncomfortable, say yellow or red. Even if it's as simple as changing positions or having a drink of water, we will discuss it to stop it from getting to the point of using the red word and you being overwhelmed. And please never feel like you have to suffer just for our benefit, we can take care of ourselves if you don't want to continue, how does that sound?”

A lump formed in your throat as you stared into the big hazel eyes of James. How could you ever be worried that they’d be upset at you, they always made it known your priority was first.

“Yes, that sounds good”, you made sure to respond verbally, smiling as you finished the sentence.

Sirius’ kiss against your cheek had you turning towards him slightly as he asked, “how does it feel now? Are you still in pain?”

“It’s just all throbbing a bit”, referring to in between your legs.

“Can we check?” Nodding your head in response, Sirius helped to lay you back into the middle of the bed, kissing your cheek one last time before easing out from behind you. Remus and Sirius checked all over your body for any signs of injuries, the most obvious being the swollen and physically throbbing cunt.

James lay beside you, talking you through everything, keeping you smiling and occupied as Sirius found some cooling gel that had been previously used to help soothe when you were overused. Then as Sirius used his wand to delicately clean up the liquids coating your body, Remus sat on the edge of the bed, making sure that you drank a full glass of water, praising you when you handed back an empty glass.

He then too joined the bed, lying on the opposite side to James and handing everyone a chunk of chocolate from his secret stash, the sugar perfectly needed. Snuggled between James and Remus, you could hear Sirius shuffling around somewhere before he casually asked, “Have you guys heard of the muggle singer David Bowie?”

“Here we go”, James muttered to himself, sitting up to see what Sirius was doing. What proceeded was a lengthy performance filled with props, very off-key singing and theatrics from Sirius who was still very naked but that added to the performance. You laughed so hard that tears were forming in the corner of your eyes.

Even though it had been a stressful night, glancing at each Sirius, Remus and James, you couldn’t help but feel grateful. They made you feel safe, warm and happy.

[ghost-proofbaby]

if it were anyone else (e.m.)

warnings: strong allusions to depression, disordered eating/rough relationship with food, mentions of smoking, description of a sort of panic attack. very sad. hurt/comfort? not edited.

wc: 1.6k+

a/n: this is literally entirely self indulgent and written entirely after i sat and cried and thought "i wish i had eddie here right now to hold me". maybe in like thirty minutes tops. this is for me and only me. go figure lol. sorry. yeah. anyways.

if you relate, my askbox is always open, and i'm very sorry you've felt this way as well. i hope you all take care of yourselves. drink some water, call a friend. be kind to yourself.

“I’m worried about you.” 

Four words that always manage to strike a certain type of fear in your gut. You don’t know how to react as he says it, how he wants you to react. You can only stare blankly, you can only wish harder for the earth to swallow you whole.

“What do you mean?” you laugh nervously, following it with a hard swallow.

You’re playing dumb. You know it, he knows it. The tremor in your bones and your numb appendages know it, too. 

“You’re…” Eddie stalls, licking his lips, letting his eyes rake over you, “You’re getting bad again.” 

You’re quick to shake your head, forcing another hollow chuckle from your chest, “It’s not that bad. I’m fin-”

“You’re not fine.”

The look in his eyes could crack your spine if you stare too long. Wet eyes, a trembling bottom lip, worry lines etched into his forehead that you realize might be caused by you.

You’re causing him worry. The last thing you want to do, you’ve accomplished. You’re on a fast-track to becoming a burden – the first step is always acceptance. 

You’re still unsure of how he wants – no, needs you to react right now. This conversation is a landmine for both of you, and you hold every breath with every step as you try to navigate it. If you make one wrong step, it could cause an explosion that spares no survivors.

You don’t mind if it tears you apart limb by limb. You do mind if it hurts him. 

“How… How do you know that?” 

It’s not a sarcastic snipping or defensive deterrence. It’s an unfiltered response of genuineness – you want to know the signs, you want to know what has exposed the rot this time.

And then, maybe next time, you’ll be able to better shield it from him with this knowledge. 

“How could I not?” he takes a deep breath in through his nose, and you focus on the flare of his nostrils rather than any of the tears beginning to gather at his waterlines, “It’s been happening for a while now, though, hasn’t it?” 

Your throat is a cage, tight and restrictive and ringing with a bitter metallic taste in its tenseness. You can’t respond with words. You can only nod. 

He chooses to answer your question more properly now that you’ve admitted it, “You’re cold all the time again. You’re always sleeping too much or too little. You’re smoking again, running yourself into the ground. Picking up distractions like they’re going out of style.”

“Hey, they might be. We never know-” you cut yourself off when your eyes meet his. Now’s not the time for jokes, “Sorry. I… I know. I’m sorry.” 

He’s right. Fuck, he’s right. 

“I want to ask you something, and I need you to answer me honestly,” his own steps across these landmines are just as delicate, just as feathery light, as your own. You hear it in his tone, see it in his body language. You wish your body could sink into the mattress you’re sitting on the edge of as he crouches in front of you, warm palms connecting with your knees. Grounding you. Tethering you. Holding you back from that sinking you crave. “Are you… Sweetheart, are you okay?”

If anybody else had built up to such a stupid question, you would have laughed in their face. You would have shoved those warm palms right off of your skin and you would have thrown up those ice cold hands of your own, shouted obviously not. 

Obviously not. I’m not okay. I’m so far from okay, it’s a bit comical. I am drowning. I am treading in freezing cold waters and I am barely capable of keeping my head above the waves. My engine is fucked, my tank is empty. I don’t think I’d even know how to be ‘okay’ again if you did manage to pull this mangled body of mine from these depths and sat me down on safe, solid ground again. 

You can’t say any of this, though. Not because you don’t trust him, not because he would judge you. But because the moment he asks the question that should make you scoff, you let out a sob instead. Something like a muffled, broken wail that tears from deep within you. It had already been ready and poised, laying in wait for a perfect moment like this one to escape. 

His eyes aren’t the only glossy ones anymore. 

“I-” you start, breathing already stuttering and chest already constricting, “I- I-”

“Hey,” he palms smooth up your thighs, carrying their warmth with them, as if he were trying to spread it across you. As if he had heard your thoughts. As if he already knew all about those dark, treacherous, freezing waters you were stranded in. All you can do is spew out another cry, strangled as you tried to swallow it down before it entered the atmosphere between you two, “Hey.” 

You only notice the tears when you crumple forward and he meets you halfway. Those warm palms, those hands so capable of safety and promise, cup your cheeks and his thumbs make quick work of swiping away the salty streams. 

“Hey, baby, breathe for me,” his voice is tragically gentle, “Just one deep breath, okay?” 

To demonstrate, you watch his chest expand dramatically, his hands forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 

You can’t see through the bleariness. 

“C’mon, sweetness,” he encourages again, “One breath. Just one.” 

If it were anyone else, you’d turn into a fit of rage at the coddling. You’d break everything in sight. You’d scream until your already burning lungs finally collapsed as they’d been yearning to for so long. 

But it’s him. It’s just him, it’s just Eddie. 

His chest rises dramatically again, and this time, yours does as well, albeit through stifling hiccups. You’re dizzy from the lack of oxygen and the flood of emotion that was wrecking you. 

“There you go!” his voice rises ever so slightly, and when you flinch a bit at the sudden volume, he retracts, “Sorry, sorry. But that’s it, sweetheart. Another one, okay?” 

Another breath. Another sob. Another wave of all the pain you’ve been battling off. 

You’re cold all the time again. You’re always sleeping too much or too little. You’re smoking again, running yourself into the ground.

He was right and it fucking killed you. None of those are things you could ever shield him from. You didn’t have the heart to pull away those numb and icey fingertips every time he’d reach out for your hand, or try to cover the shivers that managed to rack your bones even in the middle of summer. The sleeping situation had been spiraling, a pendulum of sleepless nights that would end in a sleep so deep that you could have been mistaken for resting with the dead. Maybe the smoking you could have hid, especially when you’d been so boastful about quitting. 

You weren’t running yourself into the ground. You had already collapsed into the dirt, you had already joined the worms. You’d buried yourself alive, six feet under, and nothing could have stopped him from sniffing out that scent of decay on you. 

The death of a soul and mind. The death of the thing that had propelled you forward for so long. No amount of sweet perfume, or hour long scalding showers, or minty gum to occupy your mind rather than a proper meal, can erase that stench. 

You never could have shielded him. He always saw right through you. Always had, always would. 

“I’m sorry,” you end up crying out. 

You don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but you echo the words again. Over and over, on repeat, until he’s rising from the ground. Until he’s sat beside you. Until his arms are suddenly encasing you and you’re awarded a warmth you didn’t feel deserving of. 

He doesn’t smell like the decay you’d surrounded yourself with. He smells like slow waking in the morning, dreary and calm and at a reasonable time. He smells like warm baths that only relax your bones, and don’t have to blister your skin in the process. He smells like three meals a day, all comforting and all effortless and that never linger with a sense of regret.

He’s not decay, never even treading close to death. He’s home. He’s the promise that you could be okay. Even if it isn’t right now. 

“Don’t apologize,” he murmurs into the crown of your head, squeezing you tighter into his chest, not even blinking an eye at the patch of wetness you leave behind from where your cheeks bury against him, “Never apologize. Ever. Not with me, sweetheart. Keep the sorries. I don’t need them.” 

If it were anyone else, the holding would have suffocated you. But it’s him. It’s Eddie.

You don’t fight him when he pulls you fully into his lap, situating the two of you comfortably on that mattress. 

You don’t know how long you let him cradle you like that. How much of that time is spent filled with your cries, or how many breaths he gently urges you to take with him. He never once has to verbally say what you already know; he never once promises aloud that it’ll be okay. He doesn’t put that pressure on you, not yet. Not today. Not when he knows the journey to okay is still such a long one. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers to you instead, “I’ve got you, now, sweetheart.” 

If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t believe them. 

But it’s him. It’s Eddie. 

And he’s got you, for now and for as long as you need.

[vivwritescrappythings]

twenty-five

eddie munson x gn!reader

A self indulgent fic for my birthday today. I always cry on my birthday, no matter what, and this was inspired by my own boyfriend who is so lovely and sweet and Eddie reminds me of him all the time. But, nevertheless, treated this one like a diary entry more than a fic.

or

You always cry on your birthday, and this is the year Eddie finds out.

tw: crying, talks about death, panic attacks, angst, hurt/comfort, gender neutral reader but also heavily girl coded bc this is a self indulgent fic about my own life and I identify as a girl, not proofread

Word count: 2.8k

masterlist

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There’s something horrible about the way that time just keeps going no matter what. No stops, no returns. There’s no warning that something just happened for the last time, no flashing signs that say: Stop! You’ll never get to experience this again so savor it!

Everything just moves on and moves on and moves on.

Your thoughts are cyclical in nature, it takes you give or take 365 days to get to the same spot: crumpled somewhere private, crying. When you were young it used to be your parents’ walk-in closet, you would curl where your mother’s skirts met your father’s jeans and sob until you could hardly breathe. In your teen years the big meltdown would take place in your car, the beat up SUV felt like your own box of privacy to cry into the palms of your hands after school. You had to hide under the cover of your comforter in your dorm room, praying you were silent enough that your roommate didn’t notice.

This year is the same as any other, you feel like an anvil has been placed on your chest the second you open your eyes. Sunlight diffuses through the sheer lilac curtains over your bedroom window, tinging the morning with an eerie, dreamlike quality. Normally you find the color to be pleasant, mystical rather than gloomy.

Eddie is still asleep next to you, your gaze pulled to the gentle peace that has settled on his face. He’s never still and calm like this, you like to take your opportunities to absorb him in this state when possible. You resist the urge to press a kiss to his pink lips, deciding to let him catch these last few hours of sleep that you yourself have been deprived of.

He’s always been better at sleeping than you, the beginning few hours of most mornings spent on your own reading or watching some show in the other room. It doesn’t matter if you’re at his trailer or your apartment, you always wake up when the first dregs of sunlight hit your eyelids.

You pull yourself from bed with a soft groan, stretching and blinking in an attempt to ground yourself. Of course, it isn’t sufficient, the dizzy feeling of dread curling around your shoulders like a blanket as you emerge from your room into the modest kitchen of your single-room apartment. The bedroom door closes with a soft click behind you, just enough to shield Eddie and let him rest.

There are still a million tasks that you need to accomplish today. You’d made progress yesterday evening, dusting and scrubbing and rearranging every corner of your apartment in an attempt to make it look like no one had ever lived there. It was mostly accomplished, dishes still in the sink and pillows on the couch rumpled where you had been watching television.

While the coffee brews you set on your first task of the day, pulling the mixer out of a cupboard along with a large bowl you’d gotten from the thrift store. Baking while Eddie is asleep will be easier, his fingers no longer poking into the bowl for a taste or his puppy-dog eyes set on you like a weapon in an attempt to convince you to let him lick the spoon. The bowl you used to mix the cake batter yesterday sat in the sink, licked so clean that if you didn’t know any better you would have put it away.

It’s a miracle he didn’t make himself sick.

You put a record on to fill the emptiness, trying to keep your mind busy with tasks and noise so you don’t have a moment to sit down and think too much. By the time you flip to the B side, the red velvet cake you made was decorated in a thick layer of cream cheese frosting. You haphazardly press sprinkles onto its surface as decoration, not trusting your ability to pipe lettering on it.

It’s decent enough, you remind yourself to set your perfectionism aside as you return it to the cake stand in the corner of the kitchen and set about fussing with the rest of your apartment.

It’s easy enough to distract yourself while you have things to do. You don’t rest, jumping from one thing to the next in a journey that leads you from washing the dishes in the sink to straightening up the couch cushions to folding every blanket strewn across your living room.

But you can only keep going so long.

Eventually you run out of tasks, or out of steam. You’re not sure which hit first as you allowed yourself to fall onto the couch with a huff. The dread comes rushing back all at once, nearly paralyzing you as you gather up one of the meticulously folded blankets and cover yourself with it.

No matter what, no matter how many birthdays come and go, you always feel the same devastation of the years going by. With a start you realize that this is your first birthday that you no longer consider your parent’s house your home. It startles you, making you think back in an attempt to identify when the last time you referred to it as your home was.

What are they doing now? Surely they are awake by now, but they haven’t called. Probably giving you privacy, not wanting to wake you up in case you had a wild night to kick off your birthday weekend. It was rare, but it could have happened.

You should call them, but the thought of even talking to your mom right now is making your throat close. It’s all too much, everything is going too fast. You still remember your fourth birthday party, the one with the fairies and the cheap wings made of coathangers and your mother’s old stockings that all the little kids decorated. It gets you thinking about how you used to make crowns with her out of construction paper, emblazoned with crayon butterflies.

A sob wrenches from you before you even realize you are crying, it’s a horrible strangled sound that you hardly recognize as your own. Tears blur your vision as you check the bedroom door, praying that Eddie hadn’t heard.

After a few moments without movement, you let the tears fall and the misery engulf you.

It’s confusingly irrational and rational at the same time, the contradiction eating you up inside as you consider having an annual crisis over the inevitable death of your parents while still actively having the crisis. Your hysterics feel ridiculous, you’re twenty-five now, your frontal cortex is fully developed and you should be able to move on with the idea that someday they will be gone.

Gone.

Jesus. You wonder if every child feels this way or if you are the only one. The soft cushions of the couch welcome you as you slouch onto them, shoulders shaking as your face wedges into the corner of the sofa. Once the floodgates are open you can’t stop them, thinking about how there will eventually be a day that it's the last time you speak with them and you’ll never know it until it already happens.

You helplessly remind yourself that you always tell them you love them before you hang up phone calls, before you leave their home after weekend get-togethers and holidays and family dinners. But will you regret not spending more time with them? Will you look back someday and wish that you had spent more of your fleeting moments with people that were all too temporary despite the fact that they meant everything to you?

Do people with siblings feel like this? The solitude that comes with the idea of the death of a parent? You don’t know, doomed to be an only child and always carrying the burden of it on your shoulders and your shoulders alone.

You don’t know how long this meltdown lasts, crying and crying and crying about grief that is yet to happen, regrets you don’t even know you will have. No matter how hard you try to be rational and firmly rooted in the present, you find yourself mourning people who are still alive every year on the day that should be a celebration.

A gentle hand on your spine startles you from the spiral of your thoughts, shame and grief and guilt fraying your nerves as you choke on a sob. You stiffen like you are electrocuted, your shoulders curling in as you compress closer to the back of the couch.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Eddie’s voice is still groggy from sleep, raspy and soft in all your favorite ways.

You can only imagine his confusion, he probably woke up expecting you to be reading a book or finishing up your birthday cake instead of burrowing into your couch in a fit of tears.

Eddie has never been around for the quiet parts of your birthday, the moments where you hide yourself away and wallow. You’ve been friends for ten years now, dating for two of them, but you’ve still managed to keep this secret in the hollow of your heart and bear your misery alone.

“It’s okay,” you exhale, the simple words a staccato as you try to catch your breath. Your face is soaked with tears, you keep it mashed against the couch as you try to stuff everything you’re feeling back into the neat little box it sprung from.

He lets out a soft breath, his fingertips start to move up and down from the base of your skull to where your ratty and holey pajama bottoms hug your hips. “If it’s okay then what are you doing out here crying?”

You know the second you face him the temporary dam you have managed to build will come crashing loose. Eddie nevertheless manages to squeeze his long fingers into the space between your shoulder and the fabric of the couch, slowly turning you on your back to face him.

He looks so sweet, his hair gathered in a loose bun at the nape of his neck and his brown eyes round with concern as he looks down at you. Instead of sitting on the couch he’s kneeling next to it, his face closer to yours than you anticipated. You’re sure you look like a disaster, skin red and splotchy and eyes bloodshot. No matter how many times you rub the back of your hand across it you can’t stop your nose from running like a faucet and your lips are so swollen.

Eddie cups your cheek with a calloused hand, rubbing your tears away with his thumb as his brows furrow. “C’mon, baby, talk to me.”

The plea is so genuine that you immediately whine despite your attempts to steel yourself against your emotions. You burst into an additional round of tears, crying so hard that you are nearly choking. Despite your attempt to explain, your words are unintelligible, distorted by your sobs.

Eddie’s arms curl around you, warm even through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. With no help on your part, he manages to pry you off the couch and into his lap, cradling you against the seat of the couch. As always, he just knows what to do.

He coaxes your head to find the curve of his neck, his fingers caressing the back of your skull as he remains silent. Rather than try to understand what’s going on right now, he just lets you cry it out.

Your tears soak into the back fabric of his cut off Metallica shirt, your arms winding around his torso as you cling to him. Eddie is so solid, he always has been when it comes to you. After knowing one another for a decade, he knows how to handle your storms, how to bring them down to a manageable size and get the gray clouds to go away.

Eventually the sobs slow, you take greedy pulls of air as your fingers twist in the fraying bottom edge of the shirt Eddie is wearing. He claimed there was something he found overstimulating about where the hem originally landed on his lanky frame, cutting it so slivers of his pale stomach were visible any time he moved. Your fingers pressed along the line of skin just above where the elastic of his boxers hung low.

“Do you, uh, just ever think about how everyone is gonna die?” In retrospect, you’re not sure if that’s how you’d phrase the question. It comes out mumbled and wet-sounding against his shoulder, your eyes squeezed shut as you attempt to explain.

He hums his acknowledgment, leaving you empty space to fill. It’s the telltale way he pulls things from you, knowing that if he doesn’t say anything you will babble to fill that silence.

“It’s stupid.” You squish yourself closer, briefly wishing that you could just sit inside his skin. “I just, uh, always think about how, like, when I get older on my birthday that everyone else gets older too?” The way you say it makes it sound like a question rather than a statement.

Again, just a sound of acknowledgement.

“It just is so shitty that everything goes so fast and my parents are getting older and someday I won’t have them and even though I’m older now I don’t even know anything and I have no idea how to do anything without them,” you babble, your gasping breaths interrupting the stream of consciousness spilling from you.

Now that you’ve started you can’t stop. “It’s like my birthday is a marker for how much time is changing and it feels so fast and I’m not ready to be by myself and get even older.” A few tears squeeze out of your eyes, your fingertips pressing into his torso.

“Why am I like this?” you whisper, the question defeated and soft.

“Because you are the most caring person I know, baby,” he murmurs in response, his arms winding around you completely as his hands rub up and down your arms. His cheek squishes into the crown of your head, his warm breath against your scalp. “But nothing is happening yet, and I know the way your brain works makes it feel so real to you even though it’s not real. It will be someday, but you can’t think about it like this right now.”

You nod slowly, trying to take deep breaths. The years of anxiety and guilt and paralyzing fear seem to melt away under his reassurance. “Never talked about this with anyone before,” you mumble into him, feeling deflated.

“You don’t have to do everything by yourself, baby,” Eddie says, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of your head. The two of you are in a tangle of limbs on the floor of your living room, holding each other close.

You nod against him, the simmering pot of emotions finally slowing down. “I love you,” you say, your words sounding thick and wet and so small.

“I love you too.” The way Eddie says it, you can hear his smile.

You don’t know why you keep this all to yourself, why you let everything bottle up and the emotions consume you. But you’re so thankful that it’s Eddie you have to talk to.

You finally lift your head, lip wobbling as you look up at him with wet eyes. His pink mouth is twisted into a smile, a kiss stamped against your forehead. “There you are,” he murmurs, a tinge of excitement in his tone like he just won a game of hide and seek. A hand comes up to wipe away the tears slicked across your cheeks, his calloused fingertips rough against your skin.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Eddie says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. The cliff you were teetering on feels so far away now, your ribs no longer cracking apart under the weight of your guilt.

“Thank you,” you whisper, a sheepish smile settling on your face as you tilt your head up toward his. Eddie presses his lips to yours without hesitation, a hand caressing your jaw as he kisses you with such a fervor that you don’t think you can ever deny the fact that this boy loves you.

His brown eyes are soft as you pull apart, flicking over your face before settling on your gaze. “Now, how about we get dressed and go get some birthday waffles from the diner,” Eddie suggests, nudging your cheek with his nose. “Your mom told me she always makes you waffles for your birthday, but with my luck I’d probably burn your kitchen down.”

You laugh, Eddie’s expression coloring with pride as the sound rattles from you. “Yeah, okay, let’s go,” you murmur, nodding as you start to stand.

Eddie joins you, looping an arm around your shoulders and tugging you to the bedroom of your apartment. He keeps pressing kisses to your forehead, whispering little quips to you that keep earning peals of laughter.

He’d bend over backwards or lasso the sun just to make you smile, and you realize that Eddie is your favorite present this year.

[an-au-blog]

Finishing drafts from when East Blue Asylum thoughts had been plaguing my brain...

Being in the white room is the worst thing in Sanji's eyes. It makes him think of when Judge would lock him in the one basement that he wouldn't let the servants go in. When he was stuck there, at the mercy of Reiju, who could only sneak in the dead of night to give him the half-eaten bread she would sneak out to feed him after everyone was asleep.

So now, Sanji's biggest fear was that he would be put in the white room, alone and starving. He did anything to avoid getting in it. The same couldn't be said about Zoro. The very first time Zoro had gotten a "detention" in the room, Sanji had a horrible panic attack. They hadn't even been acquainted yet, Sanji just knew him as the quiet and scary man that Luffy spent time with. But when he saw him getting detained he couldn't help spiraling.

His breathing quickened, he started chanting "no" in a frenzy, before he knew it, he was gripping at him, trying to pull him away from the orderly. Before he realized it, he was a shaking, weeping mess on the floor.

He had a bone-chilling fear of disobeying orders, because what if this were to happen to him? He would most certainly die in there, forgotten and missed by no one. But then again, he couldn't let his friend's friend have the same fate. He hid what he could before the day ended, which wasn't much, a couple of grapes and some crackers that could fit through the food slot.

So he snuck out, hoping Zoro wouldn't give him away in any way. He called for him, waiting to see something move through the food slot after opening it. He almost screamed when he saw a pair of eyes jump in front, but thankfully, he didn't manage to make too much noise. "I brought you food..." Sanji whispered. He didn't know what else to say, what else was there to say? He wasn't even sure the man understood him or could respond, he's never really heard him speak and Luffy would talk to him in Spanish as well as English, so maybe he couldn't...

But then Zoro lifted his face to reveal his mouth. Sanji realized that he was expected to feed him, but he'd rather risk that than to let a man go hungry. He still feared that the other could bite down on his fingers, but he decided he was willing to take the risk. One grape, then two, tree, four... he never even grazed the spin of his fingers. But then there was the problem. The crackers had gotten all crumpled up, so when Sanji scooped some with his fingers, he felt his fingers entering the mouth, getting his digits licked clean... It felt too intimate for comfort. Still, he fed him every last crumb. The blond had already felt like he was feeing a wild animal, but then Zoro nuzzled his head against the hand that fed him and Sanji felt a lump in his throat, just like an attack, his heart quickened, but this time he couldn't feel the fear.

"Thank you for not biting me..." Sanji finally pulled back his hand.

"Thank you for feeding me." A gravely and unused voice spoke. It shook Sanji to his core and whole being vibrated on the inside.

He went back to his room.

Zoro was let out a day after.

[hum-suffer]

Of course, you'll hurt me (Rajneeti) part 5

With Samar's glasses over her eyes, Amrita stands at a corner and stares off in the distance, remembering the last time she wore something belonging to Samar.

(It was the day they last met. She was wearing his jeans jacket. He'd made her smile and laugh and he'd made it her best day. And then, he never talked to her again. He avoided her calls, never answered her messages and emails. Amrita shoved the jean jacket in the spare storeroom of her house the very day he left india.)

(The sense of belongingness in her chest is heavy as a panic attack as she feels the frames of his sunglasses licking her ears. She hates him for coming back and for ruining the control she sowed over the years.)

That guy has guts, is what Amrita thinks as she is left alone in the car while Prithvi goes to give his prepared speech. This Suraj guy is somehow a bit correct in his place but Amrita has never been enough of a satyavadi to actually appreciate his tirade. Behind her sunglasses, she rolls her eyes and wishes she could instead her some random songs instead of this irritating battle of words. It's getting on her nerves.

Apparently, Prithvi doesn't have too much patience too. He reiterates that Jeevan Kumar will be the candidate from Azad nagar, and the guy huffs, turning away and leaving a crowd behind, that's cheering his name.

God, what a mess.

Despite the sunglasses, Amrita contemplates getting herself another pain killer and an expresso. With the amount of reports here, she knows it'll be plastered all over the net about how the Rashtrawadi party isn't doing well in Azad nagar, especially with it being an area set up by the party itself years ago. Some sort of sick irony.

Prithvi bhaiya has a shrewd look about himself when he finally walks down the stage and Amrita knows she's in for a rant as soon as she shares a look with Harsh.

As soon as they're seated in the car, Prithvi snarls. "I want details on that guy. Immediately."

"Already on it," Amrita says, pulling off the glasses and putting them back in the compartment. She's seen this guy, she knows him. "He's Ram Kaka's son, Suraj. He's got a lot of friends and he's a local hero, from what Kaka has told me."

Prithvi narrows his eyes at her. "You know him?"

"I know your driver and I'm decent enough to talk to him," she retorts, clenching her jaw at his tone. She knows he is angry and Prithvi has never quite managed to have a better temperament. Whenever he's angry, he destroys everything around him. Typical male anger.

(Amrita would know. Her father has the same explosive anger.)

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Dev is absolutely unsurprised when she goes to pick him up, her hair in a mess and her clothes creased. Harsh had offered to drop her but she'd rather spend time one on one with her little brother than this hovering feeling of being involved in the politics.

Just because she dabbled a little into politics while in college, and just because she's Prithvi's assistant, it doesn't mean that she's just going to sit down and let the possibile political implications ruin her time with her brother.

Dev's blue berry icecream tastes horrible and chalky, leaving a layer of dryness on her tongue when she takes a bite. She scowls at Dev as he laughs,"Of course, I knew you wouldn't like it."

"Why offer it at all?"

"You made bhindi yesterday despite knowing I hate it," he shrugs,"Balance tallied."

Amrita narrows her eyes as she takes a tiny bite of her pineapple icecream. "It is definitely not tallied. I'll be making bhindi again, just to irritate you now."

"I won't eat it!" He sticks out his now blue tongue at her, despite knowing that he needs to eat whatever she makes, of course.

Amrita raises an eyebrow. "You'll eat what I make or starve. Now, tell me, what did you eat for lunch? Abhi and Khushi didn't come to college today?"

Dev steals a bite from her icecream and shakes his head. "They did come, but they left earlier to go on a date."

"Ah, young love," Amrita exaggerates with a sigh,"You still have no crushes in your faculty?"

Dev rolls his eyes and shakes his head vehemently. "Absolutely not. I'd just rather stay focused on myself. I don't think I can juggle too many responsibilities. I need to score the goddamn best in the class."

Amrita throws away his empty cup and gives him the remaining half of her icecream. She swats his head before ruffling his hair affectionately. "I love you, Dev, but you need to understand that I have no expectations from you. I don't need you to top. I need you to enjoy your life and just maintain good grades. You don't need to be the best in that class, you're already the best boy I know."

Dev yawns and nods. "Yeah, I know, but I just want to make you proud."

Amrita feeds him a spoonful of the icecream and kisses the side of his head. "I'm always proud of you, no matter what. Don't force yourself into anything because of mental or peer pressure." Amrita wishes she could say more, do more. He's her everything. He's the Sun of her universe.

"Yeah." He doesn't look unconvinced but the typical aversion to emotions has returned and Amrita huffs out a laugh at him, urging him to eat up the icecream quickly so that she can go to drop him off back home.

He sideyes her when she buys a coffee to go for herself but doesn't say anything about it, talking to her about his college instead. There's going to be some fresher's party soon, he says, tone hopeful and wondering.

He says this as they reach home, knowing that she immediately has to leave and hence can't give him a whole lecture or interrogate him about all the details of this farewell party.

"Send me the details, I'll pay the amount by evening." She grins at his answering whoop. Under other circumstances, she'd have had more questions for him, but she'd have let him go anyways and she knows he deserves a treat after the fiasco yesterday. She hopes that no other day comes where he has to spend the night alone in their home.

"You're still going to be back home by 11 pm, you hear me?"

Dev bounces on the ball of his feet as he nods feverently, almost vibrating in excitement. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise, I'll be back at the dot!"

Amrita shakes her head at him and starts to leave. "I'll see you for dinner, be safe!"

She doesn't leave until Dev is back in the house.

Two blocks later, she parks on the side of the road and downs the coffee as soon as she can, hoping her stomach won't grumble when she goes back to the Pratap residence. In between the travel time to and fro Dev's college, the issue with Surya Kumar, and the media fallout of it, Amrita hasn't had the time to have a proper meal. The ice cream and coffee aren't actual meals, but they'll sustain her until she can come back home for dinner.

She sighs deeply, wishing that she could just run away from the problem and take a long vacation.

Her phone rings, and it's Indu.

Amrita cusses thoroughly as she picks up the call.

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Walking in the Pratap house, Amrita takes in the sight of Chandra uncle and Prithvi hunched over the table, talking in hushed tones. She drops the files of investors and the poster sketch on the table near them, greeting Bharti aunty quietly before she sits down across Prithvi.

She ties her hair in a quick bun, and puts her earrings in the pocket, starting to adjust the schedule for the next day.

"You have a meeting with Mr. Bajaj tomorrow, 9 a.m." She tells Prithvi, writing down the location, the time, the particulars and the members of the meeting in the organised order that she's been doing for years.

Prithvi shakes his head. "Postpone it."

"Why and at what time?" She asks, barely stopping herself from gritting her teeth in irritation at his presumptive nature.

"I'm going out with Samar, to get him a watch. Write that down. We'll go to the Casio and Titan showrooms. I did tell him he could even get Cartier but he's stuck on the vintage looks for Titan." Prithvi says, the last sentence directed to Chandra uncle, who nods with a chuckle.

Amrita sighs and puts a reminder in her phone to call Rithik, Mr. Bajaj's secretary, for the change of time. Knowing the two men, it'll take at least an hour for them to select a watch and it'll take another half hour, Prithvi will insist on feeding Samar.

She's wondering what exactly she should tell Rithik when Samar walks into the room, dressed in a simple worn grey tshirt and jeans. He holds her eyes for a long moment, expression hopeful. She remembers him calling her Amu.

She remembers Indu's phone call.

Amrita turns back to the diary. "So, I can pencil your visit to Titan at 9 a.m. We can move the meeting with Mr. Bajaj to 11 a.m. And then you have another meeting with the leader of the student wing of our party, Shweta Kulkarni, at 12:30 p.m. Then, you have the party meeting at 3 p.m."

Samar's head snaps up. "Bhaiya, please don't move any meetings because of me. I'm going to be here for a couple more days, we can go later."

Amrita almost shakes her head. Little brothers and their incessant need to make sure that their elder siblings know just how uncool it is to hangout with elder siblings.

Amrita wishes she could have brought her earphones and it would have been socially acceptable to work in a group while wearing her earphones. She does not wish to be a part of this conversation and neither does she need any information from this conversation.

Prithvi shakes his head. "We're going. That's it. If I can't make time for my little brother, what kind of an elder brother am I, huh? And you're already planning on leaving. Let me have some time with you."

It's the emotional blackmail card that has Amrita standing up. All eyes snap to her for a moment and she gives a half smile to no one in particular, picking up her diary as she goes. "I'll reset the meeting."

She moves to the backyard to call Rithik, who, thankfully agrees to postpone the meeting after a quick word with his boss, since Mr. Bajaj has the hour at 11 a.m. free already. Bless her luck.

It's when Rithik passes the phone to Mr. Bajaj that Amrita considers that she may just have jinxed her own luck.

Instead of the self righteous anger that Amrita is expecting, Mr. Bajaj chuckles as he says,"Prithvi babu only just checked his schedule, didn't he?"

"Yes, sir," she says, embarrassed and sheepish because of Prithvi. They'd gone over his schedule on the previous day too. If he'd just told her— at least they'd have been professional and Mr. Bajaj would have a 24 hours notice.

"I wonder how you manage to work with him," he laughs,"Prithvi babu has always been impulsive. But do not worry, Ms. Arya, I will fully accommodate you and him."

Amrita squashes the urge to sigh. "Thank you, Mr. Bajaj. We will see you in your office at 11 a.m. tomorrow."

"Of course. Thank you, Ms. Arya."

"And thank you, sir, for being so accommodating. I hope you have a good day."

This time, Amrita actually finds herself wishing her pleasantaries to be true. Any man who is this calm about a sudden change in time needs to have good days. If it were anyone else, Amrita would have been humiliated and Prithvi would have lost favour.

When she turns to go back, Samar is standing at the door, hand raised to knock. Amrita startles, putting a hand on her heart. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."

Samar frowns minutely and shakes his head, as if dismissing a thought. "No, I'm sorry for startling you. Um, anyway, Maa sent me to ask you if you'd like some tea."

Amrita shakes her head, pressing her lips in a quick smile. "No, thank you."

"Right, I'll tell her to make a couple of parathas for you." He turns to leave, an unbearably smug tilt to his lips.

"I already spent my lunch," she calls out after him, deliberately not using his name. "Thank you for the offer, however."

Samar turns back to her. "You're telling me you had the time to go to Dev's college, eat icecream with him, drop him back home, come here and eat lunch too?"

"Being oversmart is not a virtue." Is all she says, pursing her lips in irritation.

He sighs and slaps a hand to his mouth and takes a moment to compose himself before speaking again. "I'm sorry, I won't press you. But, Amu, can we please have that conversation tonight?"

Amrita shakes her head before he even finishes the question. "Tomorrow," she tells him, because she is a coward, who knows that Indu has planned to propose to him and Amrita doesn't want to forgive him only to face heartbreak. Again.

He frowns, looking like he would have some words but stops himself again. "Thank you," he says quietly.

Amrita nods at him awkwardly. "I'll make an appointment for the showroom for tomorrow."

"Yes, of course." He keeps staring at her, and for a moment, Amrita thinks he will walk forward and again—

He doesn't.

He clears his throat, his ears turning red as he turns away instantly and leaves.

Amrita doesn't realise she's smiling until she looks at the black screen of her phone.

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Fifteen minutes later, Smita, the house help, comes to her with a paratha.

Stubborn bastard, Amrita thinks with a sigh even as she begins to dig in.

He eyes her from the other end of the table, she can feel his eyes burning on the side of her face. The tiny smile she spies on his face when she takes a bite is just as endearing as it used to be all those years ago.

She looks back to her diary when she remembers again what Indu had begged her to help with.

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There's something about seeing his shades on Amrita's face.

When Samar actually sees the news, he has started it with the intention to watch the whole speech and then mock his brother for his incantation and speech pattern. However, when his eyes fall on a figure in the far back, on a figure clad in blue instead of the bleak white of everyone around her, his breath hitches.

He can't see much of her expressions since but he knows (knew, his mind corrects and he winces) she doesn't enjoy loud noises and crowds. The shades on her face prove his memory to be correct even in the present. Amrita never wears shades unless she has a headache.

He wishes he could give her those chocolates she loved, they always lifted her spirits up.

When he squints, he sees the shape of the glasses and it rings a bell in his mind until it bangs and he remembers— those are his shades. He left him in the car today, when he went out with Prithvi bhaiya.

The urge to be there next to her, to hold her hand, to cup her cheeks, it all comes back. He wants to hold her hand and lead her away from the public and run his fingers through her hair and let her settle until her headache is gone.

He was a coward, all those years ago.

He can't be one now.

He only wishes that Amrita will hear him out.

____________________________________________________

Tagging: @akshinayak

[yourwildsimp]

blood stains and butterflies

includes: Soap, Ghost warnings: PTSD, panic attack, vomiting, gore length: 4,000 some words summary: Ghost isn't all too happy that Christmas showed up months early. A/N: uh... Boo. I'm alive! Anyways, new obsession time. Also, ik tumblr goes crazy with bots but where did they all swarm me from?? Enjoy though, and please give me feedback.

Ghost stumbles, nearly slipping in the pummeling rain. His gloved hand hardly catches traction on the slick side of their stupid fucking safe house that's spat up 30 miles past bum fuck nowhere.

The sky is as dark as the field that surrounds him, clouds hiding the moon away like it's something shameful.

I'm shameful, Ghost's brain spits as he gasps as quietly as he can. He can feel his throat closing up tight- too tight- tighter than anything he can handle.

Oh sure, because waterboarding and gasoline is nothing compared to stupid, god awful-

"Creepin' Jesus, L.t.-"

Ghost hardly has the wherewithal to yank his mask just over the bridge of his crooked, fucked up nose before he's spilling what little bit of lunch he ate before they were sent on this lousy mission.

"Ghost, what's goin' oan? Ye alright?"

Shut up. Shut the hell up. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

He's dry heaving so much that something is stinging somewhere deep behind his eyes.

A hand, steady yet uncertain, touches his shoulder and Ghost feels flames licking at his skin, even through the ever persistent rain storm.

"Don't fucking touch me," he seethes, baring his teeth like a rabid animal, feet clumsily scrambling further away, leaving his arms to weakly try to compensate. The last thing he needs is to bust his ass on his own throw up.

Soap jerks his hand away like he is the one being burned. The rain is so loud, but not even shelling could drown out the sound of Soap's breath catching in his throat.

"I'm fine," Ghost rasps, sounding impossibly fragile even to his own ringing ears. "Go back inside before you get yourself sick, Soap."

"Sick like ye?"

Ghost is gagging on bile before he can spit fire back. Instead, he spits up the last of his pathetic lunch.

"I said I'm fine. They're just-" Christ, he's shaking so hard he might slip again- "fucking Christmas lights. Nothing's wrong with me."

If Ghost would stop being a little bitch for a second, he'd see the way Soap's eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion with a single blink.

"This is aboot th' holiday decor?" Soap asks desperately. Ghost can hear a puddle splash as Soap inches closer.

Ghost would rather be buried alive again than admit that he is having a breakdown over some lights speckled with blood. Hell, he'd rather gulp down gasoline than speak anything ever again.

Ghost screws his eyes shut in hopes of- of what? Hiding? He's such a shameless coward.

"L.t. please. What's goin' oan? I don't understand- what's wrong with th' lights?"

The door was kicked open, windows smashed in, and they were dead long before he jerked his car in park.

He wanted- needed- them to be alive so badly, so desperately, he skimmed over the fact that more of Joseph's brains were on the wall than in his skull for fuck's sake-

He's retching again, but tears are making his vision too blurry to see what he's hurling onto the muddied clump of grass beneath his feet. Rain, actually. The rain is making his vision blurry.

"Come back inside 'fore ye hurt yerself more. Please, Ghost." There is a noticeable hesitation and Ghost hopes Soap will just go back inside and leave him in shambles.

Soap doesn't go anywhere, but Ghost crumbles anyway from what he says.

"Ye're scarin' me…"

"You're scaring me! Tommy, stop it! Please- please stop!"

Tommy sneered behind the cracked skull mask, and Simon felt his lower bunk dip with his brother's weight. The pillow under his head was snatched from him.

"Don't ever beg anyone for anything, Simon. Hasn't dad taught you that?" The sneer bled into a sickening grin. "Here, let's practice."

His pillow was shoved over his face before he could even choke out the word 'no'.

Ghost loses his footing and falls to his knees, hands weakly grasping for any leverage on the side of the safe house. There isn't any. His left knee digs into the mud as he stumbles.

Soap, the persistent, heaven-sent bastard, is by his side before Ghost slips any further.

"I don't-" Soap hovers by Ghost like a lost dog, buzzing with confusion and concern. "A'll take it doon, Lt. A'll get rid of it all."

Ghost vaguely hears Soap's footsteps trailing off, the pummeling of the rain and the rushing in his ears nearly drowning it out. But then Soap stops and the footsteps rush back his way. Ghost shudders in the rain, in his thoughts, fingers weakly dragging against the dirt as he presses his back against the side of the shelter. Soap is so quiet that Ghost can almost pretend he isn't there.

But, fuck, he is. Standing right there, thinking God knows what, and Ghost's mask is still above his scarred, vomit-laced mouth-

Ghost drags his soaked sleeve over his mouth and chin so rough he feels a strap jerk against a scar. He grits his teeth and bares it and yanks his mask back over the rest of his face.

"Give me yer knives."

Ghost startles- fucking jumps out of his skin. He thought Soap was gone. Scratch that- he hoped Soap was gone.

Ghost slaps together the meanest glare he can muster. He's pathetic like this; a mess in the mud, his own vomit washing away in the rain next to him, being waterboarded by his mask.

Soap doesn't even flinch. Hell, he reaches his hand out, expectant.

"Ye might…" Soap takes a breath, his fingers curling into his palm just a little. "I don't want to come back oot 'ere to find that ye did something stupid to yerself."

"You think-" Ghost has to take a short breath, his voice shredded and raw and so god damn fragile. "You think that I'm-"

"I don't know what t' think," Soap rushes, sounding as desperate as Ghost hates to feel. "Just promise me ye won't."

Ghost screws his eyes shut, wondering if a promise like this only counts for the moment, or if he has to keep it for the rest of his miserable life.

"Am beggin' ye, Ghost."

"Did you beg them, Tommy? Did you?" Simon heard himself say as he stared at his brother's limp body dangling in a bloody mess of Christmas lights from the rafters. Fitting it was, that he suffocated. "Or did not have the chance to?"

"Simon-"

"Don't you- Don't fucking call me that," Ghost rasps.

Soap opens his mouth, desperate as a drowned man gasping for air, but Ghost beats him to it.

"I won't, fuck. I'm not bloody insane." Although he sure as hell felt that way.

Soap's jaw tightens, teeth clenching against each other as he draws his hand back. He is still hesitant to leave Ghost alone; alone with his thoughts and feelings. And knives.

"I won't," Ghost breathes quietly, Adam's apple bobbing as he gathers what little pieces of him were left. "I wouldn't, Soap."

Soap nods, gaze lingering as he turns his body away towards the shelter. "A'll kill ye, if ye do."

Ghost chuckles, heartless and hurt and so pitifully wrapped in his head. What a perfect way to go, that would be. That's the only way he can see himself dying, being taken out by Soap. Ghost wonders how he would do it.

Soap hasn't moved.

"I promise, Johnny."

That seems to do the trick because seconds later, Soap is taking off through the rain and heading inside the house.

Ghost is, blessedly, devastatingly, alone. But he's left with his thoughts. And they begin to wander before he beats them down.

The whole fucking shelter is done up with Christmas decorations, and it makes him wonder how many layers of dust are on every light and ornament. It makes him wonder what happened to the people who strung them up.

He doesn't wonder, however, how the blood splatters got there.

It's not even near the holiday season, either, which really pisses him off because it's just his luck. He thought he'd be safe from his holiday horrors, months away from Christmas. Of course the world slams a curveball right in his face and spits on him while he's down.

He doesn't notice that his hands are gripping at the top of his mask. They would be tugging on his hair, but he's a spineless, faceless coward. No wonder everyone thought Tom was the better brother. They were fucking right to, weren't they?

Christ, they're all he can see. Tom, hanging from the rafters by the Christmas tree lights, his throat a mangled mess. Beth, a crumpled mop of blinding white ribs and heavy dark blood, her Santa hat mostly red and somewhere underneath what was left of her. His mom, stabbed in the neck, blood soaking into her newest ugly sweater she was so proud of. Joseph's head and reindeer antlers headband was blown off with a bullet, his blood and brains and matter covering the various paint splotches on the wall where Tom and Beth couldn't decide on a new color.

Joseph's toy airplane kicked to the side, forgotten white wings stained with pieces of the boy.

He wanted to be a pilot when he grew up, Joseph did. He used to make Simon hold him above his head so he could stick his little arms out real far like they were wings on a plane. Simon would carry him all around the house; pretended to be the panicked control tower, telling pilot Joseph that he couldn't use the runway- the hallway- because there were fallen trees- a broom and a mop- blocking his path. Pilot Joseph was always a quick thinker, and he would land his plane further down the way, on an empty back road- the couch. And Simon would toss his beaming nephew on the ratty old brown couch and listen to his giggles as he shouted, "Again, Uncle Simon! Again!"

God, the pure joy on the kids face whenever Simon bought him that little toy plane for Christmas one year was burning at the back of his brain. Fucks sake, all Simon could afford at the time was a little figurine. It wasn't remote controlled, no doors could open- hell, the propeller couldn't even spin. But Joseph loved it more than anything in the world.

The sound of glass shattering behind the shelter has Ghost choking on his breath.

Simon would've killed to have been deaf when he took Tom down from the rafters. Glass shattered, body thumped, glass shattered, glass shattered, glass-

Bile scorches the back of his throat as his memory supplies the imagine of blood splattered Christmas ornaments. He tumbles forwards onto his hands and knees, frantically tugging his mask above his lips again. One hand claws at the dirt, the other, supported by his elbow in the mud, holding the bottom part of his mask out of the way as he retches and dry heaves until he swears he could be spitting up blood.

Ghost curls in on himself and falls to his side, a deflated, crumpled heap of shame.

It's all his fault. It is. If he had gotten there sooner, if he had seen it all coming, if he had never gotten compromised, if he had never joined the fucking military- none of it would have happend. It's his fault, all his fault.

"My fault," he heaves, blurry eyes boring into where the dark, starless sky seamlessly bleeds into the black, rocky mud. He's drowning in the stifling nothingness.

Tom could be coming home from work, kissing Beth hello, playing 'pilot' with Joseph. But he's not. He's a rotted corpse six-feet under the dirt. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault that it didn't turn out that way. His fault, all his fault.

"I'm sorry," he breaks, shaking his head, bringing his muddy glove to his face, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead. The other half hides, burying into the ground, like he could dig his own grave like this.

Joseph would've been in high school by now, driving and going to meet friends. But he's not. He's stuck in a wooden box next to his parents. That's how Simon should be. It's his fault-

"Please-"

"Ghost?"

Ghost's eye snap open, body tense and frozen. He vaguely notices that he's hyperventilating. Christ alive, he's breathing so fast but he can't get any air. He can't breathe, no matter how hard he tries. He might as well be buried alive again-

"…-ost, look at me. I need ye to look at me Lt."

Ghost's blood shot eyes snap in Soap's direction- when was he sat up against the shack's wall?- and his breath hitches somewhere deep in his throat before he feels his heart pitter faster. It's trying to break out of his ribcage, slamming into his cracking bones, threatening to bleed openly into Soap's hands. Soap has such nice hands. He'd hate to soil them.

"Where are we reit now?' Soap asks, carefully crouching in front of him, both hands resting open palm facing up on his knees.

Ghost feels his eyebrows furrow at that one. Has Soap forgotten? Your location seems like an awfully important thing to know.

"Ghost, I need ye to tell me where we are," Soap insists, the tendons in his neck pulled so taunt. Ghost worries. He worries that Soap will hurt his neck, straining how he is.

"Manchester?" he murmurs so low that he can feel how his vocal cords vibrate with it. Soap's neck pulls over his Adam's apple as it bobs rough. Ghost wonders what it would take to snap the stretched tendons there. Ghost thinks he'll kill anything that dares to graze them.

"Nae. Nae, Ghost. Look around. Look around ye an' then tell me where we are."

Ghost's eyes carefully draw away from Soap's vulnerable, tense throat, and move to meet his gaze. Soap is scared, he realizes slowly, the thought dawning on him as slow as the sun rises. Ghost furrows his eyebrows, a frown tugs his lips down at the side. Hesitantly, his eyes drift to the trees surrounding him. He can hardly pick up anything distinctive through the rain, but he feels his eyes widen.

"We're at a safe house. But- but then I-"

"That's reit, Ghost. We're on a mission waitin' for exfil. Do ye remember what our mission was?" Soap speaks like a kindergarten teacher. One who wears long, gray skirts and a yellow button-up blouse, has the thinnest heels on her black shoes, and always has her hair done up in a relaxed bun. Ghost vaguely remembers hating his kindergarten classes; he could never focus. Ghost thinks he would hang on every word if Soap was his teacher. "Stay with me, Ghost," Mr. Soap snaps his fingers once or twice, the sound dancing away through the rain.

"Gather intel on the terrorists' bio-weapons… Destroy the sample. Get out with no one the wiser." Ghost holds his breath for praise, for Soap to tell him he's right. Tell him thats he's not a fuck up, not weak or stupid or not masculine enough. To tell him that maybe, he deserved everything that happened to him

"Yeah, that's right. There ye go, Ghost." Soap's lips twist into a pitiful, beautiful thin-lipped smile. "Thought I lost ye for good there, L.T."

"Never," Ghost rasps before he can shut his big fat mouth.

Soaps lips quirk up more at that, and Ghost has half the mind to get on his knees and ask for repentance. Acceptance, even.

"Are ye alright to come inside?" Soap asks carefully, words treading carefully like Ghost was a minefield.

Sometimes he feels that way, if he were ever honest with himself. He feels like a wired ticking time bomb, bound to explode at the smallest of missteps.

Well, Soap just happens to be a demolition expert, doesn't he?

"Ghost? Did ye hear me?"

Ghost feels himself blink, and when he opens his eyes, he can only look at Soap's lips.

It's unfair, really, how it all slams into him at once, after everything.

He thinks about it. He thinks about it so vividly that he can almost feeling his rough lips against Soap's, feel his clean shaven jaw rub against Soap's stubble.

He takes a shuddering breath when the thought of betrayal and blood and Christmas lights flood his mind.

He doesn't deserve that. He doesn't deserve Soap's lips or stubble or- hell- his being. He isn't good enough.

Besides, it'll only get Soap killed faster. More brutal. They'd make Ghost watch, too. He couldn't shoulder that.

Ghost startles slightly when Soap's gloved hand waves in front of his eyes once or twice.

"Don't get in yer heid. Stay with me, L.T."

Ghost feels his lips tremble. Soap always knows his tells.

" 'm sorry, Johnny," Simon murmurs, blinking against the shine in Soap's eyes.

Soap softens at that, concerned frown morphing into a lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"No need to apologize, Ghost. Ain't yer fault," Soap hums.

Ghost grunts at that, and if it was in acceptance or disagreement, Soap could only hope to flip a coin.

Soap takes off one of his gloves, his pale skin free from the inky, filthy glove. He holds this hand out like an offering, palm up and fingers outstretched, inches away from Ghost's chest.

"Ready to dry off, L.T? I mean, we could keep showerin' out here if ye want to, but…" Soap trails off, eyes following the dark, angry clouds moving in from the west.

Soap has the bluest eyes. Like Scorpion grasses. Those invasive beautiful bastards spread like wildfire in his mother's dingy little garden one year and she could never get rid of them. Hell, she made the whole damn garden full of Scorpion grass.

Ghost leans his head closer- ever so minutely- to get a closer look at Soap's eyes.

Yeah. Soap's exactly like Scorpion grass.

He's certainly invasive. Ghost didn't want him at first, but he kept coming back. Over and over and over again. And, well, Ghost certainly can't stand to get rid of him now. Soap calms his jumpy fucking nerves too, just like the flowers. He smoothes out Ghost's worries like it's as easy as spreading melted butter on toast.

Forget-me-nots.

That's right- they're also called forget-me-nots.

Ghost couldn't forget Soap for anything. He'd know him anywhere, anywhere at all. On earth, in hell, somewhere in the gray in between. Ghost could be blind and deaf, yet still know Soap if the man was near him.

Scorpion grass might just be his favorite flower if he allows himself that much.

"…Ghost? Ye alright?"

Ghost blinks, ripping his gaze away from the vast ocean he almost drowned in. With another, deliberate, blink, he realizes Soap is blushing. Pink dusts over his cheeks, his eyes struggling to hold their place on Ghost.

"Somethin' on my face?" Soap chuckles, the sound high and tense.

Ghost swallows, breath catching in his throat so suddenly his mouth dries up. He tugs his mask all the way down again, and fixes it firmly in place.

None of it matters anyway. Not a single bit of it. Not the way Soap looks at him like he's the most important thing in the room, not the way his face heats up when Soap punches his shoulder before they load out on a mission, and definitely not the way his heart pitter-patters oh-so quickly when Soap smiles at him when he says a stupid, corny joke.

None of that matters because the Scorpion grass in his dead mother's garden flopped over and went to hell when Ghost tried to care for them after she was gone, and so will Soap.

"Get out of yer head, Ghost."

Ghost flinches his head back, the sternness in Soap's tone sending him reeling.

"I'm was not-"

"Ye were. Ye had that 1,000-yard-stare glossed over yer eyes," Soap squints at him.

"I always have that stare, Soap. It's part of the fucking job," Ghost bites back.

"Sure, but when ye're out of it, it looks different."

"It does not-"

"Yes, it bloody does!" Soap sneers, the genuine anger in his face catching Ghost off guard. Ghost watches Soap as he sucks in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his jaw, before swallowing behind the perfect columns in his neck. "It does. And I am sick and tired of losin' ye to yerself."

Ghost looks at him, really looks at him for any sign of- hell, he doesn't fucking know anymore. Resentment, maybe? Soap has every right to hate him.

Soap sighs, running his ungloved hand through his hair. His shoulders seem so weighted. Ghost wants to hold it all for him; carry everything even if the weight of it all breaks his bones twice over.

"Let's get inside, L.T." Soap reaches out his hand again, stronger this time and no longer shaking. "Before the rain makes ye more sick. We're both soaked to the bone and the fuckin' shack doesn't have any heating. Nothing 'sides a little fireplace. Hope ye don't mind strippin' down to yer tighty-whities near me."

It kills Ghost. It kills him that Soap doesn't speak a word of Ghost's several outbursts and breakdowns that have happened in the span of… of- Christ above, what time is it? How long has he been smothered in his head over Christmas lights?

Ghost takes a weary breath before he fully gets 'lost in his head' again.

The look of relief that breaks across Soap's face when Ghost strongly grasps his hand is enough to make the man's knees weak.

"Can't wait to see your Hello Kitty briefs again, Johnny," Ghost deadpans as Soap pulls them both to their feet. He knows Soap sees the way he sways with the rain, the way he uses the wall for support- Ghost can see it in his eyes. He's thankful, graciously thankful, when Soap doesn't mention it.

"That was one bloody time. Was Gaz's fault anyway," Soap grumbles, still holding Ghost's hand in his as he leads them inside.

As Ghost tentatively steps into the safehouse again, he realizes that Soap is a saint. Even though he's technically a mass murder, his sins are washed away with the simple act of rearranging a small shack.

Everything remotely Christmas themed is out of sight. No ornaments, no tree, no stockings, no snowmen, no Santas, no paper snowflakes- and not one single Christmas light. Ghost feels his face warm up a stupid amount as he tracks his eyes over the firepit.

The blood is gone.

Soap cleaned the fucking blood.

Ghost whips his head around, and in a rare moment- one of many so far tonight- his mouth is open without a sound coming out.

He wants to say something, really he does, but what can he say when Soap is busying himself with acting as if nothing has changed. As if this is the first time they've walked into the dump.

As if he isn't making a vile, almost forgotten feeling crescendo up in the empty void behind Ghost's sternum.

"Let's raid the place, yeah?" Soap says, looking over the layout. "There's the kitchen, living room, and bedroom. Though, that's fucking generous to call it that, eh?"

Soap is right; the living room and kitchen combined couldn't be more than 12 feet across and 10 feet wide. The bedroom is more of a closet with a pile of blankets against the wall. But, still, the kitchen has cabinets and the living room has a fireplace… that hopefully works.

"You search the kitchen, I'll see if the pit is functional," Ghost murmurs, ignoring how the words grate against his raw throat. Away from the rain, the chill of his soaked clothes is settling on his skin. He's ready to get warm and sleep away the pounding in his head.

"Copy that, L.T." Soap beams, sparing one brief glance before turning on his heels to ramble through the cabinets.

"And Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Johnny gives a lopsided smile that makes his eyes shine. "Of course, Simon."

[jasminedragoon]

Mer!Bowuigi AU HCs

I'm doing this because I cant decide on a solid design for shark!Bowser sorry

Bowser is the king of the Red Sea, he fits in well because he's a colorful version of a Megalodon

Luigi and Mario live in the Andaman Sea and are a part of Queen Peaches kingdom.

Queen Peach looks like a pink jellyfish, I like that she's unexpectedly dangerous and often she floats down in the games so this gives the idea that she does! (Ps the Toads are also jellies but they're the useless ones, moon jellies)

Luigi looks mostly like a mahi mahi and Mario is more like a black and red Oscar fish, due to his aggressive nature and it's stocky build.

Bowser frequently makes trips through the Indian Ocean to find prospects for a mate for himself or land to claim as his, in this he's run into King Boo when he accidentally went too close to the Sundra Trench

One day when he was on the prowl Luigi saw him and he hid amongst the coral. Bowser is an impressive specimen after all and very intimidating, even if Luigi's pretty big himself

Luigi oggled him for a moment too long because eventually Bowser got the feeling he was being stared at, which isn't unusual, but he always gets a laugh at chewing the person out and smelling their fear.

Darting his head around he spots Luigi and Luigi hids away behind some coral trying to quietly escape the situation. The toads quickly scrambled away upon noticing Bowser praying not to be his next snack.

Unfortunately for everyone it's shark mating season and Bowser took this as playfulness. He was going out to find Peach again to ask if she would be his mate again.

Bowser quickly caught him and blocked him in. Luigi gulped and got hot in the face staring up at the impressive shark.

Bowser gazed back down eyes starting to go black, before shaking his head and licking his lips. "What were you staring at shrimp?" he practically growled.

"P-please don't eat me." Luigi begged. "That depends on your reason for staring." Bowser placed one hand beside Luigi's head, inching forward. "Because if it's the right one I'll eat you in a way you'll love."

Looking back up into Bowsers eyes he notices them blown wide, not fully gone yet, but definitely close. He swallows and admits he was staring because he thought he was attractive.

That was all Bowser needed to take him back to his castle. He could ask questions later. "What are you doing?!" Luigi yelled now in the sharks arms as Bowser swam swiftly back to his kingdom, but he could barely hear him.

"Staring is rude, especially when you're staring at a king, so I'm going to punish you and then claim you." He growled swimming faster. Luigi honestly didn't mind the possessive situation he was in, in fact it was rather... attractive?

He never felt safe in his life, but he certainly does now. Though he was concerned about how Mario would react to his being gone and the way he was sure to be told by the toads, dramatic group they are.

Anyways they get back and... things happen

Time goes on and Luigi misses home and Bowser says he can't go because I love Beauty and the Beast.

The Koopa kids are a great distraction they even talk about possibly getting another sibling, there's no shortage of abandoned mermaids purses around the Kingdom.

Bowser takes care of Luigi's needs, anything but his freedom. After a panic attack from being introduced to the Kingdom and having split reactions Bowser promises to always be there to protect him and take care of him.

Despite this Luigi still misses Mario and his old life terribly so eventually he convinces Bowser to let him leave anytime he pleases if he promises to come back to marry Bowser.

Mario can't find the castle until he comes across Luigi after Bowsers ultimatum. Bowsers kids start to tell him that this is a terrible idea and he starts to second guess.

Luigi tells Mario the barebones of his time there, not that he's fallen in love, not of the amazing family he's grown into, not any of these because his nerves are running so high.

He finally spills that once he goes back he will marry Bowser and he wants Mario to be a part of the wedding. Mario is Pissed. He quickly goes to beat Bowsers ass, nothing goes well

Bowser and Mario fight and after evading most of Marios attacks he finally breaks and fights back, but accidentally hurts Luigi in the process.

He's so broken over this he tells both of them to leave forever and not to come back. With tears Luigi leaves and Mario follows, with questions and residual rage.

They both become depressed and nothing helps. Luigi becomes incredibly anxious and wishes Bowser to come and wisk him away again. Luigi finally decides after a week of nightmares he's going there to be with him.

He explains everything to Mario and leaves, Mario follows just in case

Bowuigi reconcile and kiss and love happily ever after❤️

Okay so I think that's every thought I have on it. Please ask questions about the world! I loved writing this and if anyone wants to add or write anything for it go for it!!

[arsonstick]

uhhhh writing blast GO

this is basically the up and adam dream from ep 16 but with @ctrl-alt-deleting-yr-face's oc hikari and their blorbo bedman (or romeo I Guess /silly)

cringe but free 💪💪💪

tw: auto-cannibalism, eating bugs, a mild panic attack

The man in the red paisley sits, grinning, his teeth glinting crimson.

"Ah, welcome, my dears."

There is an apple on the table, it's skin shiny and smooth. He holds another apple in his hand. Before either of them could say anything, he sinks his teeth into it.

"So glad you could make it."

The man is relishing every bite of the apple, it's sickly sweet perfume filling the air. 

"Would you care for some?" he asks, gesturing at the apple on the table.

"Please, do try it! It'd be quite rude to refuse."

He quickly grows bored of the taste, and chews his way into his fingers, the bone splintering.

Now this, this he seems to find heavenly.

He keeps biting down, the sickening wet crunch of the apple and his flesh mixing together. The air doesn't smell sweet anymore, rather metallic and utterly organic.

The blood drips down his face, mixing with the juice of the apple, but he does not stop. He keeps chewing and chewing, until the apple is gone and he is chewing down his own arm, the tendons and muscles severing with one strong bite.

The two teenagers- it’s hard to tell how old they truly are- have very differing reactions. Romeo’s eyes widen in some form of perturbation, while Hikari simply grins and turns to her purple haired friend.

“Romeo, can I? Can I have one?” She asks, smiling without a care in the world, as though she doesn’t even care about the scent of blood and flesh filling the space.

“…Sure. I’m honestly surprised you could even stomach it.” He responds curtly, finding an unorthodox spot to make himself comfortable while Hikari floats beside him.

She bites down on the apple, but the taste sours in her mouth.

A large cicada, half-dead from her bite, buzzes in her mouth. Seemingly unable to stop, she bites through it again and again, swallowing each twitching chunk.

Her heart starts racing. The cicada seems all too horribly familiar. Like something locked away, deep in her mind. She's breathing faster and faster, unable to stop chewing on the cicada, until a familiar voice breaks through.

"Hikari. That’s enough. You're fine." Romeo spits. She’d assume he’s glaring at her like usual, but she can’t look at him. She can’t think. His voice isn’t enough. It's not enough, not when it's still buzzing in her mouth and the man in front of her is still biting into himself, the blood starting to stain his clothes and face, and he still has the most delighted expression on his face, savoring the taste of himself.

Her train of thought is interrupted when Romeo sighs and appears in her vision.

"Look at me. Hikari, you're fine." The last of the cicada gives a weak buzz in her mouth. Her heart twists for the thing, she didn't know it would die.

"Breathe, slowly. In, and out." Romeo says. It's working.

After some time, she's calm again.

The man in front of them has eaten himself up to his upper arm, the torn fabric of his suit mingling with the red of his blood and interspersed with white flecks of bone. He has not stopped, however, and is enjoying his own heart, having pulled it out of his chest and thoroughly savoring it. He licks the blood out of the ventricles, finding the taste of himself utterly delicious.

[laladellakang]

OMGG i'm so honored that you will let me see the draft of you futur post if I want to and OFC i want to you're like one of my fav author/writer on tumblr so why i would not want to see one of your draft ?! Like really i'm currently so shocked 🥹🥹 i love youuuuu ( and Lala too ofc my girl ) 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

OKAY SO HERE IT IS, MAJORRR FIC SPOILER AND ITS SO SO BAD IM SO NOT PROUD OF IT. IT MAKES NOOOO SENSE (i mean it does but doesnt at the same time) but it was your birthday yesterday and i really wanted to give you a gift. please look forward to the revised and BETTER ver of this soon! 🤍

contains: angst. mentions of cheating (mainly jay)

The world is fucking different. 

Something is off, and I can sense it. Everything just feels strange.

Today, I went to campus for a lecture and ended up accidentally falling asleep in class. No big deal, right? It's not like it hasn't happened before.

The big deal was how odd everything was when I left the room.

I was supposed to be picked up by the car and taken home, but after waiting for ten minutes, there was no sign of it. 

I tried calling our driver, but the call got disconnected. I attempted to reach out to Sungho and Yunji, but their calls were disconnected too. I even tried calling every manager contact on my phone, but nothing worked. Plus it's not like I don't have any signal, it just wouldn't connect for some reason. Something about the numbers not existing.

I decided to take a taxi, hoping it wouldn't cause any trouble. But even the ride home felt odd. Seoul looked... different.

I texted the boys that I was on my way with a taxi and that I feel a bit off. I didn't get a reply or a single read, not even from Jungwon.

But it's whatever! I just wanna get home and cuddle with whoever's free.

Taking a deep breath, I entered the dorm using the combination.

My heart sank as soon as I stepped in.

Female shoes. Ones that are definitely not mine.

Nausea overcame me, and my breathing became heavy as tears welled up.

No. Della, don't. You trust them. She could be anyone. No one is cheating on you.

What if it's a sasaeng? Is someone breaking into our– no. Most, if not all, of the boys should be home. They would have done something if someone had broken in.

It can't be a relative either, as we would have informed the group beforehand.

Then who is she?

"I'm home," I managed to say in a normal voice, trying to hold back the tears.

I heard panicked shuffling and quickly wiped away stray tears before they could see me.

You're strong, Kang Della. Don't show any weakness or insecurity to whoever this person is.

And there she was, someone I had never met or seen before.

She had made herself at home, wearing loungewear and her hair styled in a messy up-do.

Her eyes were wide, mirroring my previous vulnerability, and her breathing was heavy.

And she was stunning. Her freshly-dyed blonde hair contrasted with my midnight black one. She was tall (though not as tall as me, judging by how high she reached the shoe rack), with a small face, big eyes, and plump lips.

Honestly, she reminded me of myself, but in a different font or something. I don't think she's Korean.

"Who are you, and how did you find out where we live?" she asked me fearfully. "How did you know the passcode?"

Wow.

Just wow.

I know that in situations like this (or at least what it's looking like), the blame should mainly fall on the cheater rather than the person they cheated with.

But she just referred to my home as hers. Ain't no fucking way.

"Where YOU live?" I scoffed, licking the inside of my cheek. "I'm sorry– who are you, and why are YOU here?"

That's when I noticed she was wearing my favorite Jay-shirt. It felt like my heart was being crushed, and I could feel the symptoms of a panic attack creeping up.

My sweet Jay. Earlier today, he woke me up and told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world. How lucky he felt to have me. His eyes showed sincerity. Was it all a lie? How can someone so lovely be so cruel?

"I live here. Who are you, and how did you know the passcode?" she responded, a bit more sternly. What the hell?

"This is Enhypen's dorm. I live here," I said, surprised that she didn't recognize me, even though she's dating a member of my group.

Shit. That stings. Park Jongseong fucking cheated on me.

Confusion crossed her face, and she was about to say something when we were interrupted by more shuffling.

We both turned and saw an angry Heeseung.

"What are you doing here? How did you get in?" he said sternly, pulling her behind him to protect her.

Heeseung too? My protective Heeseung who got angry at the other members if they left me unsupervised after my injury.

Now he's protecting her instead of me?

My heart started pounding, and it became harder to breathe.

"Heeseung-oppa?" I said in a small voice, feeling incredibly betrayed.

"Who are you?! Get out of our house before we call the police!" he raised his voice at me. The boys had never spoken to me like that before, especially not in such a harsh tone.

"I live here! Lee Heeseung, what are you saying?!" my voice shook as a few tears escaped.

More commotion followed, and this time all seven members appeared. Even Jake, who I could see peeking from the side of the wall.

Is he... afraid of me?

My Jake who was scared of the girls in I-Land but became so comfortable with me that his golden retriever personality came out. Now he barely wants to see me?

"You don't live here. Who are you?" Jungwon stepped forward. My Jungwon. Enhypen's leader who is ready to protect everyone despite being maknae.

But why isn't he protecting me?

"I—" the sight of all my boyfriends turning against me and defending this girl became too much. I could feel myself starting to hyperventilate, and a panic attack was on the verge of consuming me.

Shit. I haven't had a panic attack in so long and the fact that my lovers are the ones to trigger it is insane. Everything was perfect just this morning– what happened?

"Breathe. Take your time," Oh my Sunghoon. So incredibly precious. Always reassuring and giving me reminders since day one.

"Sunghoon," Heeseung scolded.

"She's going to have a panic attack! How can she explain anything?" Sunghoon reasoned. "Niki, get her some water."

"No, Niki. She should leave. Now," Sunoo said firmly. "I'm calling the police." My Sunoo, our sunshine. We've had our squabbles, but I've never been this scared of him. Now I understand what people mean when they say he has an intimidating face.

"Wait, wait. What's your name?" Riki asked. "Calm down a bit. Tell us how you got in," he approached me and gently rubbed my shoulder. I tend to forget that he's still so young since he hates when I remind him of our slight age gap. My Riki is too pure sometimes. He's doing this when I'm a stranger to them. 

Wait.

It suddenly hit me.

Shit, why didn't my brain work faster?

I'm a stranger to them. They don't know who I am.

It breaks my heart but I should at least introduce myself so that they know I'm not a threat.

I TOLD YOU THE WORLD IS FUCKING DIFFERENT.

"Jay-hyung, call the police," Riki switched languages, probably to ensure that I don't understand.

"Wait! Don't call!" my eyes widened, instinctively grabbing Riki's wrist. "I'm not a crazy fan, I swear!"

"Let go of him," everyone said in unison.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hold him. It was a reflex," I let go and took a deep breath. "My name is Kang Della. I'm a member of Enhypen."

"I'm sorry, what?" Sunoo scoffed. "We only have two female members in our team."

Two?

"What the fuck is happening with the world?" I couldn't help but chuckle humorlessly. "Have I gone insane?"

"Answer us– what do you mean you're a member of Enhypen?" Jungwon asked.

"Did I do that thing from Everything, Everywhere, All at Once?" I leaned against the wall, clutching my aching head. "Just give me a second."

I have officially gone insane.

Even if I did 'multiverse hopped' or whatever you call it, I have officially gone insane. My head fucking hurts.

"Can you please answer us?" Jake asked in a softer voice.

"My name is Kang Della. I was born on March 16, 2003. I'm from Seongbuk-gu, and in 2020, I participated in a survival show called I-Land," I looked up at their faces, hoping to see some recognition. Some looked in disbelief, while others seemed slightly annoyed.

"I made it into the final lineup of Enhypen. Seven boys, two girls. It was you seven plus me and Alice, but Alice left shortly after, so I was the only girl," my eyes welled up with tears at the thought of them not remembering me after everything we went through. "I live here. This dorm has been my home for almost three years. I was attending a class in university, and suddenly I came home to... to this."

"You expect us to–" Heeseung was about to say something when she cut him off. She moved closer to me, looking me in the eye. "Mila–"

"Do you have any proof?" she asked softly.

I maintained eye contact as I pulled out my phone. I let out a shaky breath when I looked at the screen for my Face ID.

The lock screen displayed a picture of us, my Enha.

I opened the gallery app, and a few tears escaped my eyes. I flinched slightly when Mila's hand reached out to wipe them away.

"Take your time," she assured me. Damn, she's sweet too. She seems perfect.

"Thank you," I whispered. My thumb hovered over the photo album labeled 'my forever.' I know I'm being dramatic but all I kept thinking was 'will I ever return to my world again?' "Here you go," I handed her my phone.

I watched as she scrolled through the pictures, but quickly adverted my gaze to the floor. I really wanna go home. I'm surrounded by my comfort people but they're not my comfort people.

"Guys.. These are actually you..." Mila turned around to show the seven. "And it's not even a look alike, it's definitely you. This is the company building," Jay took the phone out of her hands to have a closer look.

I saw him tap on a certain video and Shout Out started playing. That's when I couldn't take it anymore. Again.

I broke down. A full on panic attack.

"Oh my God," Mila wrapped her arms around me. "Let's get you inside. Niki, get her water."

Hearing Shout Out made me think of four things at the same time;

1. How the hell am I gonna go home and how long will it take.

2. I'm all alone in this world/universe/whatever this is.

3. I'm surrounded by people who look and are practically my soulmates, but they're not mine.

4. I guess we're not together in every universe after all. I know it's probably impossible and that the guys were just reassuring me for the sake of it, yet it still stings. This is a reality check.

[signoraviolettavalery]

I do believe it is time for the next installment of @touchyourblood 's and my vampire!Bojan AU - or at least, one version of it, wherein Jan is an undercover hunter who joins the band.

This is part 2 - one of my favorites, but also one of the angstier ones.

After their late-night heart-to-heart, Jan and Bojan return home and call a meeting of the band.

"He knows," is all Bojan says. Shocked, slightly horrified stares from all of them.

"I didn't tell him," Bojan adds. "He figured it out."

Jan repeats his soft-of-true story about how he's had an encounter with a vampire before and put two-and-two together.

"And?" Kris presses. The others look at him, worried. "You seem rather calm about this."

"I'm not scared of Bojan," Jan says. "I care about him, and the rest of you. I won't tell anyone, and I'd like to stay and be part of the band."

They agree, and give Jan a rundown of how they do things: they take turns being the ones Bojan feeds on. He only needs to do it once a week, and he only ever takes from the wrist for their safety. (Jan, who's seen Bojan feed and also in other contexts, thinks he's the most disciplined man he's ever seen, and that precaution is probably unnecessary). Most vampire myths are a lie, but they do have to be careful about silver and sacred ground. ("Glasgow must've been uncomfortable?" Jan asks. "Oh yeah," Nace says.)

And things really don't change much after that, except it's a relief to Bojan to not have to hide. ("I hid that part of myself because I didn't want you to be afraid of me," Bojan admits once). They don't have to keep the feedings a secret, though they're still discreet. They work together better than ever.

One day, Bojan seems especially tired. He's been puttering around the house, until, with a big sigh, he lies down on the couch, his head in Kris' lap (Jan is on a neighboring couch, strumming his guitar).

"When's the last time you fed?" Kris asks.

"Thursday."

"It is Thursday."

"Last Thursday, then."

Kris sighs and offers a wrist. "Drink," he says, in a tone that doesn't invite protest.

Bojan protests anyway. "I can't. We have a concert tomorrow, and you heal the worst."

"Yes, we have a concert tomorrow, and you need your strength for it, which means you need to feed."

"He can feed on me," Jan breaks in.

They turn to him, Bojan full of concern. "You don't know what you're offering," he says.

Jan, who's seen Bojan feed more than once, just smiles. "I have some idea," he says. "Besides. Your other friends volunteered, why can't I?"

"You have to be sure," Bojan says, panic almost edging into his voice. "Really sure." And Jan realizes just how scared Bojan is to show his 'monstrous' side.

"I am sure," he says, sitting down next to Bojan on the couch.

"It's easier if it's your right wrist," Kris offers. "For guitar playing, I mean."

Kris would know, of course.

Jan extends an elegant wrist that Bojan takes just as delicately. He hesitates, and Jan thinks he'll require more convincing. But after a second, Bojan lets his fangs extend and his eyes turn red.

It's...a sight. Jan's seen vampires look like that before, but not Bojan. It's a little frightening, to see a monstrous face on his friend. But instead of attacking his wrist, Bojan bites gently, carefully. It almost doesn't hurt, and Jan leans back into the cushions and lets his friend drink. He's expecting to get a little dizzy from the blood loss, but Bojan pulls away before he starts feeling anything close. Jan blinks.

"That can't have been enough," he says, as Bojan licks the last drops from his wound and it seals itself, like it's a few hours old.

"He never takes enough," Kris says. "You have to make him drink more."

"It's his first time. I took enough," Bojan says. He takes the bandage Kris offers (they keep them around the house for situations like this) and gently, carefully binds Jan's wrists. He doesn't let go when he's finished, but caresses his knuckles and looks him in the eyes. "Thank you," he says, sincerely.

And how could Jan have ever thought this man could be a monster? How could he have even considered the possibility? He's the furthest thing from it.

"Anytime," he says with a smile, and means it.

And, should you be inclined in the slashy direction (this is the only somewhat romantic bit and is more implication than anything)...

one night, the two of them are kissing, Bojan having pushed Jan back onto a couch. Jan's head is thrown back, Bojan is kissing his neck, licking it, but of course he's not going to bite, he'd never endanger his friend like that.

Except in that moment Jan says "you can. I trust you."

And Bojan, in that moment of intimacy...does, against his better judgment.

The next morning, Jan has a giant bite on his neck and they're all getting breakfast and Kris sees it and turns to Bojan. "you bit his neck??"

Jan: it's fine, I can wear a sexy little scarf

Kris: that's not the main issue and you know it

Bojan tries to agree with Kris, it was reckless and irresponsible and he should've known better, should've had better control but Jan isn't having any of it.

"It was my idea. I'm responsible for my own decisions. I told you I trust you, and you proved I was right."

But Kris is still concerned. "he did stop, right? You didn't have to pull him off?

Jan: for fuck's sake. It was my choice, it's not like he attacked me and fed. And he didn't come close to taking too much. In fact he stopped sooner than I frankly wanted him to."

Nace: that's ...sweet?

And it's all beautiful and wonderful and fine until Bojan goes into Jan's room, which had been Martin's room, looking for some old guitar paddle boards that he'd left behind in the closest or something, and finds....a hunter's kit stashed away there. One that Jan had practically forgotten about, hasn't thought about using in months. It comes cascading down on him, stakes and holy water and other things, just as Jan walks in with a "what are you doing?"

"I was looking for some of Martin's old equipment, but, well." He gestures at the contents of a hunter's kit scattered on the floor.

"I can explain - " Jan begins.

"So all this time, you were just...biding your time? Gathering intelligence, I presume, and making plans to rid the world of a monster?"

"No!" Jan says, forcefully. "I don't think you're a monster. I haven't for a long time. I came here believing that and looking for proof of it, because the only other vampire I've ever encountered definitely was a monster. He nearly killed my family in front of my eyes. But the more I got to know you, the more I saw who you really were. You became my friend I care for you. I trust you. I'd never hurt you, I swear."

"You let me feed from your neck," Bojan says. "What was that? Were you fucking with me? Trying to prove how tough you are?"

That, more than anything, breaks him. It was the ultimate form of intimacy for Bojan and display of trust for Jan. It was vulnerability, showing his "monstrous" side, exposing what he sees as the worst of himself, the part he fears makes him unlovable, and having it accepted. And suddenly it seems like some kind of sick game.

"No," Jan helplessly insists. "I let you do it because I trust you with my life. I wanted it. It was real, I swear it was real."

Bojan shakes his head. "Real," he says bitterly. "I trusted you. I told you about my worst fears. While you were watching and deciding whether I get to live? Taking it upon yourself to be judge, jury, and executioner and it's all supposed to be okay because you decided that I do deserve to be alive?"

And that cuts deep, floors Jan. Because isn't that what happened? He came here with an intent to kill, thinking he had the right to play god. And he might not have killed, but he took it upon himself to have that power, while basking in Bojan's trust and affection.

"I'm sorry," Jan says. "Truly. And I'll do anything to fix this. Just tell me what to do."

Bojan just shakes his head. "I have no reason to believe a single word you're saying, and I don't know if I'd ever be able to trust you again."

(in another of the million variations we had in this scene, Bojan says something like

"so if I were really the monster that you think I am, what do you think I'd do now? I'd kill the person intent on killing me, right? "pin you down, drain you of blood, make sure you can never harm me again. Isn't that what a monster like me would do in this situation?"

"I don't think you're a monster. I haven't for a long time," Jan says.

"Is that ...is that supposed to make me feel better? Is that supposed to make it okay that you came here to kill me?"

"No," Jan agrees. "You have every right to be angry, and upset. I know you feel betrayed and can't possibly trust me anymore but. What we had, the friendship, the late-night conversations, the intimacy...for me, all that was real. And I'll do anything to fix this.")

(in yet another variation, Bojan picks up one of the stakes and holds it to his heart while stepping close to Jan.

"Go on, then," he challenges, looking painfully resigned. "Do it."

Jan shakes his head, has no intention of doing it, obviously, is begging Bojan to put it down, when the others walk in. See Bojan holding a stake to his own chest, the moment clearly heated, and assuming Jan has threatened one of them. Knowing Bojan would drive a stake through his own heart to protect his own friends.

"It's not what it looks like -" Jan protests, but they ignore him, grab Jan (who doesn't resist, and tell Bojan to drop the stake.

"Don't do it. Whatever he threatened, we're not afraid. We stick together." Which makes Jan feel even worse.)

Essentially, Bojan asks for space from Jan, to begin with. Which Jan of course respects. He tells the others what happened, and that makes them furious. Jan is desperately trying to convince them, too, that he's changed, of his true intentions, but they don't want to hear a word he has to say

"He actually felt confident enough to tell US to relax! Do you have ANY idea how much that meant to him?" Kris demands.

"you made Bojan so happy. You were good for him. And it was all a ploy? Disgusting."

one of the others adds "he'd have died for you, and this is how you treat him?"

And on that angsty note, I will end :)

[aphroditestummyrolls]

Between Hope and Desperation 👀

Beloved friend!! ❤️ thank you for your patience!

However he’d felt before, things had only gotten worse. He was past even a state of panic, frozen instead into some kind of hollow dread.

His father had come for him, and he hadn’t gotten away in time. He should have listened to his cowardly self and run while he still could— maybe then, at least Jesper would be safe. He’d be heartbroken, he’d be cold, he’d be alone, but how different would that be from the rest of his time in the Barrel? Or even, back at home?

He’d rather relive every moment again and never even meet his sharpshooter, than have to look at him across the cellar floor now. Wylan would hand back every second of happiness, as long as it meant that he wouldn’t have to be the reason why he…

It wasn’t like he could lie to himself about why his father had come for him— it had been said in no uncertain terms. Between Ravka and Shu Han, and Kaz’s takeover of the Barrel, Wylan had run out of luck— he had made too much of a “spectacle” of himself. He didn’t have the good sense to lay down and die on his way to Belendt, and now Jan was coming to finish the job himself.

There was no way Jesper would be somehow freed of this. Wylan had contaminated him.

He was going to be the reason Jesper Fahey died, it was all his fault.

“Wylan?” There was a rattle of thick iron chains, a grunt and attempt at a tug, but, the shape of Jesper could only move so close. The shackles around his feet were secured to the wall, keeping him just out of reach. “Wy, where are you hurt? What happened?”

All of that— all of his boyfriend’s secrets thrown in his face, told how and why they’d both die, and that they’d be tortured for information in the meanwhile— and that was all Jesper had to say?

His disbelieving laugh came out as something ragged and miserable, choking on the tightness of his own throat. His eyes stung terribly. That handsome face was barely visible in the darkness, and blurred further as Wylan’s vision swam.

“I was, I… I was already working. This man, he— he came in and, he came in and a-attacked me.” He tried to flex his hand, to reach out for Jesper’s, but he had to bite back a scream at the sudden shock of white hot agony that lanced up his arm. “I-I killed him, but there were more.”

Ghezen, his whole body hurt, throbbing and hot. He could barely move his fingers— they were tight and blistered. Wylan knew, without even looking down in the dim light, that they must be burned a brutal red. His cheeks and lips felt something like a bad sunburn, and he licked over the chapped skin, desperate to make this better. To say something of meaning.

But, what in the Seven Hells was there to say?

“Jes, please— Jesper, I’m so sorry.” It was just as pathetic as he thought it would be. “I promise, I promise I won’t let you d-die here, I’m s—“

“Hey, hey, who said anything about dying?” The feeling of their fingers brushing was such a relief that it was worth the pain. He heaved in desperate breaths, as deep as his ribs would allow and focused on the way Jesper’s nervous little grin caught the lamplight. “Kaz’s gotta know where we are by now. Nobody’s dying, Sunshine.”

Sunshine. That nickname had started out as a joke, but now it felt like the real damned thing. And maybe it wasn’t the hope he needed. But it was a spark.

Thanks so much for playing! As always, this fic is so inspired by our mutual love of whump ❤️ thanks for being my buddy!

[bi-demon-ium]

i wrote this on my way to class on discord and the text kept loading like ten whole seconds after i typed it lkghjfgh. anyway i couldnt stop thinking about this while making the blueberry gifset

The blueberry, apparently not firmly secured, fell out with a wet pop and into the tea, along with a small stream of tea.

(Ao3.)

Curtain smiled pleasantly, tipping the teapot to show the tea couldn't get past the blueberry.

They all stared at the blueberry floating in the tea, as Curtain, too startled, forgot to stop pouring.

"Was that supposed to happen?" Number Two said.

Curtain scowled, lifting the pot abruptly just in time to avoid overflowing.

“No,” he snapped.

Number Two nodded wisely. "Thought as much. Give it here."

Curtain gave her a mildly incredulous look but when she prompted him again with raised eyebrows he seemed to think okay, fuck it, and offered forward the teapot.

She snatched it, visibly paused to think about dumping it over his head, before her task won out and she delicately took a blueberry and shoved it into the spout.

Somehow, despite the violence of the motion, it remained intact. Curtain stared.

She offered it back to him. "Try now," she said. Nicholas was shaking his head but while the motion was still clearly exhausted, he couldn't stop the fond quirk to his lips.

Curtain eyed her, idly wondering if she'd somehow poisoned the blueberry or spat in the tea, but he took it.

"As I was saying," he said, "By causing the Emergency...." He tilted the pot again to indicate no tea.

“…I solved it.” He went to pour the tea from the top of the pot rather than the spout, paused, realizing it would overflow, then dumped it in anyway. He grinned at them, pleased anyway.

“And caused a mess,” muttered Number Two. He tilted his head and imagined strangling her, careful not to change his expression. She stuck her tongue out at him.

Nicholas seemed speechless for a long moment, before he finally managed to choke out, “…what?”

Curtain’s grin widened as if to say yes?

“You’re… you’re delusional!” he sputtered. “And your demonstration is—is poorly executed and meaningless!”

“To the point of obfuscation,” added Number Two, scowling at him.

“Well, I liked it,” muttered Curtain grumpily.

“Give me back that blueberry,” said Number Two. "That demonstration did not deserve my skills."

“No!” Curtain said, snatching the blueberry. It fell apart in his hands, staining them blue. He resisted the urge to scream a curse word.

“You’re terrible at blueberry handling,” said Number Two. “I think that’s the real metaphor here.”

Curtain licked the blueberry from his fingers. “Anyway,” he said, as if he could pretend none of that happened.

“This is all—this is—” Nicholas’s breathing was going funny and he seemed on the verge of either falling asleep or having a panic attack. Curtain leaned back, irritated at the interruption, as Number Two’s attention was diverted.

[dragonsoftheeast]

someone's gotta go now

The death of Hvitserk Ragnarsson

Written for @vikingsevents Autumn Equinox Challenge Day 7: Aurora Borealis

tw: character death, violence

read on Ao3

On the day before Hvitserk's death, the Bifrost lights up the northern skies.

There is not much else to do. Tied up to the stake, the only thing he can really move comfortably is his neck. And, by acknowledging his death, he has decided to be comfortable on his last day. Resigned to his fate, all he has left to do is think, and look up. 

The stars are the same, still, here in this foreign place. Enough to guide him across the land. Enough to guide him to his fate. He wonders if his mother ever saw this, in her visions of the future.

The rainbow lights wind their way across the sky, snaking between those stars and curving around the moon, ribbons of color, brilliant and pure. 

He wonders who might be traveling, and what is their purpose. Is it Thor, off to slay giants? Is it Loki, coming down to play tricks on mankind? Or perhaps it is Odin, coming down to walk among man, to gain knowledge and inspire wisdom. 

Well, for their sakes, he certainly hopes it isn’t here.

He had come here to conquer, and, well, he was never one to flee. It wasn't in his nature. Rus is a miserable place, by the simple fact that it is so like home and yet not like it. The cold and the snow is familiar, but the mountains are different, the trees are different, the water is different. Even the air feels different here.

At least the gods can reach him here.

As the lights have begun to fade, Hvitserk wishes whichever god has crossed the realms a safe journey. A safer journey than him, anyway.

But then again, he has never been one for safety. And the gods would not desire a safe journey either. They know that their fates have already been written. Odin would not run from Fenris, nor Thor from Jormungandr. All that is left to them is to embrace it.

When he was a child, he and his brother fell into a frozen lake. He does not remember anything from before, or after, but he remembers the moment of the plunge.

He remembers the feeling of the cold, like nothing he had felt before or since, punching through his body, so hard he was surprised not to see a hole through his chest afterwards. The serenity that followed, the blankness and overwhelming fog that smothered his every thought.

He has never desired serenity. It is too close to oblivion. If he is going to die, he wants to feel every moment, as he has done in life. And if he’s going to die, he might as well make his executioners pay for it.

"I have chosen the manner of my death!" He shouts out into the cold autumn air. “Hear me now!”

His captors are honorable enough to oblige him.

He only gets a brief moment of respite- the ropes around his wrists falling away, letting him stretch out his shoulders- before he gets tied up again, to yet another stake.

He looks up to the cloudless sky as they stack the firewood beneath him. He leans his head back as they splash oil on his pyre. He whistles as they pile the bodies of his warriors beneath him.

That is how it is, with him. He waits to make a decision, and then is impatient for others to catch up once he makes it.

He spares only a glance at the bodies below him, his brave men. Men who chose to die with him in glory rather than return home in shame.

“Finally,” He calls to the others, as the torch falls. “Let them freeze for lack of firewood!”

They chuckle, and then they guffaw, and there is no room for fear when they are laughing so hard, when The flames lick up their bodies, crisping their flesh. They begin to scream, and yet it still sounds like laughter.

The smell of them reaches him before the heat does. The smell of burnt skin, unforgettable, the acrid cloy of hair and the strange familiarity of so much meat.

It brings him back to a moment of his childhood- though his father had thought of him as a man then- their failure in Paris, the panic at their camp being attacked, Helga stepping in front of them, fire consuming her flesh, the smell-

It’s so strange how smell brings back memories, locked behind the barrier of time.

Fire brings about its own oblivion, he finds, as it crisps the skin, as it melts the fat and flesh off bone. But unlike the cold, he is aware, he knows every moment. In battle, he had always relied on the rush of blood to carry him through, but that cannot happen here, as the fire boils his blood away. He wanted to feel his death, and by the gods does he feel it. 

But he laughs, laughs until his lungs blacken with soot, laughs until his lungs are consumed. Because he is a son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and he knows now, knows for sure, that he is his father’s son. Not just in name, not just in body, but in soul, in spirit. And he shares his father’s fate.

He knows why the Bifrost came across the sky last night.

It was the Valkyries, come to take him home.