#and looming and pacing behind a fence

[monstrslair]

Vanny would make spring go feral in sb. She better be packing those illusion disks, cause you go chasing after a kid in front of spring, he WILL hunt you down. Nevermind when Henry reawakens as fredbear, shes got another thing coming

[yua0ra]

𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠…

WARNINGS: mattheo riddle x fem!reader, porn with some plot, unprotected sex, p in v, dominant!mattheo, dirty talk, fingering, oral (fem receiving), position change, rough smut, established relationship, (consent although not explicitly stated), mattheo stating one day he will do anal with reader (there’s no anal in this post), pet names, sex in a public space (no one is there), NSFW, proofread, english is not my first language. smut 🂡

SUMMARY: After a playful bet with Pansy Parkinson, you find yourself in an intense, unforgettable encounter with Mattheo Riddle. What starts as a challenge quickly turns into something far more consuming, as Mattheo’s fiery passion gives way to a surprising tenderness. Despite his rough edges, his genuine admiration for you, shines through as he cares for you in the aftermath. The thrill of risk, the weight of unspoken emotions, and the undeniable chemistry between you and Mattheo.

WC: +5K AN: Finally! Your girl has managed to write some smut. ENJOY! MDNI

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

Mattheo turns around, unable to hide the goofy smile that’s spread across his pretty face. His dark curls fall into his eyes as he glances down at you, the mischief in his expression softening into something warmer. The way his hand tightens around yours feels like a silent promise—steady and sure, as if he’s anchoring himself to you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, though your own lips are betraying you with the faint curve of a smile.

“Ridiculously in love, baby,” he quips, his grin widening as his thumb absentmindedly brushes over your knuckles.

The two of you continue walking, his laughter bubbling softly in the crisp evening air. The world around you fades, the sounds of distant chatter and rustling leaves blurring into the background. All that matters is the warmth of his hand in yours, the easy joy that spills from his lips, and the way his eyes light up every time he looks at you.

“What?” you finally ask, tilting your head to meet his gaze.

“Nothing,” Mattheo replies, his voice light but sincere. “I just like this. You and me.”

The simplicity of his words sends a flutter through your chest, and you squeeze his hand back, hoping it says what you can’t quite find the words for yet.

The path twists ahead, lined with skeletal trees swaying gently in the breeze. The glow of the moon casts an eerie silver light over the ground, making the old stones beneath your feet gleam faintly. Mattheo doesn’t falter, his pace steady as he guides you closer to the looming silhouette of the Shrieking Shack in the distance.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” you ask, your voice low but teasing, though there’s a hint of nervousness hidden behind it.

Mattheo smirks, glancing back at you with that familiar mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Because you’re secretly as much of a troublemaker as I am,” he says, his tone light, though his thumb still traces calming circles on the back of your hand.

You roll your eyes. “Or maybe because you dared me, and I’m too stubborn to say no.”

“Same thing,” he shoots back, his grin widening. “Admit it, love, you like a little danger.”

The Shrieking Shack comes into view now, its crooked frame outlined against the night sky. The windows are dark, the whole structure seeming to exude an unnatural stillness. Despite the chill creeping up your spine, you can’t help but match Mattheo’s excitement, his energy infectious as he slows to a stop in front of the fence that surrounds the infamous house.

“Ever been this close before?” he asks, his voice soft but daring as he peers through the broken slats of wood.

“No,” you admit, your fingers tightening around his. “And I’m starting to think that was a good thing.”

Mattheo chuckles, low and rich, as he steps closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Relax,” he says, his voice warm and reassuring. “I’d never let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”

The sincerity in his tone makes your stomach flip, and for a moment, you forget about the dark, foreboding shack looming in front of you. His gaze holds yours, steady and unwavering, and the shadows around you don’t feel quite as ominous anymore.

“Alright,” you say softly, drawing in a breath. “Let’s do this.

His grin returns, wide and triumphant, as he reaches for the fence. With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you’re following, he climbs over with practiced ease before extending a hand to help you over.

As your feet touch the ground on the other side, you hear a faint creak from the house, the sound echoing in the still night. Mattheo looks back at you, a flicker of excitement and curiosity dancing in his eyes.

“After you,” he says with a mock bow, gesturing toward the front door of the Shrieking Shack.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, though you can’t stop the smile that tugs at your lips as you step forward, his hand still firmly holding yours.

Turns out, the whole escapade was Pansy’s doing. The other day, she’d dared you and Mattheo to spend the night in the Shrieking Shack, her laughter ringing out as she leaned against the Slytherin common room couch. She was so sure you’d pull out at the last minute, claiming there was no way you’d go through with it. Mattheo, of course, jumped at the chance, a smug grin on his face as he’d said, “We’ll see you in the morning, Pans.”

Now, standing in front of the creaky old shack, you couldn’t help but think about the look on her face when you’d agreed. You weren’t sure what had made you so bold in that moment—maybe it was the way Mattheo had immediately taken your side, his confidence infectious. Or maybe it was the simple fact that you refused to give Pansy the satisfaction of seeing you back out.

“Do you think she really thought we wouldn’t do it?” you ask, glancing at Mattheo as he leans casually against the rickety front door.

He smirks, his dark eyes twinkling in the faint moonlight. “Oh, she was counting on it. Pansy lives for the drama.” He reaches out, wrapping his fingers around the rusty doorknob. “But what she didn’t count on was that you’re wilder than you look.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of pride in your chest at his words. “And you? What’s your excuse for agreeing to this ridiculousness?”

He shrugs, pushing the door open with a groan that seems to echo into the night. “I’m a sucker for a good dare. And,” he adds, looking over his shoulder at you with a cheeky grin, “I couldn’t let you do this without me. Someone’s gotta protect you from all the ghosts, right?”

“Ghosts,” you repeat, raising an eyebrow as you step inside. “You’re not seriously buying into all the stories, are you?”

“Maybe.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of something playful in his eyes. “What if the stories are true? What if we’re not alone in here?”

“Then it’s your fault we’re doing this,” you quip, your voice braver than you feel.

The inside of the Shrieking Shack is exactly as you imagined: old, creaky, and covered in layers of dust and cobwebs. The wooden floor groans beneath your feet as you step further inside, and the air smells faintly of mildew. Despite the eerie stillness, Mattheo seems completely at ease, his hand brushing yours as he walks beside you.

“See? Not so bad,” he says, his voice breaking the silence. “A little dusty, sure, but cozy.”

“Cozy?” you repeat with a laugh. “You’re delusional.”

“Delusional or charming?” he asks, throwing you a grin as he drops his bag onto the floor near an old, tattered sofa.

“Both,” you mutter, though you can’t help but smile.

The two of you settle in, laying out blankets and snacks that Mattheo had insisted on packing earlier. The night stretches on, and as the hours pass, the initial nerves start to fade, replaced by the easy comfort that always seems to come when Mattheo is around.

- ★、

He glances at you, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight as he leans in closer, his voice low and soft. "Baby, are you not bored? We've been here for hours now, just the two of us..." His gaze drops to your lips for a moment before flicking back up to meet your eyes. "Is this really what you want to be doing on a night out with your boyfriend?"

He reaches out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. His touch is warm and gentle, a stark contrast to the chill in the air. "Because if you're not having fun, we can always find something else to do. Something a bit more... exciting." His voice drops to a low, intimate murmur on the last word, a hint of mischief glinting in his eye

“Matty… here? Really?” You softly giggle, looking at him trough long and heavy eyelashes.

Mattheo leans in closer, his eyes fluttering shut as he closes the distance between you. His lips meet yours in a soft, gentle kiss that sends a spark of electricity through your body. It's a tender kiss, almost reverent in its slow, deliberate exploration of your mouth. His hand slides from the back of your neck to cup your cheek, his calloused fingers a pleasant contrast to the smooth skin of your face.

As the kiss deepens, Mattheo's other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the firmness of his chest, the way his heart beats steadily beneath his ribs. His fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head back slightly as he explores your mouth with a growing hunger.

When he finally pulls back, breaking the kiss, his eyes slowly open to meet yours. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, a gentle caress that makes your breath catch in your throat. His thumb making its way to the inside of your mouth as you suck on it.

Not for long though, as he pulls it back, straight into his own warm mouth.

He slides his hands under the hem of your shirt, his fingertips skimming over the smooth skin of your lower back. He pulls you flush against him, the heat of his body seeping into yours as his hands begin to explore the curves of your waist and the gentle flare of your hips.

He breaks the kiss, panting softly as he looks down at you with hooded eyes, a fierce intensity burning in their depths. "Can I... can I take this off?" he asks, his voice low and rough with desire. His fingers tremble slightly as he waits for your permission, the anticipation almost too much to bear.

Without waiting for your answer, he starts to slowly peel your shirt up and over your head. The cool air kisses your newly exposed skin, making you shiver. Mattheo's eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his gaze roaming over your body with a hunger that makes your heart race.

"Fuck, doll," he breathes out, his voice filled with awe and longing. "You're so fucking fit. You see these?" He cups the soft mounds of your breasts, his thumbs teasing over the hardened peaks of your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra. He looks up at you, his dark eyes smoldering with desire as he leans down, his mouth hovering just above the swell of your breasts. “These are mine baby… all mine.”

Without warning, he tugs the cup of your bra down, exposing your nipple to the cool air. His eyes flick up to yours, a wicked glint in their depths, before he leans in and takes your nipple into his hot mouth. He suckles gently at first, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud, before growing bolder, sucking harder as his hand kneads the soft flesh of your breast.

A low, breathy moan escapes your lips, your fingers tangling in his dark curls as he lavishes attention on your breasts. The combination of his hot mouth and the scrape of his teeth against your sensitive skin sends jolts of pleasure coursing through your body, making your core throb with a needy ache.

Mattheo's other hand slides down your stomach, his fingers dipping teasingly beneath the waistband of your jeans. His touch is maddeningly light, not quite touching where you need him most, but close enough to make you squirm with anticipation. "Mattheo," you gasp out, your voice thick with desire. "Please..." You're not even sure what you're begging for, but the way he's touching you, tasting you, has set your body on fire, and you need more.

"Fuck, so perfect for me, huh?," He growls, his voice low and rough with desire. "I could spend hours worshipping these perfect tits, worshipping your beautiful body, face, heart…. You drive me insane."

His hand slides further down, cupping your mound through your jeans, applying a teasing pressure that makes you gasp. He chuckles darkly, a sound that vibrates through your chest. "Is this what you want, baby? You want me to touch this pretty little pussy until you're shaking and aching for me?"

He starts to slowly rub your clothed sex, his fingers moving in maddeningly slow circles. The denim of your jeans grows damp as your arousal builds, your hips starting to rock subtly against his hand. "Oh, look at you, my princess is so, so, so needy for me."

Mattheo leans down to capture your lips in a filthy kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth as he grinds the heel of his hand against your clothed clit. He swallows your moan, his voice a low rasp against your lips. "Tell me how badly you want it, gorgeous. Tell me how much you need my fingers buried deep in your tight little cunt, fucking you silly until the only thing you’re thinking about is how good your Matty takes care of you."

His other hand kneads your breast roughly, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers as he breaks the kiss to growl in your ear. "Beg for it, baby. Beg for my fingers, for my dick. Let me hear how desperate you are for me to fill you up and make you come all over me."

“Please baby…” Your voice merely a whisper, your tone laced with embarrassing neediness, “Want to feel good, need to feel good.” You keep begging. “Want to feel your fingers filling me up so badly, keeping me warm, until I cream messy and my pussy is stretched enough for you big cock.” You let a small whimper.

Mattheo's eyes darken with lust as he watches you, a smirk playing on his lips. "Merlin’s beard, babe, I love it when you say shit like that," he growls, quickly pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. His chest is lean and toned, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his skin in the flickering candlelight. The sight makes you legs turn into jelly, unable to take your gaze off him.

He’s just… so fucking hot.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as his hands make quick work of your jeans, practically tearing them off your body in his haste. He breaks the kiss to look down at you, his gaze hungry as he takes in the sight of you laid out beneath him, clad in nothing but your soaked panties.

"Look at you, spread out like a fucking feast," he rasps, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. He tugs on them making you exhale heavily, your pussy clenching to the fabric, to then drag them down slowly, his knuckles brushing against your sensitive skin, your arousal coating his fingers. "I knew you'd be dripping for me, baby. Fucking soaked and ready."

He tosses your panties aside and settles between your thighs, his breath hot against your dripping sex. He looks up at you, a wicked grin on his face."I'm going to make you feel so fucking good, doll. I'm going to eat you out until you become so fucking desperate,” He laughs, “such a perfect pocket pussy.”

He finally lowers his head, blowing air towards your heat and drags the flat of his tongue along your slit, a low groan rumbling in his chest at your taste. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, as he starts to make out with your warm and moist lips. Eating you out like a starving man, his tongue delving between your folds to lap at your dripping essence.

You’ll never get tired of the feeling of Mattheo’s tongue in your body. “Oh, shit… mmhm.” You start to feel dizzy, the overwhelming sensation of pleasure too much to cope with, making you close your eyes.

Mattheo groans against your sex as he feels your body trembling beneath him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you hold him close. He can feel your arousal coating his chin, your juices dripping down onto the blankets below. The taste of you is intoxicating, and he can't get enough.

He starts to suckle on your clit, his lips wrapping around the sensitive bundle of nerves as he teases it with the tip of his tongue. At the same time, he slides a long, manly finger deep inside your tight heat, curling it just so to stroke that spot that makes your toes curl and your back arch off the floor.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against your sex as he starts to pump his finger in and out, matching the rhythm of his tongue on your pussy. He adds a second finger, stretching you wider, filling you up just the way you need.

His other hand slides up your body, cupping your breast, kneading the soft flesh as he pinches and rolls your nipple between his fingers. He's touching you everywhere, stoking the fire building low in your belly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"That's it, baby. Fucking coat my fingers," he growls, his eyes never leaving yours.

The vibrations from his mumbles and growls shake your body, building up such an addicting feeling at the centre of your stomach, your insides knotting together in pleasure just waiting to be undone. “Oh my God, Matty… you-you’re so good to me, bloody hell.”

His fingers shiny with your arousal as he pounds them into you, his tongue flicking rapidly over your folds. "I can’t wait to feel this pretty cunt squeezing the fuck out of my cock when I slide inside you. I want you all over me. Fucking drench me in it."

He curls his fingers just right, rubbing that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids as he suckles hard on your clit. Addicted to the way your body shakes and trembles as he pushes you over the edge.

“Oh shit! Fuck! I’m-I’m close baby…”

Mattheo can feel your body tensing, your inner walls starting to flutter around his plunging fingers as your climax approaches. He doubles his efforts, fucking you harder with his firm digits as he messily slurps and spits in your clit, spurred on by your desperate moans and the way your body writhes beneath him.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark and intense as he growls, "Come on then, baby.” He lovingly urges, “Come all over my fucking face. I want to taste your cum, want to feel it coating my mouth, want you inside of me."

He continues pumping in an unbelievable force, fingers curling and twisting inside you, stroking that spot that makes your vision go white. At the same time, he closes his lips around your clit and sucks hard, his teeth carefully tugging the sensitive bud as he teases out your climax.

He can feel your body starting to shake, your thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes over you. He doesn't let up, continuing to stroke and suck, drawing out your pleasure until you're a writhing, moaning mess beneath him.

"Fuck yes, just like that…" he demands, his voice rough and ragged. "Let me hear how fucking good it feels, baby. Let those pretty sounds escape,” You can only moan louder, whine louder, barely able to pronounce words. “Yeah, that’s it, good girl… oh! Thats it, that’s it… so fucking precious” He chuckles, the sound so rich and full, turning you even more horny.

He keeps praising you, his movements impossibly harder, faster, deeper, fucking you through your climax as he pushes you to new heights of ecstasy. Your body convulses, your head thrashing on the blanket as the waves of pleasure consume you, leaving you gasping and shaking in the aftermath.

Mattheo finally pulls back, his face glistening with your climax as he looks up at you with a wicked grin. "Fuck, that was so hot," he rasps, his voice low and filled with desire. "You came so fucking hard, baby. I could feel you squeezing the life out of my fingers, fucking messy bitch.… My messy, filthy play bunny, am I right?"

He crawls up your body, his hard cock pressing against your thigh as he leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "I'm going to fuck you now, baby. Can I fuck you?” He asks between sloppy and wet kisses “I'm going to slide my big, hard cock deep inside this tight little cunt, fuck”

You can only nod and whimper in pleasure, still high form the orgasm, but you crave more, you crave Mattheo in ways that are unhealthy obsessive. Not to worry though, because just as he has you wrapped around his finger, he is simply the same, kissing the floor you walk on, a heavy need in his chest to show you how much you mean to him.

He only smirks at your needy whimper, his ego boosted by the way you're still trembling with the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. He can see the desperation in your eyes, the hunger for more, and it spurs on his own desire.

He reaches down, his pants long gone, wrapping a hand around his hard, throbbing cock and giving it a few slow pumps. It's hot and heavy in his hand, the pretty pink tip already leaking with big pearls of need. He rubs the head through your dripping folds, coating himself in your arousal, letting out a low groan at the feeling of your slick heat. The filthy scene making his mind fuzzy.

"Fuck, you're still so tight," he grunts, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick glistening head nudging against your opening. "I don't know if I can be gentle, baby. I want to fucking ruin you, want to make it so you can't fucking walk for days."

With that, he starts to push forward, his rock hard dick slowly sinking into your tight heat. He has to pause, his breath coming out in harsh pants as he fights the urge to just slam forward and bury himself to the hilt. He looks down at you, his eyes dark and intense, a bead of sweat dripping down his brow.

"Breathe, darling," he commands, his voice low and rough. "Breathe and relax, baby. Let me in, let me fucking warm you up."

He starts to push forward again, his pulsing shaft sinking deeper into your tight channel with each slow, steady thrust.

He's stretching you, filling you, the sensation of being so utterly complete by him that makes your eyes roll back in your head.

Mattheo leans down, capturing your lips in a hot kiss as he finally bottoms out, his hips pressing flush against yours. He groans into your mouth, his tongue plundering as he starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in, setting a hard and fast pace.

He fucks into you with wild abandon, his hips slapping against yours with each powerful thrust. He's lost in a haze of lust, consumed by the feeling of your tight pussy gripping his cock like a vice.

"Take it, take it, fucking take it!" he snarls, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he pounds into you. The floor creaks and shakes beneath you, slamming you against it with each thrust of his hips. "This is what you fucking wanted, isn't it? To be fucked into stupidity by my big, hard dick?"

He leans down, capturing your sensitive nipple between his teeth and biting down just shy of pain. His other hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing it in hard, fast circles.

As you savour the overstimulation, Mattheo flips you over onto your hands and knees, your plump ass pointing up in the air. He takes a moment to admire the view, his eyes darkening with lust as he grips your ass cheeks roughly, kneading the soft flesh. "Fuck, this ass is perfect," he growls, giving your ass a sharp smack that makes you gasp. "Just for me… to be grabbed, spanked, fucked hard and raw."

He lines himself up with your dripping entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your swollen, sensitive folds. Mattheo leans over you, his chest pressing against your back as he grinds slowly against you, you juices mixing with his, the noises from the friction too lewd, too dirty, too fucking hot.

"I'm going to fuck this ass one day," he whispers hotly against your ear, his voice low and filthy. "Gonna shove my cock in this tight little asshole and make you scream for me. Bet it's never been fucked before, has it? Never had such a big, thick cock stretching it wide open?"

He doesn’t let you answer as he starts to push forward, the head of his veiny member popping inside your entrance with a loud squelch. He pauses, letting you feel the thick intrusion stretching you open as he reaches around to rub your clit in hard, fast circles.

"Push back, baby. Push this hot ass back on my cock and take it deep," he demands, his hips starting to move in shallow thrusts, working more and more of his thick length inside your tight heat. "Gonna fuck this cunt so hard, baby. Pound this pussy until you're fucking screaming, until the whole fucking school knows what a dirty girl you are for me."

Mattheo keeps one hand on your hip, gripping you tightly as he starts to pick up the pace, slamming into you with deep, powerful thrusts. The other hand stays on your clit, rubbing and stroking the sensitive nub as he fucks you harder and faster, his heavy balls slapping obscenely against your insides with each thrust.

"Yes, yes, fuck, fuuuck baby girl…" he snarls, holding into your ass with wild abandon."Take my fucking cock, you bitch. Milk it with this greedy cunt, fucking choke on my dick as I ruin this gorgeous pussy!"

Mattheo pounds into you with inhuman fervor, his hips moving in a blur as he chases their explosive release. The room fills with the carnal symphony of flesh slapping against flesh, your irresistible moans, and Mattheo's guttural, feral grunts echoing off the walls.

He leans over you, his sweat-slicked skin sticking to your back as he snakes a hand around to maul your bouncing breasts, pinching and tugging at your stiff nipples. His other hand flies back over your clenching, almost hurting clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in tight, frantic circles, pushing you ruthlessly towards the edge of literal oblivion.

"That's it, baby, shit! You make me feel so good. You know that? Ughh… !" Mattheo moans, his voice a primal, animalistic sound that sends shivers down your spine.

Your body starts to seize, back arching sharply as a mind-shattering orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clamps down on his pistoning cock like a velvet vice, rippling and fluttering wildly around his thick shaft as you come undone.

"FUCK, YES!" Mattheo bellows, slamming into you one last time as your climax triggers his own. His large shaft throbs and pulses, swelling even thicker inside your spasming walls before erupting like a volcano.

Scorching ropes of thick cum erupt from his cock, painting your insides white as he floods your womb with his seed. It feels like he's cumming for an eternity, his potent release seeming to go on and on as he grinds into you, pushing his come deeper with each twitch and jerk of his hips.

Your mind goes blank, your vision whiting out as pleasure more intense than you've ever known consumes you. You convulse and thrash beneath him, your body wracked with sensation, overwhelmed by the sheer ecstasy of your shared climax.

Mattheo collapses against your back, his body blanketing yours as he trembles and shudders above you. He pants harshly, his breath coming out in ragged bursts against your neck as he slowly comes down from his release.

With a soft grunt, he carefully rolls off of you, pulling you with him so that you're both lying on your sides, facing each other. He drapes a strong arm around your waist, tucking you close to his chest as he studies your face with a furrowed brow.

"Are you okay, baby?" he murmurs, his voice now low and gentle in contrast to the primal, lust-filled growls from before. His fingers come up to brush a sweat-dampened strand of hair out of your face, his touch sweet and tender.

"My beautiful baby… you're shaking... did-did I hurt you?"

Mattheo's thumb skims along your cheekbone, tilting your chin up so that you're forced to meet his gaze. There's a flicker of concern in his dark eyes, a hint of guilt as he takes in your flushed skin and the way your limbs feel heavy and weak.

You shake your head to dismiss his concerns, too tired to physically answer him.

"Fuck, I got a bit carried away there," he admits with a grimace, his arm tightening around your waist as if to keep you safe and close. "I didn't mean to be so rough, gorgeous. I know I was fucking hard, but you just... you felt so fucking good, I couldn't control myself."

He leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead before trailing his lips down to press a passionate kiss to your lips. It's different from the hungry, desperate kisses from before - this one is slow, sensual, almost reverent.

"Let me take care of you," Mattheo whispers against your lips, his voice low and soothing. "Let’s go back to the castle so I can run you a bath, yes?." The bet long forgotten.

He starts to sit up, keeping you cradled in his arms as he sits.

He rummages through his bag, taking out his wand, and with a swift movement, you both aparate to his private dorm.

Mattheo leans down to press another kiss to your pouty lips, his hot breath lingering on your skin. “I love you like no other baby,” He mutters sleepily, the intense sex, catching up to him.

“Now breathe for me, pretty girl….”

[xoxolaw]

hello! if you wouldn’t mind, a fic of jun-tae very VERY attractive older sister/brother? like, i’m tired of small and fragile little sisters tbh 😭 I was thinking of the smug, flirty, cool and confident type — where they know that they’re attractive. I imagine jun-tae maybe in the middle of getting bullied by hyo-man and his gang, or just a happy episode where jun-tae introduces them to his friends. but, it’s up to you!

+ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗤𝗨𝗘𝗘𝗡'𝗦 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘

in which Jun-Tae's older sister, swoops in to save him from Choi Hyo-Man's gang with her magnetic charm and sharp wit, leaving her friends in awe and the bullies in retreat

+ 𝗪𝗛𝗖 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cracked pavement outside Eunjang High, where Seo Jun-Tae stood cornered by Choi Hyo-Man and his pack of sneering lackeys. The air was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the skin like humidity before a storm. Jun-Tae’s shoulders hunched, his eyes darting nervously as Hyo-Man loomed over him, twirling a stolen phone—Jun-Tae’s phone—between his fingers like a trophy.

“Thought you were done playing errand boy, huh?” Hyo-Man sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “What’s this? Got brave all of a sudden, Jun-Tae? Or just stupid?”

Jun-Tae’s fists clenched at his sides, trembling not from fear but from the ember of defiance Yeon Si-Eun had sparked in him weeks ago. Still, he was no fighter—not yet—and the three goons flanking Hyo-Man made it clear this wasn’t a fair fight. Behind him, the school’s chain-link fence rattled faintly, as if mocking his predicament.

“Give it back,” Jun-Tae muttered, voice low but steady. The words felt heavier than he expected, like a line drawn in the sand.

Hyo-Man barked a laugh, stepping closer, his shadow swallowing Jun-Tae’s smaller frame. “Or what? You gonna cry to your little friends? Where’s that brainiac Si-Eun now, huh?”

The mention of Si-Eun stung, but before Jun-Tae could respond, a new sound cut through the scene—a slow, deliberate click of heels on pavement. The rhythm was unhurried, confident, like a metronome setting the pace of a song only she knew. The goons froze, heads turning toward the source.

She sauntered into view, her presence like a sudden shift in gravity. She was tall, statuesque, her leather jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, revealing a fitted black top that hugged her curves just enough to demand attention. Her dark hair fell in loose waves, framing a face that carried a smirk sharp enough to cut glass. She knew she was stunning—had known it since she was old enough to notice the way heads turned—and she wielded that knowledge like a weapon.

“Well, well,” she drawled, her voice a smooth, teasing lilt that seemed to wrap around the group like smoke. She stopped a few feet away, one hand on her hip, the other lazily twirling a set of car keys. “What’s this? My baby brother getting picked on by a bunch of wannabe tough guys?”

Jun-Tae’s eyes widened, a mix of relief and embarrassment flooding his face. “noona, I’m fine, you don’t have to—”

“Oh, I have to,” she interrupted, her smirk widening as she tilted her head, sizing up Hyo-Man like he was a particularly unimpressive insect. “See, I was just passing by to drop off your lunch, Junnie, but this—” she gestured vaguely at the scene, “—this is way more interesting.”

Hyo-Man’s sneer faltered, his bravado cracking under the weight of her gaze. She had that effect—her confidence was a force, magnetic and disarming, like she’d already won the fight before it started. The goons shifted uncomfortably, their eyes flickering between her and their leader, unsure whether to stare or look away.

“Who the hell are you?” Hyo-Man snapped, trying to regain control. He stepped forward, puffing out his chest, but she didn’t even flinch.

She chuckled, low and sultry, stepping closer until she was just outside his reach. “Jun-Tae’s big sister. And you—” she leaned in slightly, her eyes glinting with playful menace, “—are the guy who’s about to hand over that phone before I make you regret it.”

The air seemed to tighten. One of the goons snickered nervously, but a sharp glance from her silenced him instantly. She had a way of commanding a room—or in this case, a dingy schoolyard—like she was born to hold court. Her beauty wasn’t just in her looks; it was in the way she moved, the way her voice carried a promise of trouble wrapped in charm.

Hyo-Man scoffed, but his grip on the phone loosened. “You think you scare me, lady? This ain’t your business.”

Her laugh was a melody of mockery. “Oh, sweetie,” she purred, the word laced with enough condescension to make Hyo-Man’s face redden. “When you mess with my brother, it’s all my business.” She tilted her head, letting her eyes trail over him deliberately, as if assessing whether he was worth her time. “And trust me, you’re not half as tough as you think you are.”

Before Hyo-Man could retort, a new voice cut in—calm, precise, and edged with danger. “She’s right. You’re not.”

Yeon Si-Eun emerged from the shadow of the school building, his slight frame deceptively unthreatening. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto Hyo-Man, assessing the situation with the precision of a chess master. Behind him, Park Hu-Min and Go Hyun-Tak flanked like twin pillars of muscle and menace, Hu-Min’s grin wide and reckless, Hyun-Tak’s scowl promising pain.

“Si-Eun!” Jun-Tae’s voice cracked with relief, but her attention didn’t waver from Hyo-Man. She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the arrival of her brother’s friends.

“Well, look at that,” she said, her tone teasing as she glanced at Si-Eun, then Hu-Min and Hyun-Tak. “Junnie’s got himself a little posse. Cute.” She winked at Hu-Min, who blinked, caught off guard, his usual swagger momentarily thrown. Hyun-Tak coughed, looking away, while Si-Eun’s expression remained impassive, though a faint flush crept up his neck.

She turned back to Hyo-Man, her smile sharpening. “So, what’s it gonna be, tough guy? Hand over the phone, or do I let these boys have some fun? Fair warning—” she leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a husky whisper, “—they don’t play as nice as I do.”

Hyo-Man’s bravado crumbled. He tossed the phone at Jun-Tae’s feet, muttering a curse under his breath. “Whatever. Not worth it.” He jerked his head, and his goons slunk after him, casting wary glances at her as they retreated.

Jun-Tae scrambled to pick up his phone, his face burning with a mix of gratitude and mortification. “Noona, you didn’t have to do that,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze.

She ruffled his hair, her touch affectionate but firm. “Oh, please, Junnie. Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble.” She turned to Si-Eun, Hu-Min, and Hyun-Tak, her smirk softening into something warmer but no less confident. “So, you’re the ones looking out for my brother, huh? Not bad.”

Hu-Min grinned, recovering his usual charm. “Park Hu-Min, but you can call me Baku. Nice to meet the legend behind Jun-Tae’s stories.”

Hyun-Tak nodded, still a bit flustered. “Go Hyun-Tak. Uh, thanks for the assist.”

Si-Eun said nothing, his gaze steady but curious, like he was trying to solve the puzzle that was her. She met his eyes, her smirk returning. “You’re the brainy one, right? Keep my brother safe, Sherlock. I like you already.”

Jun-Tae groaned, covering his face. “Noona, stop flirting with my friends!”

She laughed, the sound rich and unapologetic. “Oh, Junnie, relax. I’m just having fun.” She slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as she addressed the group. “Come on, you lot. I’m buying dinner. Gotta make sure my brother’s hanging with the right crowd.”

As they walked off, her leading the way with a swagger that turned heads, Jun-Tae muttered apologies to his friends. Hu-Min and Hyun-Tak chuckled, clearly charmed, while Si-Eun’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. She glanced back, catching his expression, and winked.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Hope you liked this!!!

[millermouth]

hii!! i would like to request something about what is like to watch romance movies with daryl, (reader was the one who suggested ofc) i think he would act annoyed the whole time but would definitely pick-up something that reader thought it was romantic in the movie😆

Hi anon! Thank you for your request!

The couch is lumpy, the popcorn half-forgotten in the bowl between you. On the small TV screen, The Bodyguard plays, the static of the old DVD giving the film an extra grainy charm. Alexandria only had so many DVDs in their library collection, so it had taken some time to get this specific movie after a couple of the women were hoarding it for a wine night.

You also had to talk Daryl into watching with you, citing how it wasn’t “just romance—it’s about survival too.”

Daryl sits with his arms crossed, his usual scowl firmly in place, but his eyes keep flicking to the screen. It’s clear he’s watching, no matter how much he pretends not to care.

The scene unfolds—Frank, protective and stoic, scoops Rachel into his arms as danger looms. The way he carries her—like she’s precious and weightless—makes your heart skip a beat. You glance at Daryl out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he’s paying attention.

“Why’s he doin’ that?” he mutters, his voice low.

“Because he’s protecting her,” you reply, shifting slightly closer to him on the couch. “She’s in danger, and he’s making sure she’s safe.”

“She got legs, don’t she?” he grunts, shifting uncomfortably. “Could walk just fine. Could actually protect ‘er if he had his hands free,”

You suppress a laugh, nudging him with your elbow. “Its called romance, Daryl. It’s about the gesture, not practicality.”

His jaw ticks slightly as the scene continues, and you catch him watching as Frank gently sets Rachel down, his protective presence never wavering. He falls quiet after that, his eyes fixed on the screen, though the furrow in his brow suggests he’s thinking harder than he lets on. By the time the credits roll, he’s back to his usual self, brushing it off with a grumbled, “Damn chick flick.”

But something in the way he avoids your gaze makes you wonder if he’s already filing it away in that quiet, thoughtful mind of his.

It’s been a long day, the kind that leaves your body aching and your thoughts fuzzy. The group has spent hours repairing sections of the wall to prepare for the herd, and by the time the sun dips low, you’re utterly drained.

You lean against the fence, catching your breath, when you hear familiar footsteps approaching. Daryl’s shadow falls over you, his crossbow slung over his back and a tired but determined look in his eyes.

“Done fer the day?” he asks, his voice gruff as ever.

“Yeah,” you reply, too tired to say more.

Before you can react, he steps closer, sliding an arm behind your back and another under your knees. In one smooth motion, he lifts you off the ground, cradling you against his chest like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Daryl!” you gasp, your hands looping around his neck instinctively. “What are you doing?”

“Gettin’ ya to the car,” he mutters, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Ain’t lettin’ ya walk all that way lookin’ like you’re gonna collapse.”

“I can walk!” you protest weakly, though your body betrays you, melting into his hold. “This is ridiculous."

“Yeah, well, ain’t about what’s ridiculous,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s about the gesture or whatever.”

You blink up at him, your heart picking up its pace. “The gesture? Did you just—”

“Don’t,” he warns, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Ain’t no romance novel.

Your protests die on your lips as you rest your head against his shoulder, a smile tugging at your mouth. His arms are steady, his grip firm but careful, and despite his gruff demeanor, there’s something undeniably sweet in the way he carries you.

“Hey,” you say softly as he reaches the car. “You’re not so bad at this romantic stuff, you know."

“Stop,” he mutters, though there’s no bite in his words. As he sets you down and opens the car door for you, he glances at you briefly, his eyes softer than usual. “S’nothin’."

But the way he brushes a strand of hair out of your face before climbing into the driver’s seat tells you all you need to know.

[bitchiswild]

On The Court

GP Huh Yunjin x F! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Exhibitionism, Creampie, and others things probs 🤷‍♀️

Word Count: 1.5k

A/n: Sorry if it’s bad 💃🏼 but enjoYyY

╔═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════╗

"Got the hang of it now?" Yunjin inquired, leaning against the fence surrounding her private tennis court. She had just finished an extensive session. As the girlfriend of a well-respected champion, she was teaching you what you needed to know when it comes to tennis.

"Yeah, I think I've got it. Let's try a game, shall we?" I replied, eager to challenge my skills and elevate them to the next level. I got into position, ready for the ball to come right at me.

"Love!" Yunjin's voice echoed across the court, a playful twinkle in her eye as she tossed the tennis ball into the air. With graceful precision, she brought her racket down, sending the ball gliding over the net, its trajectory aimed squarely at my side of the court.

As the ball landed within my court, I ensured it bounced once before my swing. "Keep it inside the lines," I coached myself, recalling every rule and fundamentals Yunjin had taught me. Mindful to avoid the net, I prepared to strike. With precise timing and just the right force, I sent the ball soaring over the net, a blend of power and control behind my shot. It zoomed past Yunjin after a single bounce on her side, earning me 15 points.

Excitement bubbled up within me,Yes!" I yelled out in sheer glee. "Ha! In your fucking face!" My triumphant outburst echoed across the court, a mix of elation and competitive spirit driving my words.

"Pretty good, babe," Yunjin said, initially shocked, but the surprise quickly faded, replaced by a smirk.

"Game on."

As the game went back and forth, the scores kept climbing until we reached this critical moment where every point mattered. The tension thickened around Yunjin and I as the final round loomed, signaled by the ball tossed into the air. I focused hard, determined to win. I wanted to prove a point—to show Yunjin that Y/n L/n did indeed grasp tennis, despite just learning it.

I was convinced I could pull off a win. Crushing Yunjin's ego seemed like a golden opportunity, and I was totally up for grabbing it.

Surveying her position at the far-right corner of the court, I seized the chance to smash the ball towards her opposite side. The ball raced across the court at a blistering pace, catching Yunjin off guard. She dashed toward the ball on the other side, attempting to keep up, but by the time she reached it, it was too late for her to make a hit.

A surge of realization flooded my face as I witnessed the ball whiz past Yunjin. I had won the game—yes, I had actually won! My body erupted with excitement, and I couldn't contain myself. "Yes! Hell fucking yeah! In your face! Did you see that, Jen!? "I beat you!" I exclaimed in pure triumph, relishing the victorious moment.

Yunjin's faint smile revealed a hit to her usually unshakable ego. It was clear that losing had hit her hard, especially since she's usually the one who dominates in tennis. "Congrats, babe," she conceded gracefully. "That was a good game."

I rushed up to her, unable to contain my excitement about the win. "Did you see that? The ball just sailed past you! Oh my goodness, that was too good! I wish we had cameras for a slow-motion replay!"

"Alright, Y/n, we got it, you won," Yunjin said, her tone beginning to carry a hint of irritation.

I pouted teasingly at her. "Aww, is Yunny Hunny Bunny’s ego feeling a little busted because she lost to her girlfriend?"

“It is not. My ego is fine.” She huffed,trying to maintain her composure.

"Hmm, sure, whatever you say... my little loser," I teased, a playful smirk on my face.

“Can you please stop calling me a loser? I get it already” She said looking even more annoyed.

"Is Jennifer Huh mad now?" I exclaimed, feigning shock with a playful grin.

“No… I'm not now, please shut up.” She said with an embarrassed, frustrated look on her face.

You leaned up to her ear and whispered “Make me.”

Once you leaned back you stared at her face. Lust clouded her eyes instantly. Immediately she grabbed your neck and pushed you over to the fence roughly. You stared at her, knees buckling, while she looked at you up and down knowing that you will always be on your knees for her. She leaned down to your ear and whispered “Look at you, always weak for me. Always willing to be on my knees sucking my cock like the slut you are.”

You started breathing heavily as she kissed down my neck. One hand on your neck while the other slowly itches down to your skirt. You lifted your head up to make room for her. Yunjin finally reached down to your covered pussy, rubbing it slightly. Tightening her grip on your neck. You held in a moan.

“I want to hear you scream while I fuck you senseless. Let the whole neighborhood hear you, got that baby?” She husked. Too turned on to utter a word Yunjin gripped my neck harder

“I said do you get it” She said once again .

“I will,” You whimpered.

“Good”

She spun you around roughly making sure you were facing the fence, pulling your skirt down to your legs, she started rubbing herself against you, making you even more wet. “Fuck, baby” she moans. You were holding on to the fence, looking back at her dry humping you. She then pulls her own skirt down to her legs whipping her cock out. You reached behind, and stroked her cock in your hands. Her hands slide along the outside of your thighs, then in between them, sliding against your slit. Fucking you with her fingers.

“Mmm fuck Jen.” You moaned out.

She coated her fingers with your juices, sucking them clean. Her cock slid through your dripping pussy. “Please no teasing” You whined.

She chuckled, gripping your hips tightly “Anything for you baby.” She then pushed her entire length into your pussy. “Fuck baby, you’re so fucking tight every single time” She moaned out and started to thrust hard and deeply inside you.

“Oh my fucking god” You screamed.

“Yes that's it baby, scream for me. Scream so the whole neighborhood can hear how good I fuck you. How I can reach deep inside you and fuck you so hard, so you can feel me for days.” She husked. Thrusting into you hard, making your body and the fence move with each thrust.

“You feel so good, I'm so close.” You moaned out loudly.

“No. Hold it. Don't you dare cum yet” She said, slowing down her thrust .

“Please, Jen..” You whimpered.

Her hand goes back up to your neck and slightly grips it. “Who’s pussy is this?” Her thrust is still agonizingly slow making me ache to cum. “Yours! Fuck! It's Yours!” You whined tears threatening to run down your face.

“Please let me cum!” You cry out.

Yunjin smirked “That's my girl,” Her thrust quickens once again making you moan out loudly as you get closer to the edge. Yunjin felt your walls flutter around her, she knew you were very close to the edge. Her other hand reached over to your front to rub your clit. That is all it took to send you over the edge.

“Shit Jen I'm cumming,” You screamed out.

She kept up her thrusts “ That's it baby cum for me. Cum all over my cock, soak it.”

Euphoria washes over your body as you came. Gripping tightly onto the fence so you don’t fall down. Yunjin is still thrusting into you as you came over-stimulating your whole body. “Please no more,” You told her weakly.

Coming back to my senses she now pulled out of you and spun you around, you weakly faced her after being overstimulated. She rests her forehead against mine, breathing heavily, gripping one of my thighs and lifting it.

“One more baby I know you can do one more,” she says to you.

The head of her cock enters you again then her whole length causing both of you to moan. Her thrust starts slow then slowly increases. “Fuck baby I love you” She moans out. You felt her cock twitch inside you signaling that she is cumming soon.

“I love you too, I’m almost there” You moaned.

You bounced on her cock while she thrust in you. Our moans getting louder. You clenched around her cock as you came hard, making your whole body shake with pleasure. Yunjin's thrust quickens but it gets harder to thrust since your pussy is like a vice around her cock. Her hips stilled as she cums. Her warm thick cum fills your pussy and you moan at the feeling.

Holding on to each other as your highs came down, breathing heavily. Yunjin pulled out, making you moan now feeling empty. Her cum starts leaking out of you. She reaches down to swipe it up and shoving back inside your pussy. You moan at the contact.

She leans down to my ear “Just so you know baby, I let you win” she grins pulling up her skirt and walking back to the court, she turns around and stares at you while you were still leaning against the fence, catching your breath. “Now get dressed, we are playing another game.” she smirks.

╚═════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ═════╝

[owlespresso]

the red fruit which ripens

alpha!blade/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is getting too close. tags: blackmail, mind games, nonconsensual touching, blade and luocha are just weirdos idk pt 2 of my part in @lorelune's a/b/o collab. the first part can be read here.

You have never known peace. You doubt any emanator ever has. The Mother of Harmony, of peace, bestowed upon you a fraction of her immortal grace. She cored herself, tore out a seed—jewel like and glistening, and beckoned you to feast. The taste went down so smooth and sweet.

That was the first and last time you held your blessing in awe. Xipe sentenced you, that day, to never know the peace she covets. You could catch glimpses of it, inhale the scent of it deep, but it would fade like morning mist, chased away by the winds of chaos and whatever awful business you were to tend to next.

When you strayed from The Family, tore yourself free of their clutches and hid where their millions of bulging eyes could not find you; you believed it possible to know peace. Perhaps not immediately. There was so much to take care of during your first days on the Luofu, paperwork and apartment hunting. It was all jarringly normal. You were mystified by the mundanity, delighted by it even. The world suddenly closed in for the better. There were no enemy factions to worry about corralling, no petty politics, no attempts to usurp you or take your life.

The world became the Luofu. It became your apartment. It became your favorite food stalls and your neighbors and the little birds fluttering about in the trees.

But it was not peace. Soon, you came to realize that even the average Luofu citizen did not know the concept as intimate as you hoped. They live in fear of Mara, of the Abundance, which they are so intimately intertwined with. Every pain is a life threatening risk, a potential trigger to a deadly malady. Outside of the Abundance, so many run themselves ragged, weighted by long work hours and petty squabbles with loved ones. The kindly folk by the docks find themselves cornered by the IPC.

No mortal knows peace, you have come to realize. Perfect tranquility is a ripe and red lie, birthed gold and glistening from the Goddess’s many lips, spread carelessly and listlessly across the universe. Unattainable by the emanator’s closest to her.

You believed once, and it hurt you. Not again. You will heed no honeyed words. You can only believe in what is cold, concrete, and solid.

—

“I feel like—” you begin, pushing through the rusted metal paneling of the dilapidated fence. “—you could have gotten here by yourself.” You usually don’t talk this much, but Blade’s habitual silence combined with your burgeoning irritation leaves you uncharacteristically eager to complain aloud.

The abandoned warehouse looms an eerie, empty monument of crumbling sheet metal and shattered glass. Long columns of broken machinery are gutted in pieces across the concrete yard. You make note to return later, just to make sure you’re not leaving valuable goods out to waste.

“I have never been here before. Kafka thought it wise to come with a guide.” 

“And what do you think?” you pause, shoulder buried in the outside paneling of the building itself.

“What I think… does not matter.” Blade says cooly. “A blade is meant to be wielded. It does not choose who it cuts down or where it goes.”

“Hm,” you don’t have much to say to that. You shouldn’t have opened your yap in the first place. The less you know about the bizarre relations of the Stellaron Hunters, the better. You squeeze into the building through the gap. Blade hardly two paces behind. The metal groans and squeaks as he forces his way in. It feels like the loudest sound you’ve ever fucking heard, an offensive and high pitched screech that probably rings through the yard and neighboring alleyways.

“At least try to be a little quieter,” you grumble, squinting into the dark. The main room is made a maze by haphazardly laid out storage containers, many cracked open and already emptied. Wires hang from the ceiling, which has become an amalgamation of mechanical matter and rotting parts. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Black grunts his assent.

“Well. You’re here, safe and sound.” you waste no time, doubling back towards the Blade-shaped hole in the wall. Did he just walk straight through!? What are they feeding this guy? “So I—”

The sound of thundering footsteps and approaching shouts freezes you mid-step. Momentary panic jars you still. The Cloud Knights? Here? Now?

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you turn tail, ready to haul ass in the opposite direction, only to collide face-first with Blade’s firm chest. He jostles you to the side with his shoulder, ignoring your grunt of complaint. His hand rests on the hilt of his blade. Your stomach jumps into your throat.

“Where are you going!?” you hiss.

“To take care of the vermin,” Blade replies drolly, looking down his nose at you. His lips twitch into the beginnings of a puzzled frown.

“Absolutely not!” you say, and his frown pulls deeper. “Where there’s ten, there’s bound to be twenty waiting to back them up.”

It is unlike you to be so bold, but you seize him by the wrist, pulling him further into the jagged steel labyrinth. He allows himself to be led, surprisingly docile as you round corners and scuttle down corridors. Pale moonlight covers the room in a silvery sheen, providing just enough light for you to make out a door embedded into the outermost wall. Footsteps echo around you, calling voices made cacophonous by the echo. Blade’s grip on your hand tightens, likely annoyed and sorely tempted to begin the slaughter, but you yank open the door and jam yourself inside what seems to be a cramped server room.

A few circuit towers stand side-by-side, dark and dusty with disuse. Blade shuts the door behind you, opening his mouth to speak, but you’re already wedging yourself into the lone aisle between the wall and the towers, pulling him behind you.

A few moments later sees you crammed in the narrow space. The back wall and server towers rise on either side of you, caging you up against your troublesome accomplice. One of Blade’s thighs presses tight to your own. Warm and firm. The proximity betrays what you’ve expected since your first meeting. Blade is an alpha. Only now, brought so obscenely close, are you fully able to realize that. It’s a footnote in comparison to your agitation, which swims and simmers just beneath the surface of your skin.

“How long were they following us for?” you grumble aloud. “Tell Kafka she owes an extra 20% when you see her, and that I’m not doing this ever again.”

Blade sighs out of his nose. You can’t see his face well enough to make out his expression.

“You’re wearing a mask. Your identity is safe.” he says.

“The threat of being arrested still remains,” you grumble, listening to the clamorous noise outside. Trained troops rush back and forth, kicking up dust and old grease. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, beyond a few paltry words, but no one has yet knocked on the door. Surely a good sign.

Blade squeezes your hand, and subsequently reminds you that you are holding it.

“That won’t happen. Destiny’s Slave would not risk your safety over something so simple. No harm will come to you, tonight.”

Well, isn’t that comforting. You wrest your hand away with a scowl, and clamp down on the pressing urge to let him know what you really think about his boss. He stares down at the place where your hands were once joined.

The next half-hour passes in relative silence. His eyes are all that is visible in the empty dark of the room, candlewick embers extinguished when he shuts them and leans back against the wall.

Eventually, the outside noise quiets. No more thudding boots or searching shouts, the warehouse silent as it had been when you arrived. Shimmying out from the pitch dark crevice is much more awkward without the frantic adrenaline, but you manage it, emerging in a new layer of dust.

“Alright. I’m heading out. Be careful.”

“They won’t return anytime soon,” Blade remains inside, arms crossed and impassive. Your frown deepens. You clamber through a hole in the wall. No Knights have remained behind. You feared a few would have stayed just in case, but none leap out from behind the rubble. Which means that the horrible feeling prickling up the back of your neck is just Blade’s cold, empty gaze trained on your retreating form.

Strange beast, you think to yourself, scuttling into the nearest alleyway.

—

One of your favorite things about Luocha’s home is that he is hardly ever in it. The first time you met him after helping him with his pre-heat, he pressed a silver house key into your palms, before turning and leaving. Not even allowing you to splutter a single, indignant protest. Back then, you mentally swore that you wouldn’t use it.

Now, you use it almost everyday. His neighborhood, smack dab in the middle of the Luofu, intersects with several of your regular routes. It’s just too easy so slide in between deliveries for a quick rest. It helps that he’s hardly ever home, leaving you to pilfer snacks from his fridge and take brief naps on the couch. You haven’t been bold enough to stay overnight. You’ve become far, far too intimate with the man.

No more, you decide, and stay firm to that decision even when he beseeches your company not a week later. It’s rude, but you can’t risk getting anymore attached than you already are. He’s become a bothersome burr stuck to your side, a looming presence in your thoughts even when he’s far across the stars, doing Xipe knows what.

There’s a knock at the door. You startle, because this has never happened before. You remain stock still on the couch. If you remain still, surely whoever is out there will get the message and bugger off. Another knock. You should have known that any solicitor determined to walk through the forest of a front yard would be too stubborn to give up after only seven knocks.

At the eleventh, you get up and stomp to the door. It’s mostly to preserve your own sanity. 

You throw open the door, prepared to give the nosy bastard on the other side an earful. 

It’s Blade. Blade is stood there. He blots out the afternoon sun, leaving you in the shadow he casts. It’s like seeing your clothes in the fridge. You blink several times.

“Ah. It’s you.”

“It is,” He’s holding a bouquet of flowers in his left hand. 

“What… why are you here?” 

“Kafka’s orders. She wanted you to have these,” he hands you the bouquet. You receive it. Fresh petunias and sprigs of rosemary curl next to daisies and tulips. It’s a nonsensical thing. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Nothing particularly artful about the presentation besides the pretty colors. 

“I see… Is this your home?” He looks like he already knows the answer.

You decide not to humor him. You tuck the bouquet underneath your arm and lean up against the doorframe. “What’s it to you?” 

He blinks, looks confused, and then responds after a moment of silent thought. “I… there is someone else who lives here. I remember it clearly, now.”

“You two know each other, huh? What a coincidence. But… how did you know where I was?”

“I asked the woman next door. She directed me here. I’ve been searching for you since the early morning.” 

“All morning?” you tut, somewhat sympathetic. “That’s a lot of walking.”

“It is nothing compared to other pains I have endured.” Blade says, solemnly. “And I have traveled far greater distances on foot. You shouldn’t worry.”

“...Well,” you stare down at the bouquet for a moment. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t give you anything for the effort. You know that big, red maple by the pond? Go sit there. I’ll get you something to drink.”

Two minutes later sees you outside, cradling two crystalline glasses filled with lemonade. You didn’t get him the fancy stuff—the strawberry-kiwi-whatever fruit stuff that you hand mixed. But it’s something.

He’s hunched beneath the red canopy. There’s a dark, inky type of handsomeness he possesses. Dark hair tumbles down his back, shaggy bangs frame that wolfish face. He looks dour almost all the time. Like the frown lines and cold apathy have permanently creased it. He’s hunched beneath the shade. Like it sits on his shoulders as a physical weight. He looks up at you as you settle next to him, accepts his glass without fuss or thanks. Which is just fine, with you. You probably shouldn’t be doing this, anyways. He’s an intergalactic criminal. The less time you spend together, the better.

But at the same time… you can’t help but be curious. Curious about the mara which buzzes underneath his skin, yet somehow never breaches it. Curious about what manner of creature he must be to withstand the final stages of Yaoshi’s curse. Curious if there’s any real, lingering emotion beyond the stoicism he treats… well, everything with. 

The two of you sit in silence and sip. You don’t feel any need for artificial conversation. It’s easy to sit down and simply exist next to him. No impulsive need for niceties. 

“This house isn’t yours,” he says.

“No. The owner is a client of mine. He lets me stop by here, in between deliveries. It’s convenient.”

A few beats of silence. “How well do you know the man that lives here?”

“As well as I know any other client,” he looks at you expectantly, as though waiting for you to finish that statement. “Which isn’t very well. He’s not here most of the time.”

“You should remain cautious while in his presence,” he says, and you nearly raise a brow at the unsolicited advice. He levels you with his dull, candlewick gaze, as impassive as ever. A leaf flutters from the lowest branches onto his head. “That man draws his power from the source of the mara. He wields it under the guise of a blessing, and yet…” Blade frowns, almost a grimace, and doesn’t say anything else. 

“I know.”

“Yet you take shelter under his roof and exist willingly in his space.” Blade stares at you. There’s a faint bristling in the air. A shuddering of the atmosphere that emerges from him. Thorny tendrils of bitter gold crackle beneath his pale skin. You don’t know exactly what aggrieves him so, but you get the feeling that you should say something to appease him, quickly.

“Well. I don’t know any other rich diplomats willing to offer me a free, mostly empty house to take a break in for… around twenty minutes a day,” you shrug. “It’s convenient.”

That seems to settle him.

“Do you… not like him? The merchant?” Does he even know Luocha’s name? What kind of relationship do these two weirdos have?

“In the strange purgatory of my existence, he acts as both poison and cure.” Blade informs you, as if it tells you really anything. As if sensing your befuddlement, he deflates a little, nose scrunching. He looks like a dour cat, stuck out in the rain. “He wants something from me. I can’t tell what it is. His unseemly fascination means it can be nothing good.” His attempt at elaboration gives you somewhat of a clearer picture, but it’s still some insanity that you’ll have to unpack later.

“I see. I’ll make sure to remember that,” you’re not sure if it’s possible to forget a conversation with Blade. Especially one that lasts more than a few moments. What prompted this? Genuine concern for your well-being? You have a hard time believing that. There are many things that are better off left unsaid, in your experience, so you don’t ask. 

The rest of the visit passes in relative quiet. Blade finishes his lemonade.

You reach over. His gaze snaps to you immediately, a beaten dog evaluating a potential threat.

“You have something in your hair,” you inform him helpfully, plucking the leaf from his sable locks. You curl the stem around your fingers. 

He doesn’t say anything after that. The two of you stand. He murmurs a brief farewell, and is off through the yard, slipping through the ferns to become one with the cast shadows. You’re not sure how long you remain after he leaves. The pond water ripples with each gentle breeze. Glimmering koi bob to the surface, in search of mid-afternoon snacks. When they find none, they dive beneath, water droplets flickering off their lashing tail fins.

Well, you think after another moment, at least you learned something.

Now, it is high time that you tend to the bouquet so generously sent your way. You dump the glasses in the sink, halfheartedly vowing to deal with them later, before taking a closer look at the arrangement of flowers. As you expected, it’s more than a paltry, sentimental gift. Tucked into the plastic wrapping is a small card.

Bladie said you got in quite the mess, the other day. You have my deepest gratitude for handling it so cleanly. He’s not that good at talking things out. He seems to like you, though! I wonder what makes you so special?

P.S. Next Tuesday, please escort Bladie to the address written on the back of this note. Please? Do it for me. :)

—

You hate working with criminals. Criminals other than yourself.

Though, you don’t fancy yourself much a criminal.  Deliveries are an entirely different beast, simple points of contact which last at most for five minutes. Escorting a known, intergalactic criminal through multiple layers of the Luofu is completely different—something you would never do if anyone besides Kafka asked. You’ll dance to her tune, run her errands if it keeps you off her shitlist. But is there even a point if keeping off of hers just puts you onto someone else’s?

You’ll have some fierce thinking to do after you shake off the six Cloud Knights currently on your tail. You dive between market stalls. You leap over a counter, sending an array of fruits and vegetables tumbling onto the pavement. You ignore the enraged shout of the peddler behind you, pulse thundering in your ears as you weave between the passerby, narrowly avoiding a stack of crates.

The air stings at the corners of your eyes. The marketplace blends together to the point of featurelessness. You don’t know who you pass or what else you know over, too focused on what’s ahead to care about the wreckage left behind. At the very least, it may hamper the Knights as they shout and stomp and rush after you—and Blade, whose fault all this is.

You slide around a corner and into a red-bricked alleyway, lanterns strung between the two rooftops, gold and glittering against that fake, blue sky.

“Dead end.” Blade grunts. You hear the telltale click of his sword being unsheathed.

“No! Just follow me!” you snap, seizing his wrist and pulling him forward, all the way to the end. As you trudge forward, you tap a sequence into the walls on either side. The worn clay surfaces are coarse under your fingertips. None move after you touch them, but you feel a subtle shift in the energy as it rushes down to the focal point. The pattern ends at the back of the alley. You tap a chipped, ragged brick embedded into the dead-end wall. The slabs unfold, layer-by-layer, to form an opening.

You pull him through.

It folds shut behind you, the quiet sound of grinding stone following you through the passage. The hollering and thudding of the pursuit have been silenced. Their chaos of the market sealed away behind the otherwise impenetrable seal. You doubt the low-ranking footmen who chased you will know the way.

Yellow-green vines crawl up the pulsing walls. Luminous particles bob and float in the air like fireflies. The place is silent, leaving you with only the sound of your own panting and Blade—Blade’s rasping, spluttering wheezes.

You stop, right where you are, because you have never heard him make such a sound before. Even after a chase, or a fight. 

The passage opens to a wider tunnel up ahead. You drop Blade’s hand, and turn to look at him. The adrenaline is fading, now leaving room for fresh, common sense. 

Blades hunches up against the wall. The air enters and leaves his lungs in winded, rushed wheezes. His eyes are wide and unseeing. Those candlewick irises dart from the floor, to the place where your hands had been joined, and finally, then, to you. 

A scent, like firewood charred too long, blistering into crumbled charcoal, blooms in and clouds the thin space. It’s like nothing you’ve ever smelled before, the vicious pheromones of an alpha at the very end of their tether. Something more, too, something earthen and ancient and charged. A flavor which has graced your palate only once or twice before.

Encroaching mara. You don’t know what he’s like, when his symptoms flare. You’re not eager to find out. The capricious nature of his mara has not once posed a threat to you. But his composure is slipping, his hands curling like claws and flexing. Like he’s getting a feel for his own body. Like the joints are sore and need stretching.

“Blade,” you stumble forward, pressing your palm to the cold, pale pane of his cheek. “Blade, look at me.”

His shaky irises hover awkwardly over your shoulder, before at last meeting your gaze. 

“It approaches,” he rasps, looking as haunted as you have ever seen him.

“Blade, do not let the mara take you.” you take in a deep, steadying breath. The violent pulsing in your ears returns in full force, the unhinged mass of his disease gnawing at your physical form.

Bracing yourself, you reach within. You touch the very bottom of your long neglected wellspring. Harmonic Essence leaps to the surface, warm and loving and so eager to be put to use. It feels like an old coat slipped around your shoulders, a familiarity you wouldn’t dare indulge in under ordinary circumstances. It is a power long wasted on you, but useful this very once. It pulses from underneath your fingertips, washes underneath his pallid skin.

The acrid taste of his mara brashes against the tip of your tongue for a single, fleeting moment. It then skitters backwards. Retreats into the dark, churning void of what you assume to be his subconsciousness. It’s a temporary balancing of the scales, but his wild pulse settles.

You sigh, shoulder slumping in relief. The tension winds out of your body, hand dropping back to your side.

He still looms above you, jet black hair curtaining you in. When did he get so close? Or had it been you in your haste to soothe him? He runs hot as a hearth, the warmth which radiates from him thick enough to feel. This close, you can see his every breath, soft mounds of his chest straining the fastenings which hold his shirt together. Slender stripes of pale skin peek through his chest wrappings. You swallow and look away, up at the strong column of his neck.

“Are you with me?” you murmur. You don’t dare move, lest your retreat trigger the chase instinct which some alphas are known to possess. You don’t like making assumptions. You feel like Blade would be among that number anyways.

“Yes,” Blade’s voice is sandpaper rough. He moves before you do, shouldering past you into the wider tunnel. “You make use of these often, I take it.”

As though nothing had ever happened. Something bitter churns in your gut, but you don’t bring it up. There’s no reason to. He probably wants to distance himself from this episode as quickly as possible. You don’t blame him. The mara must be a humiliating affliction to live and cope with. 

“It’s the fastest way to get around,” you break into a brisk walk, overtaking him. You’re the one who knows your way around, here.

“The mara would rend asunder the minds of anyone not wearing the correct protective gear,” Blade observes. There’s nothing pointed in his voice, but the weight of his gaze makes your skin crawl. Its keen focus is that of an apex predator’s, a beast somehow sated enough to keep his teeth from your throat. How long will that last? Fifteen minutes? An hour? The air here swelters with abundance. His mara must sup on it like a starved prisoner, far stronger and fuller than it could ever be on the surface. 

He could easily match your pace, but he chooses to walk behind you.

“I could say the same for you.”

“I am an abomination of Yaoshi. The abundance has already taken hold of me.” Blade says, grimacing. You toy with the fraying edge of your sleeve between your forefinger and thumb. “All the saturation here does is spur on the symptoms.”

You make a face. He must sense your unease.

“I should be able to resist the pull until we surface. Provided we do not linger overlong.” Blade replies. It does remarkably little to reassure you. 

A predator stalks at your back, one whose sanity may pop like an overfilled balloon at really any moment. Against your better sense, you feel anxiety lash at the bottom of your stomach, guts churning with that primal fear.

“Reassuring.” you bite out thoughtlessly. 

“It would be in your best interest to focus on finding a way out, rather than back-talking me.” Blade says, and you swallow. 

“Back-talking? I think my frustration is quite justified. You’re the reason we’re in this mess, after all.” you pointedly remind him. The words roll bitter off your tongue. Prickling discomfort coalesces with the saturation of abundance in the air, becoming a consistent buzz against the back of your skull.

Blade makes a ragged little noise, wedged between a wheeze and a laugh.

“Another do I make pay the price. I was not always like this. deathless beast borne of blind ambition and hubris…” he trails off. “I was once a man. Death walked with me as it walked with every other. It was never meant to—to become—”

A distorted warble slowly creeps into his voice. Shit, you just shouldn’t have said anything. The hovering energy coalesces, thin whispers congealing into thick, mist-like mass around him. It’s drawn to him. 

“What’s your favorite food?” you turn on your heel and ask, crossing your arms. He looks down at you, brows furrowing as he roots around for an answer. “You haven’t thought about it, have you?” Do the mara-struck even have to eat? Blade is a particularly unique case among them, but you wouldn’t be surprised if he even remembers to eat. He is a blade, according to his own words. And a blade doesn’t need to eat. How desolate an existence he must have lived. Must still be living if his own preferences evade him.

“Well. Try to find an answer while I get us out of here.” you command. He’s quiet for the remainder of the trek. You emerge topside and immediately feel several pounds lighter. The air is fresh and sweet, the skies blue and open. You’re two blocks from your apartment in a dark, neglected alleyway. 

“You can find your way back from here,” you sigh, chancing a glance at your companion as you stretch your arms above your head. “Right?”

He’s still quiet. You don’t sense the acrid tang of the illness. He looks thoughtful. You wish he would just give you an answer already. You’re not eager to be chanced upon again by a patrol, or by any other witnesses for that matter. 

“Your question. I don’t have an answer.” Blade says. He sounds almost regretful. 

Over your few interactions, you’ve come to realize that not much bothers him. Very little manages to budge that glacial mien. His demeanor, as you have come to understand, either sits as stoney neutrality or maniacal, giddy rage. The shades between are so very visited.

“It’s no big deal. You can just tell me next time, if you want.” If he even remembers. The idea of turning your back to him still riddles you with unease, but you do it anyway. Your steps are slow and measured. He stares you down until you disappear around the corner, meld into the crowds like just another thread in a blanket.

—

The sky above hangs a pale grey. It’s the threat of a light drizzle rather than a raging storm. You slip through the abundant foliage of Luocha’s front yard, unable but to notice that the shrubs and vibrant blooms have somehow grown in size since your last visit. The greens are hearty, fresh dewdrops glimmering off grass and unfurled leaves.

It’s not difficult to spot him. He’s lounged beneath the sole scarlet maple of the yard. He’s a spot of red himself, swathed in a richly-colored, likely richly-made, robe of it. The fabric pools on the lawn chair he lounges atop of. His eyes are shut, blonde lashes fanning against his perfect cheeks. Those eyes open as you skirt along the jagged stone edge of the pond, manilla envelope clutched in your left hand. He smiles, but does not lift his head. Sumptuous locks of golden blonde fan out behind his head like a halo. The very picture of serenity. 

“Well, well. To what do I owe this visit?” he tilts his head, smiling like a contented cat. You huff, and avoid looking below his neck, where the plush robe parts to reveal the pale soft of his chest. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but any sliver of intimacy you may have granted him has long passed. The moment you look down, he’ll notice and impose upon you another outlandish favor.

“Don’t get excited.” You hand him the package, and begin to pull back, but he’s faster. He darts for you like a viper. Long fingers curl around your wrist to hold you in place. The look in his eyes is beseeching. He gently deposits the envelope on the side table next to his seat. He doesn’t look away from you for even a moment. 

“Always so busy… doesn’t it exhaust you?” he murmurs, a sympathetic coo. He’s putting just enough strain on your arm to make standing uncomfortable, in hopes that you’ll sit down beside him. 

“No. I’m used to it. I like being busy,” you bear the ache in your arm with unyielding ease. It is so small and insignificant in comparison to every other you have endured.

“Do you… like being busy, or is it that you’ve never known anything else?” Luocha tilts his head to the side, smiling. Your skin prickles. You resist the urge to swallow. 

“You know what they say about assumptions.”

“Which is why I’m glad I’m not making one. You go to awfully desperate lengths to not be known, Courier.”

The corners of your lips twitch downwards, and his eyes gleam. “Don’t be coy with me. Did you talk to them?” You ask. The question has lingered on your mind for weeks, leaving you restless and more unkind than usual. The persistent threat of him is always at the back of your mind, represented in the throbbing between your temples, in the harshness of your voice as you snap at someone who might not deserve it. There’s no sense in beating around the bush, anymore. Not if you want to preserve your sanity.

“How very vague, for someone who just accused me of being coy. Be at ease, I haven’t had any contact with The Family. Merely some… particularly useful informants who have heard a thing or two. Hunches based on speculation that you’ve proven by being cagey.” Luocha assures you.

“...So, what do you want from me?”

“Merely conversation. I do find our interactions so compelling, however short they may be.”

“Being blackmailed doesn’t put me in the mood for conversation. There’s not much for us to talk about.”

“I beg to differ. I know so very little about you, despite all we’ve shared. I’m curious—what set you on the path of Harmony?” 

“...” You look away, internally evaluating the pros and cons of going along with his little game. “Peace. She promised us peace. Because that’s what Harmony was supposed to be.” His eyes soften. The indignation sizzling inside of you sparks into a raw flame (he has no right to look at you like that), but you smother it. 

“Did it live up to your expectations?” he asks. His thumb rubs circles against the hollow of your wrist. His gaze sweeps from your face, down your arm, to where he’s still got you. He’s waiting for you to be vulnerable, you just know it. A shark that smells blood in the water, circling and searching for tender flesh to lay its rows of teeth into. How does he imagine it will taste? Soft and meaty, melting underneath teeth and tongue? Layers of skin peeled back and pried open, made thin by older slices?

“It didn’t work out.” you reply. sagacious enough to play along only minimally. When you elaborate no further, he releases you with a smile.

“How interesting,” he hums. He reclines further, eyes fluttering shut. You could pounce on him so easily, like this. You could fix your teeth into his jugular and make it so he never threatens you again. The blood would be so warm in your mouth. His skin would be so sweet.

Don’t be gross. You grimace.

He drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

The fluttering of wings erupts in the canopy above you, a flock of songbirds taking an afternoon flight. He cracks open his eyes, then. He tracks some sort of movement (you aren’t looking up), idle, like you aren’t even there. He tilts his head to the side, the slender column of his neck completely exposed. The robe slips off of his shoulders, curvature of his collarbones and soft expanse of his chest open for your viewing pleasure. You’re annoyed.

 “I’ve held you long enough,” he sighs. “Thank you for sharing. Though, I do hope we can manage a longer conversation next time.”

“We’ll see,” you just barely keep a sigh out of your voice as you turn to leave, speed-walking up the grassy slope.

—

“That old man’s damn cat has been coming into the yard and bothering all the birds,” you grumble, squinting into the aforementioned patch of forest. 

Blade makes a noncommittal noise, indicating that he’s heard you.

“It pisses me off.”

“You care about the birds in someone else’s yard.” Blade observes. You frown deeper.

“It’s annoying. Cats are an invasive species, here. They slaughter all of the native wildlife—and sometimes they don’t even eat what they kill,” you sigh, tampering down your rising agitation. If you’ve learned one thing in your short and storied life, it’s that being impassioned isn’t good for you. 

“So, how would you suggest the problem be solved? If the owner insists on letting it out…”

“I don’t really live here, so it’s not like I have any right to get involved,” you shrug, “It’s just… if you’re gonna be that irresponsible with an animal, you don’t deserve to have it. You know?”

Blade makes another noise. Closer to a hum, this time. You don’t know if he knows or not. But you do know that he’s listening. You stare into the yard, and in your periphery you can see him staring at you.

—

You see Blade more in the coming days. Despite your best attempts, a routine slips into being, like weeds through cracks in the cement. Silver Wolf doesn’t show up to accept her own packages nearly as much, anymore. It’s almost always Blade. You see him so often that you question if he even has a job anymore.

He glowers. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He says, low voice almost lost amongst the bustle of the crowd. The markets are especially full today. Nestled in the crook of your elbow is a plastic shopping basket, loaded with some bread, some spices, and some vegetables. The stall you’re at rests beneath a red tarp, casts warm shadows onto his pale, bone-weary skin. “There are currently no tasks which command my presence at the moment.”

“Well. It’s good to have time off, but you don’t need to follow me around.”

“...” he doesn’t reply, but he does follow you all the way up to the counter. You can’t tell if he doesn’t understand the nuance, or if he’s just being bizarre and stubborn. Regardless, tailing you like a lost puppy seems to alleviate his boredom. To each their own.

“If you’re just going to walk behind me, can you—” you shift the basket from the crook of your arm, preparing to offer it. He snatches it from you before you can even finish speaking. 

“...Thanks.” 

He takes his newfound job as the basket carrier very seriously. His dour face doesn't budge an inch as you peruse the rest of the wares, plucking a few items from open crates and wooden shelves to add to the bundle. 

“So, see anything that piques your interest?” you’re not sure what prompts you to speak up. You should get through this as silently and as quickly as possible. The less time you spend in public with this man, the better. The presence of the Cloud Knights isn’t nearly as felt on this level, making it as safe a haven for criminals as can be. You suspect, sometimes, that it’s purposeful. In your many travels, you have come to realize that the criminal class is a valuable part of any economy, no matter how much those at the top may protest it. Those who disavow it the most fervently are usually the most involved, under the table.

Blade doesn’t respond, at first. His crimson gaze glances over the nearby shelves. He grabs a bottle of cloves and presents it to you, completely straight-faced.

You get the overwhelming sense he’s appeasing you more than anything.

“...Yeah,” you pluck it from his hand and halfheartedly eye the label. It’s hard to muster the energy to argue with him, especially when he looks so resolute. The fact that he’s continuing to tail you through the market is cause enough to ignore him. You drop the bottle into your basket and move on.

Thankfully, the rest of the trip passes in peaceful silence. You can feel Blade’s gaze, unreadable, lingering on your form as you pull your wallet out of one of your many pockets. The shopkeep, a sprightly young man with a head of bouncy, brown hair beams at the sight of you. You don’t remember his name, but you’re familiar with him. He opens his mouth to speak, but shuts his mouth tight before he can get a word out.

He glances over your shoulder. You swivel just barely to look at your stubborn shadow. Blade looms closer than you remember him being, leaving you with an up close and personal view of his chest. You tsk and look up at his face. 

“Can you get a bottle of white cardamom for me? It should be with the rest of the spices.”

Blade looks at you, and looks at the shopkeep. He is silent. The lines of his face are harsher than usual, burdened with deeper shadow. For a few, agonizing moments, you fear he may object, but he turns almost robotically and walks off. You’re not sure what’s upset him this time. You don’t particularly care. If you troubled yourself with the qualms of every pouting client, you’d be just as miserable as you were with The Family.

“Thanks. I could hardly get a word out while he was giving me those evil eyes,” the shopkeep says, shuddering.

“I guess his manners still need work,” Not that men in his line of work really needed any. 

“Alphas that smell that strong and don’t even try to put a lid on it are the worst,” he gripes, bagging your produce with nimble hands, before pausing and looking back up at you. He wrings his hands, contrite and sheepish. “—er, no offense.” 

“He smells strong?” you tilt your head to the side.

“Well, yeah. He’s all over you,” the man blinks. Some of his bangs fall over his big, brown eyes. He swipes them behind his ear thoughtlessly. “You guys just get together? He’s probably trying to flaunt it. Stake his ‘claim’, y’know?” he says with a sympathetic roll of the eyes.

You don’t particularly care what he says about Blade. A man able to lift a three-thousand pound sword doesn’t need defending.  It’s his misconceptions about your relationship that irks you, for some reason. You don’t care about the opinions of others (you try not to care about the opinions of others) but you can’t resist the sudden urge to correct him.

“We’re not together.”

“Oh,” he blinks at you. “Does he know that?”

“Ugh. Enough. It’s none of your business.” your lips twist, a sliver of teeth exposed in your displeasure.

The shopkeep nods and beams at you, all previous curiosity wiped clean off his face. “Heard loud and clear!”

He finishes ringing you up and sees you off with a “have a nice day~!”. Blade follows you to your next stop, a stall that sells fresh fruits. 

The frustration builds within you slowly. It’s a candlewick of a thing, at first. Blade is following you around. Irritating, but you can cope with it. He would leave if he was asked. Maybe Kafka told him to stick around for a while. She’s gotten into a bad habit of pawning him off on you, like he’s a child that needs watching rather than one of the universe’s most efficient killing machines. That’s fine. You’re not keen to get on her bad side.

Blade is scenting you. He’s sticking to you tight as a cobweb and giving dirty looks to people you talk to. That, you cannot abide by. It takes you at least five minutes to simmer, from the crate of apples to the lefternmost all of the stall to the bundle of leeks close to its middle. You’re not really looking at anything. Lost in thought.

“I am not an omega for you to covet. I don’t need your protection,” you tell him, letting your gaze idly roam over the prices. They’re written on fancy little labels with red accents, each one neatly stickered just below the lip of each crate. 

“I never said you did,” Blade replies after a moment of deliberating. You look over a crate of cantaloupe. Selecting a ripe one is a practiced art.

“You didn’t have to,” you pause, melon held in your hands as you give him a scathing look. “Control your pheromones. You’re not an animal.”

“No. Worse, I am a blade.” he sighs, suddenly sounding unusually surly. Your lips twitch in the barest beginnings of a frown. 

“Not an excuse,” you helpfully remind him. A shadow is cast over his face, then, dark and brooding. The space between his brows wrinkles, an uncertainty you haven’t quite seen from him before. There’s so little need to deliberate in a life like his own, so what troubles him now? It nettles something in you, makes you feel in a way that you don’t care to name and don’t want to look into. You deliberate asking, but he makes the choice for you.

“I will leave you, now.” When you turn to look at him, he’s already walked away from your side, strides longer than usual. He dissolves into the crowd like a sunset shadow, naught left in his wake but the scent you know still clings to your clothes. 

—

“My, my. You rarely ever visit at this hour,” Luocha says, giving you one of those mirthful smiles where his eyes scrunch, unabashedly delighted (and undeniably smug) to see you. He lounges on the ottoman, slender fingers parting the pages of a furniture catalogue. “To what do I owe the honor?”’ He’s already deduced that you want something from him. You take no excessive pride in your poker face but it still pains you to be so easily read. Luocha stands apart from the crowd with his soft hands and feigned delicacy, but he smells blood in the water just as easily as any other follower of the Hunt.

“I just wanted to talk,” you see no reason to dance around it.

“You came all this way for a conversation?” He rests his chin on the palm of his hand in a haughty way that pisses you off.

“Isn’t that what you’ve wanted this whole time?” you grouse, and he laughs.

“I’m flattered, regardless. Come, sit and tell me all that is on your mind.” he beckons to a seat at his side, which you stiffly sink into, unable to relax beneath his hunter’s gaze.

“You’re an omega—”

“Yes, quite,” his smile is now coquettish. You feel your face wrinkle in annoyance, line of your brows dipping low. 

“I wasn’t done. You know more about secondary genders than I do—and I don’t have anyone else to talk about it with, so…”

“I appreciate you confiding in me like this,” Luocha says, sweet as honey, timbre smooth as silk. There’s an ease about him here, in his own domain, that soothes and disarms you despite your best efforts. “It couldn’t have been easy for you to ask, so unused to relying on anyone else. I’m no professional, but I will answer your questions as best as I am able.”

He steeples his fingers with a smile, way too delighted for you to feel good about his generosity. He just likes knowing something you don’t, doesn’t he?

“Well. I’ve been spending time with an alpha, lately. It’s a work thing, but he keeps hovering around. Even after I tell him he can leave.”

“Ah.” Luocha says. The corners of his smile grow taut with something you don’t quite recognize. 

And it’s a question you suddenly have to wonder for yourself. Is Blade bothering you? You can count on one hand the amount of times you have been genuinely upset with him. He’s quiet, most of the time. He answers your questions and attempts to appease you whenever possible. He carries your bags whenever you happen to be at the markets, together. Even if you really wish he wouldn’t, you can tell he’s trying to be kind. 

“He hardly speaks. And when I does, I don’t really mind. But he hovers and keeps grabbing my shopping bags whenever we’re at the markets. I don’t get it. Is it some sort of courting gesture?”

“He certainly sounds like a character,” Luocha muses, sounding far off for a moment. “You have the right idea. He’s carrying your things to both lessen your burden and to prove himself capable, even if he himself does not realize it.”

You grimace, face twisting up, The truth has an acerbic tang to it. Luocha laughs unabashedly at your dismay, the sound melodic and trilling. The longer you spend in his presence, the more convinced you become that the Aeons crafted him specifically to vex you. You give him a scathing look.

“Come, now,” Luocha wheedles. “My humblest apologies, Courier—it’s simply so rare for you to be so expressive. I was caught off guard. Shall I get you something to drink? Come, please, sit back down. Surely you have more to ask of me?”

Reluctantly, you drop into the armchair closest to the door, leaning back as far as you have the space for, You fold your fingers together, elbows perched on an arm rest each.

“I don’t envy you. It must be difficult to bear the attentions of such a peculiar alpha,” Luocha says.

“You know him, then.” You can’t keep the accusation from your voice, something frenetic and ugly kicking up your pulse, making your stomach go sour. How deeply do they know each other? Enough for Luocha to consider spilling your secrets? Enough for them to conspire against your purposes unknown?

No, don't be ridiculous. You're not important enough a figure to be the center of any such elaborate scheme. Weak, as far as emanators go. Painfully average, even as far as betas go. Unremarkable in status and career. All that threatens you is what you have long left behind.

“I do know him. Quite well, in fact.” Luocha muses, undisputed fondness in his voice. How close are they? The question lingers bitter on the tip of your tongue. It vibrates underneath your skin, wild and desperate and gods, you want to know so badly.  “Though he may deny it, he can be shy. You’re alike, in that way.”

“I am not shy,” you bristle. It’s your curiosity alone that keeps you in his company. 

“An argument best saved for another day. Let’s not get off track—Blade is an alpha, but he bears few of the typical mannerisms associated with his secondary gender, which makes this newfound attachment to you all the more significant.”

Progressively, throughout your conversation, you’ve been able to feel the wrinkles on your face multiplying and darkening.

“It makes sense, if you ask me. You’re quite the extraordinary individual,” Luocha says, drumming his fingers idly against the armrest.

“So how do I get him to stop?” you brush past his superfluous flattery with practiced indifference. He wants to fluster you, to see you squirm. It’s one of the ugly truths behind the chivalrous front he wears in polite company.

“Are you sure you want him to stop?” he inquires.

“What are you getting at?”

“If you truly wanted to no longer be the object of these behaviors, you would have no problem telling him yourself.”

You laugh, and it’s a cold and bitter thing. “Not all men take rejection well.”

“As I well know,” Luocha reminds you. He’s so haughty, so utterly confident that sometimes you forget he’s an omega, a demographic as subject to unwanted advances as any you are a part of. He stands up, empty glass cradled in hand. The sheer material of his robe billows around him like fine mist, treating you to the outline of his smooth, toned legs. Blade is more built, the thought comes to you unbidden. You squish it like the raspberries you juiced only a week ago on Luocha's kitchen counter. You wonder if the stains ever came out.

“Objectively speaking, you have more of a reason to hold your tongue around me than you do him. Yet, you hardly hesitate to make your displeasure known in my company,” he points out. “It’s not because of my secondary sex. You hardly ever remember that I’m an omega, unless my heat is soon.”

“And your point is?”

He seizes your chin, then tilts your head up until you’re forced to look into those grass green eyes. Cradled between his forefinger and thumb, you are left with nowhere else to go. You wonder briefly if it thrills him to do this because he is an omega. If he finds some kind of perverse pleasure in subverting the roles society espouses about his kind.

“You could have told him off on your own. Instead, you went out of your way to consult someone you deeply dislike, looking for another, less direct way of handling it. All of that implies some degree of care, whether you want to admit it or not.”

He’s right, and you hate nothing more than when he’s right.

“Thank you for your time,” you dip back into your customer service with a placid and empty drone, because you know how much he hates it. You say it to his chest, refusing to give him the eye contact. Unwilling to expend the effort. For plausible deniability, because you don’t know what you’ll find on his face. The air has grown balmy and cloying and fragrant. You stand up, and he steps backwards. “But I must be going, now.”

“How unfortunate,” Luocha coos as you awkwardly find your way around him, having been sandwiched between his body and the coffee table. “I was going to put the kettle on…”

—

The shroud of night has settled over the Luofu. A crescent moon winks down at you from the artificial sky, peering between the treetops. You’re laid on your back, on the concrete patio near the shed. 

Footsteps head in your direction. You already know who it is. There’s no one else that has that blistering, writhing aura. Blade comes to stand over you. His brows wrinkle in displeasure. You don’t know why. It’s not his patio that you’ve gotten your blood all over.

“You’re injured,” he says, frowning. He crouches over you. A pale thumb smears the drying crimson on your upper lip. Your entire face scrunches up, gnarled like a gargoyle, recoiling from the unexpected touch.

“Nosebleed,” you mutter. The space behind your eyes throbs in protest, accompanied by a fierce pressure at the bridge of your nose. All typical symptoms. The gifts bestowed upon you as Emanator unfortunately do not shield you from your allergies. To think, an Emanator could still be laid low by something as mundane as allergies. 

“Who gave it to you?” Blade looms a little closer, gaze steely.

“No one. Sometimes my allergies act up. That’s all.” you assure him, squinting irritably. You hope your judgmental flower will shame him out of your personal space, but he lingers.

“You should remain indoors, then.” he draws. He lifts his bloodied hand and looks at it, too contemplative for your liking. 

“I take medication for it. Just forgot today,” it feels wrong to justify yourself. He isn't owed an answer, but this is a rare moment. Blade showing such outright concern over something so novel is interesting (a more sentimental person might call it touching). Has his immortality rendered him incapable of distinguishing a few pesky allergies from a deadly ammonia? You can’t imagine someone so riddled with regeneration to register the difference between a gaping gash and a papercut. 

“Then remember to take them.” he advises coolly. 

“I will.”

You lay there, then, in silence unperturbed for a few moments. The hard ground is cool against your back. It’ll fix your aching spine, you’re sure. 

“Are you not going to get up?” Blade asks.

“No. It feels nice to be on the floor, sometimes.” you assure him quickly, lest he assume your nosebleed has robbed you of all mobility. He stares at you, blank-faced, but you somehow can tell he is skeptical. You pat the space next to you, a silent offering.

You don’t expect him to take you up on it. This rare creature, crackling with the energy of his divine “gift”. You don’t indulge in typical sentiments, and you spurn love and limerence for your own sanity, due to the madness you have seen both inspire. To adore is to give of yourself, to exhaust what limited energy you have left. Yet, there is no arguing the fact of his beauty. His hair pools like fresh slick pitch. Faint moonlight catches on the sable strands. His jaw cuts a sharp and handsome shape, eyelashes long and thick. He stares up at the sky, unreadable. 

“Kafka has no need of me in the coming days.” “It is… strange. The Stellaron Hunters are few in number, so our hands are always full. To be bereft of any responsibility… is rare.”

“You don’t sound thrilled about that.”

“No. It will leave me restless. And the silence will only give the mara room to spread. It’s better—more manageable when there is a task at hand.” Blade admits, a shiver in his voice.

“I do. I believe you are familiar with the place,” he says. That catches your attention. And makes you just a little nervous. 

“Do you even have anywhere to stay?” The Stellaron Hunters surely have a vessel of their own where he can lodge. You’re ultimately not too concerned. You shut your eyes and listen to the midnight breeze, feel the black of the night against your skin.

You turn to look at him, almost afraid to ask. “Familiar?”

“The merchant has opened his home to me. I will remain there for the duration of my… off time.”

Again, you are sorely tempted to question the exact nature and origin of their relationship, but it’s truly none of your business. You’ve long espoused a policy of isolation, but there’s no denying how thoroughly entangled you have become in them. Elbows deep. You’re not quite sure how it happened. They’re infiltrated your monotonous life, moved in so slowly that you didn’t even notice until this very moment. 

“Well. He’s not there most of the time, so it’ll be like having your own place,” You can’t imagine Blade as a homeowner, for some reason. It just invokes the image of him mowing a lawn in khaki shorts with that same, placid face he always wears. He’s too ethereal and strange to trim the hedges or fix a leaky faucet. Sometimes, you think he’d look more in-place if he levitated instead of just walking everywhere.

“I had lemonade the other day,” he says, and this fascinates you, because it is so very rare for him to initiate conversation about something so little.

“...And? Did you like it?” Perhaps it’s petty, but you already have a feeling that he didn’t. You hate to presume, but you think you have similar palettes. 

“...It was too sweet, and burdened by a lingering, chemical taste,” he confirms your vague conjecture and you very nearly laugh. Or make some sort of short, wry noise like a horse’s snort.

“Yeah. Ones that aren’t made from scratch tend to be like that.”

“And that is why you make your own.” 

“Exactly,” you lift your gaze from him and return it to the sky. “When you make something from scratch, you can make however you like. Ones you buy pre-bottled have too much sugar.” He hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing else.

The twinkling stars are no more authentic than the clouds which hover during the day. But you wonder how many far off stars he has visited across the span of his long un-life. How many civilizations he has seen toppled, how many lives have ended at his hands. What a terrifying beast Yaoshi has created. Yet, here he lay beneath a sky he has likely long tired of, humoring your purposeless requests for reasons unknown.

—

You’re tucked on the steps off the side door, head leaned back and eyes shut, drinking in the warmth of the artificial midday sun. Blade leans up against the wall next to you, arms crossed. You don’t blame him for staying in the shade, not when he’s always dressed so darkly.

You shouldn’t show your stomach to a known apex predator. Your instincts are tampered down, but you still curl your spine and lift your knees to your chest when you usually it on the stoop. You haven’t done it, today. Anxiety thrums in the space right behind your eyes. The scared animal inside of you writhes in his presence. You look at him, gaze by happenstance falling on the profile of his chest.

Breasts, you think stupidly, and laugh aloud. The noise is so sudden that you almost don’t realize it came from you. Blade looks down at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you're still too caught up in your own disbelief. Spending so much time with him has softened your skill, started to fry your remaining brain cells. He’s always been handsome. But you’ve started to too keenly note the bow curve of his lips, the narrowness of his waist.

And you hate, hate, hate proving Luocha right.

“What is it that you find so amusing?” Blade speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a scared dog or a lost child.

“Nothing,” you shut your eyes and tilt your head back, letting it thump against the top step. Blade inhales sharply. “Just remembered a stupid joke I heard a few days ago.” When you open your eyes, Blade has turned away, inspecting a row of gladiolus planted next to the nearby shed. The line of his shoulders has gone tense.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” you muse.

“Did you plant them?”

“No. I delivered the seeds. Only a week ago, I think. They wouldn’t have been able to sprout this fast.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Blade skates a finger over a bright orange petal. “That merchant utilizes his gift so shamelessly. Even while at the heart of his natural born enemy.”

“And it’ll all be for nothing if that damn cat comes and eats them,” you grunt. You’ev stumbled upon torn up patches of grass and bitten through flower patches, stems snapped and petals crushed. You briefly, in one of your pettiest and cruelest moments, nearly suggested Luocha plant lilies next. The callousness of your own thought had startled you into silence, so gladiolus it was.

“Ah. About the cat,” Blade begins. You blink, wide-eyed. A cold pit forms in your stomach, because—

“You didn’t,” you gape.

“I did not kill it,” Blade says sourly, clearly affronted by the assumption. “I brought it to Kafka. They seem to get along.”

The tension melts out of you at once. Your petty grudge isn’t worth the blood of an innocent animal. You let yourself fall back against the stoop. The edges of the stairs dig into your spine. 

“That makes sense,” you say, a touch wry.

Blade grimaces. “They send me images of the little beast every day I am not there. If Silver Wolf is to be believed, it ‘eats better’ than she does.”

Does Silver Wolf eat well to begin with? “That was kind of you,” you say instead. 

“Was it? Or was it cruel to the man who will wonder where his pet has gone?” Blade inquires. He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by the possibility. 

You scoff. “I doubt he’ll even notice.”

—

You are natant in the dull haze of half-sleep. The soft scent of camelias and fabric softener and linens. A cloying warmth cocoons you, keeps you mired in a state of partial sleep. Burrowed beneath the comfort exists a nagging feeling of wrongness, like a pebble in your boot. You cling to the sensation, let it pull you from the inky, peaceful depths. You’re not sure how long it takes for you to breach the surface. It feels like ages by the time you pry your weary eyes open.

There’s a body crushed into you. An unyielding, solid mass of muscle. The scent of something charred wreathes around you. Your cheek is pressed up against a heartbeat, steady and strong. It would be comforting if you knew where you were, or who you were with.

Alarm, molten hot, jots down your spine. Shaken from your stupor, you begin to writhe. Your palms slap against the chest of the man beneath you. You brace yourself against him in an effort to pry yourself free.

An arm around your midriff tightens, and the panic grows. You lash out, snarl, a hand reaching behind you to grab onto the assailant’s wrist.

The room blurs, then. The breath is knocked from your lungs as you’re reoriented and pinned with minimal effort. Your eyes blow wide, gaze caught by those candlewick eyes. Blade’s hair is mussed from both sleep and the struggle. His lips are pulled into a snarl. Your gut squirms at the flash of those deadly canines—sharper than you’d imagined (he’s never bared his teeth at you).

“Stop,” he commands, low and throaty. You shudder, foolish hindbrain moved to obey the order. This, you realize, is what an alpha’s command must sound like.

As you lay beneath him, chest to heaving chest, the pieces of the previous night return to you in fragments and shades.

Blade came to your door at dusk’s end. The shuttles had shut down for the night. You let him in, quickly, before anyone could witness a known fucking criminal at your door. You fed him dinner, anyways. Spoke late into the night—about what you cannot truly recall. Somewhere around three in the morning, you must have nodded off. 

“Have you calmed down?” Blade asks.

“Yes,” you grumble, feeling thoroughly chastised despite his flat and empty tone. You attempt to dislodge yourself a second time, but Blade stops you fast. “Blade—” The beginning of a feeling you cannot quite name crawls up your spine, up the back of your skull. It’s a creeping, white hot sensation. A sudden deprivation of air. His eyes have closed. You feel your pulse spike. “Blade.” You try again. “Let me up.”

He draws a shaky breath.

“You don’t understand, do you?”

“What is there for me to understand?” you ask, voice a tepid little thing. He laughs. The sound is manic and bitter. When he opens his eyes, they’re hot enough to burn a hole in you.

“I… remember you,” he begins slowly. There’s a creeping breathiness there, you feel it under your palms, writhing inside of his ribcage. “When you are not there. I remember how warm your hands are, the smell of your sweat—the taste of when we are… together. And I crave it every moment we are apart. It’s—maddening.”

“What.” you’re taken back, all the sudden, to the sixth time Sunday called you to his office. A servant of the Harmony, you were, still protected by your naivete, still convinced by the smiling faces and open arms which surrounded you. A child. A seed, among the older and wiser trees in Xipe’s forests. 

You remember the exact shape of his lips when he said it—you remember how it felt. You feel the same way now, pinned like a little butterfly. Lost in the reeds.

“I remember you,” Blade continues, slower and calmer, now. Burning wood to dead charcoal. “When we are apart, you are all I remember, and the emptiness that exists in your shape is too much to bear. I need—” he licks his lips, his empty pupils blown so very wide.

“The mara becomes quiet, when we are together,” he whispers, like he’s sharing a secret. His eyes close. His forehead is a wide rash of heat, pressed against yours. He takes a single, shuddering inhale, breathing your air. 

And you—you’re still frozen there, caught up in the vice of his body and the couch. You stare emptily beyond him. His face settles into the crook of your neck. 

The lamplight flickers on and off. 

[duhshereadz]

A continuation of the ending my babies Ekko and Jinx deserved to have:

The flickering neon lights of Zaun painted Jinx and Ekko in erratic streaks of color. The air between them was thick with unspoken doubts and shared understanding, their breaths puffing clouds into the night as Ekko’s words still hung in the air: “I’m coming with you.”

Jinx’s eyes narrowed, her expression caught between suspicion and disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? Ekko, you’ve got your little Treehouse, your little gang of do-gooders. What’re they gonna do without their brave leader?” She flicked her fingers in mock drama, her voice dripping with sarcasm, though her hands trembled just slightly.

Ekko crossed his arms, unbothered by her deflection. “Yeah, well, I’m thinking they’ll survive just fine for a while without me. Zaun doesn’t need me right now—not like you do.” His voice softened as he finished, his dark eyes steady on her, catching the flicker of vulnerability she tried to hide.

Jinx scoffed, turning her back on him to fiddle with her oversized zapper gun, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her. “Sure, yeah, I need you, just like I need a boring lecture or a nap.” She paused, her shoulders slumping just slightly. “Do you even know what you’re signing up for? It’s not gonna be all... paint bombs and fun. The places I go, they’re not your Treehouse.”

Ekko stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And what? You think I’m scared of that? Jinx, I’ve been fighting for Zaun since before I could even carry a real weapon. You think I can’t handle a little chaos?” He smiled faintly, and for a moment, the weight in her chest lightened.

But she wasn’t convinced yet. She turned around sharply, her eyes narrowing. “What if you change your mind halfway, huh? What if you decide you don’t like what you see? You ever think of that? I’m not exactly... stable, y’know. And there’s no refund policy on this crazy train.”

Ekko’s expression softened, but there was a firmness behind it. “I’ve already decided. I’m not letting you do this alone.” His hand brushed against hers, briefly but purposefully. “You don’t have to keep running by yourself, Jinx. You don’t have to keep proving you’re okay when you’re not.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She looked down, her wild pink braid swaying as she tilted her head. “You really mean that, huh?”

He grinned. “Yeah. I mean it. Now, you got a plan, or are we winging this?”

Jinx blinked at him, then snorted. “Winging it? Ekko, you don’t ‘wing it’ when you’re stealing a blimp. This isn’t a cupcake run.” She chewed her lip, the gears in her mind turning. “Okay, fine. We need a transport blimp, something big enough to get us out of Zaun without getting shot down but not so big that Piltover puts the entire guard on us.” She tapped her temple with a manic grin. “I’ve got just the spot.”

Ekko raised a brow. “Why do I feel like this involves explosions?”

She grinned wider. “Because you know me so well! C’mon, let’s go.”

---

They slinked through the back alleys of Zaun, their footsteps masked by the industrial hum of the city. Jinx led the way, her movements erratic but purposeful, while Ekko followed, his timeworn bat slung over his shoulder.

The transport yard loomed ahead, its tall chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Beyond it, a handful of blimps sat docked on the platforms, their hulking frames faintly illuminated by flickering spotlights.

“Alright, which one?” Ekko whispered, crouching beside Jinx as she surveyed the yard.

“That one.” Jinx jabbed her finger toward a sleek, medium-sized blimp with minimal cargo compartments. “Fast, nimble, and not too flashy. Just like me.” She snickered.

Ekko tilted his head, studying the patrol guards pacing the area. “Alright. How do we get in without raising hell?”

Jinx grinned, pulling a small grenade-like contraption from her satchel. “Oh, we’re raising hell. Just a little hell, though. Enough to keep ‘em busy.” She handed it to him. “Toss this toward that far gate when I give the signal. It’ll make some pretty fireworks, and while they’re oohing and ahhing, we sneak aboard.”

Ekko sighed but took the device. “Why do I feel like you’ve done this before?”

“Maybe I have,” she said with a wink.

---

The plan unfolded with chaotic precision. As the guards turned toward the gate, distracted by the bursts of bright purple smoke and sparks from Jinx’s little toy, the duo darted across the yard. Jinx giggled under her breath as they ducked behind crates, her adrenaline spiking with every step.

They reached the blimp, and Ekko glanced around for an access panel. “Any ideas?” he whispered.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t rush me.” Jinx pulled out her zapper, aiming at the keypad near the door. With a quick burst of energy, it short-circuited, and the door slid open with a hiss.

“Subtle,” Ekko muttered.

Jinx grinned. “Subtle’s boring.”

They climbed aboard, moving swiftly through the cargo bay toward the cockpit. Jinx immediately started pressing buttons and flipping switches. “Alright, genius, figure out how to get this thing off the ground.”

Ekko scanned the controls, his brow furrowed. “Give me a second. This isn’t exactly my usual tech.”

“Hurry up!” Jinx hissed, glancing nervously out the window as a guard’s flashlight beam swept dangerously close to the blimp.

Ekko finally found the ignition switch and toggled it on. The blimp hummed to life, its engines whirring softly. “Got it!”

“See? You’re useful after all.” Jinx smirked, hopping into the co-pilot’s seat.

The blimp lifted off smoothly, rising above the transport yard as guards shouted in confusion below. Once they were safely in the air, Jinx leaned back in her seat, letting out a loud whoop. “We did it! We actually did it!”

Ekko laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Yeah, we did.” He glanced over at her, his grin softening. “So... where to?”

Jinx hesitated, her expression briefly clouding. Then she tilted her head and gave him a lopsided smile. “Demacia. Or whatever it’s called. Fancy place, lots of rules. Sounds like fun, huh?”

Ekko chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re something else, Jinx.”

“Duh.” She rested her boots on the console, her wild energy finally settling as she looked out at the endless sky ahead. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel so alone.

[put-me-through-the-wall]

Okay how about Kidnapper!Konig who ends up crossing paths with you. A case file was dropped onto his desk one day. The manilla file consists of a couple of personal documents of yours and a glossy copy of your passport photo. Your hair brushed out of your face with wide eyes and beautiful lips pouting back at him. He knew from that moment you were more than just a mark.

In no time he is in your city, memorizing your schedule. It wasn't hard to do. You are very predictable. He doesn't even need to trail far behind as you walk through parking lots and sidewalks. He once followed you all the way back to your front door, caught up in the scent of your fading perfume. You never even looked behind you. You really shouldn't wear headphones all the time. You're far too pretty to be this oblivious to your surroundings.

You have a shitty live-in boyfriend who has gotten you into this whole mess. Konig hates watching you through your window when you get home. Seeing the loser guy lounging on your couch. Eating all your food and complaining about anything he can pick on. He watches as you pace room to room picking up after that pig. Thankfully, you were only targeted due to your connection to him. He's not sure how a sweet girl like you got involved with such a dangerous man.

After almost a week of tracking you he determines the time to act. You like to take a scenic side street when you walk home from work. The cobblestone path between two blocks of old historic buildings. The ivy and overgrown trees taking over the space creeping through the iron rod fencing line either side of the walkway. It's late in the evening, the lampposts lighting your path with a yellow tint while you walk down the cobblestone. You're heels click along the stone and once again you have those damn headphones on. Konig is thankful he able to be here instead of some creep. You step along your way so comfortable in your routine now.

You don't even notice when Konig's wide stride catches up to you. You don't see his large shadow looming over you while you mindlessly scroll through your social media feed. He can't help the smile that pulls at his lips underneath his hood when he sees you liking a silly cat video. Then he wraps his massive arms around you. Before you can make a sound he covers your mouth with a rag soaked with a certain special sedative. He shushes you gently as you scream against the dense fabric. You don't struggle for long. Nails scratching at his forearm don't cause real damage through his thick sweatshirt. You kick and thrash but he holds you tight to his chest. He feels your heart thumping against your rib cage like a scared baby bird until finally, you relax. Your head lulls to the side and falling into the crevice of his arm. He stare down at your closed lids, you look so peaceful now. The scent of your hair product penetrates the material of his mask.

There is plenty of time to adore your sleeping form, not here though. He hoists you up in his arms, carrying you bridal style back to his van. Carefully slipping you into the back but not before zip tying your hands and feet. You shouldn't be awake anytime soon but he's not one to take chances.

━━━━⊱♡⊰━━━━

I'm just writing down some things I've been thinking about lately. Please let me know if you want more of things like this or if you want me to do a part two. Any comments or tags I see make me smile <3

ﾒ𝟶

[sinful-sonnet]

Through the Shadows | post-apocalyptic au

Joel x Reader | ONE-SHOT

Based off of a dream I had a couple of nights ago :-)

W/C: 10.9k

Intro: In a world ravaged by infection and loss, Joel and the reader cling to each other as their only constant. Their journey is one of survival, love, and sacrifice, but the harsh realities of their existence push them to the brink. When an infected bite changes everything, they face a nightmare unlike any they’ve endured before. As life and death blur, their unbreakable bond is tested, leading them to a choice that transcends fear, pain, and even mortality. Through the shadows of despair, their love becomes a light guiding them to the unknown—together, until the very end.

The road had been long and endless, stretching beneath the dim glow of the setting sun. Joel kept his pace steady, the steady crunch of his boots on gravel a rhythm that lulled you into a haze of exhaustion. You dragged your feet behind him, struggling to keep your head up, your body screaming for rest.

“Joel,” you rasped, voice heavy with weariness, “I can’t keep going. Not tonight.”

Joel slowed, glancing back at you with a mixture of concern and irritation. “We’re not far from the next town,” he said, but the tension in his voice betrayed his own exhaustion. He wasn’t any more eager to keep going than you were. “Couple of houses up ahead. We’ll hole up there.”

Relief flooded your chest, though the ache in your muscles didn’t ease until you caught sight of the shadowy outline of houses looming ahead.

Joel made you wait outside, his flashlight cutting through the oppressive darkness as he crept into the first house. You leaned against a crumbling fence, clutching your jacket tight against the chill. Minutes stretched into eternity until he finally reappeared, his face grim as usual.

“No beds, just a couch. Good enough,” he muttered.

You barely managed a nod, staggering inside behind him. The house smelled of mold and decay, and the couch Joel mentioned was sagging and worn, but it didn’t matter. The moment you hit the cushion, your eyes closed, and you were out.

Gunshots ripped you awake.

Your heart leapt into your throat as you sat bolt upright, adrenaline surging through your veins. Joel’s flashlight beam cut through the living room, illuminating him standing a few feet away.

Opposite him stood a man and a woman, both ragged but armed, their weapons aimed at Joel.

“I don’t want trouble,” Joel said, his voice low and steady, though you could hear the ice in it. His revolver was already drawn, aimed at the man. “But you take another step, and you’ll regret it.”

The woman held her hands up, though her posture was far from relaxed. “We’re not here to hurt anyone,” she said quickly. “We just want a place to sleep. We’ll share supplies. We got a car nearby, too.”

Joel didn’t waver. “Don’t care about your car. You keep your distance, and we’ll be fine.”

You watched, frozen, as the tension between them thickened. Finally, the man lowered his weapon, muttering something under his breath. The woman followed suit.

Joel glanced back at you briefly, his expression unreadable. “Stay on the couch. Don’t move.”

The night passed with thinly veiled distrust, the strangers keeping to a corner while you and Joel stayed on the other side of the room. You barely slept, and neither did Joel.

Morning came, and with it, a tense agreement to travel together. Joel’s jaw was tight as the strangers led the way to their supposed car.

The ambush came as soon as you reached the treeline.

The man lunged for Joel, and you barely had time to duck before the woman’s knife swiped through the air where your throat had been. Joel’s revolver cracked once, twice, and the man went down.

“Run!” Joel barked, but before you could take a step, the woman’s gun was in her hand, and you felt the searing pain of a bullet ripping into your stomach.

The world tilted, your knees hitting the ground as blood pooled beneath your fingers. Distantly, you heard Joel’s voice shouting your name, followed by the deafening roar of his shotgun.

By the time he reached you, the woman was dead, and Joel was on his knees at your side, his hands pressing firmly against your wound. His face was pale, panic flickering in his eyes for a brief moment before he forced it down.

“Stay with me,” he ordered, his voice rough but steady.

You nodded weakly, your vision swimming. His face hovered close, his breath warm on your skin as he leaned down.

“I got you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a desperate, fleeting kiss.

You tried to smile, but darkness claimed you before you could.

•

When you woke, it was to the sound of Joel’s voice, low and steady as he sat beside you, stitching you up. Pain flared in your stomach, but relief flooded your chest when you saw him there, alive and unscathed.

“You’re lucky,” he said gruffly, though the gentleness in his hands betrayed him. “You scared the hell outta me.”

You reached for his hand, gripping it weakly. “Guess I owe you… again.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, not without me.”

—-

The days blurred into a haze of pain and exhaustion. You tried to keep moving, keep up with Joel as he pushed the both of you toward the next safe spot, but every step sent a dull, throbbing ache radiating through your stomach.

By the third day, it was more than just the ache. Your head swam, your vision tunneled, and you felt as though your legs were weighed down by lead. Joel had to stop walking when you stumbled for the third time in an hour.

“Alright, enough,” he said firmly, catching you before you collapsed. His eyes narrowed as he studied your pale, sweat-slicked face. “You’re burnin’ up.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, though the words came out slurred, weak.

“No, you’re not.” He eased you down onto a patch of mossy ground under a tree, setting his pack aside. “Let me look at the stitches.”

You tried to protest, but your energy had dwindled to nothing. You leaned back against the tree, feeling lightheaded as Joel tugged your jacket and shirt up, exposing the wound.

His sharp intake of breath made your stomach sink.

“Shit,” he muttered. The skin around the stitches was angry and swollen, mottled red and purple. Pus seeped from between the threads, and the smell was rancid, hitting you like a punch to the gut. “It’s infected bad.”

You turned your head away, trying to ignore the rising nausea. “It’s… not that bad,” you croaked, though you both knew it was a lie.

Joel’s jaw tightened, his brows knitting together as he grabbed his pack, rummaging through it for his meager medical supplies. “You should’ve said somethin’ sooner,” he scolded, though his tone softened almost immediately. “Dammit, I should’ve known.”

“It’s not your fault,” you murmured. “Just… do what you can.”

His hands worked quickly, carefully cleaning the wound with what little alcohol he had left. You hissed in pain, biting back a scream as the sting flared through your body. Joel’s hand pressed against your shoulder, grounding you.

“I know it hurts,” he said softly. “But you gotta hang on, alright? Don’t you give up on me.”

———-

The night was long and feverish. Joel stayed by your side, his worry etched into every line of his face. He kept a damp cloth pressed to your forehead, whispering reassurances you barely heard through the fog in your mind.

When morning came, you could barely lift your head. Joel sat with his back against the tree, your head resting on his lap as he absently smoothed your hair back. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles etched beneath them, but he didn’t stop watching you.

“We need antibiotics,” he said, more to himself than to you. “There’s gotta be somethin’ in the next town.”

You didn’t respond, your lips dry and cracked. Your strength was ebbing fast, and a part of you wondered if it would be enough to get there.

Joel leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours. “Don’t you dare quit,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You hear me? I ain’t losin’ you.”

The next stretch of the journey was grueling. Joel half-carried, half-dragged you, his determination unyielding despite your weight against him.

It wasn’t until you reached a small, abandoned clinic on the outskirts of a long-forgotten town that hope flickered in Joel’s eyes. He tore through the place like a man possessed, throwing open drawers and cabinets until he found a bottle of antibiotics.

He knelt by your side, shaking a pill free and coaxing you to swallow it with sips of water. “This’ll help,” he murmured, his hand cradling your cheek. “It’s gonna be alright.”

You wanted to believe him. You had to believe him.

The days that followed were agonizingly slow, but Joel stayed with you every step of the way. He cleaned the wound religiously, forcing you to take the antibiotics even when you were too weak to argue.

Slowly, the fever broke, and the swelling around the wound began to ease.

One night, as you lay wrapped in Joel’s jacket near a fire he’d built, you reached for his hand, gripping it weakly.

“Thank you,” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to you, his eyes softening. “For what?”

“For not giving up on me.”

Joel leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “You don’t get it,” he said quietly. “I can’t give up on you. You’re all I got.”

Your chest ached, but this time, it wasn’t from the wound.

The fire crackled softly, casting flickering light across Joel’s face. His words lingered in the quiet air, heavy with meaning, wrapping around your heart like a tether. You stared at him, your chest tightening with something far deeper than the pain in your body.

You wanted to move, to reach for him, to pull him close and let him know how much his words meant. Slowly, you tried to shift, but the second you tensed your muscles, a wave of agony radiated from your stomach. Your breath caught, a strained sound escaping your lips.

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you doin’?” he demanded, his tone sharper than usual.

“I…” You swallowed hard, willing your voice not to shake. “I just… I wanted to give you a hug.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and disbelief. Then, his features softened, and he exhaled, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, but his voice carried no anger. He shifted closer, kneeling at your side. “You’re not movin’, you hear me? You’ll tear those stitches open.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, your arms twitching as though your sheer willpower could make them work. “I just… Joel, you’ve done so much. I just wanted—”

He cut you off, leaning down until his face was close to yours. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

You felt the weight of his gaze, the quiet intensity in his eyes, and the words you’d been struggling to find melted away.

“Rest,” he added softly. “You can give me that hug when you’re strong enough to sit up without passin’ out, alright?”

A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. “Promise?”

Joel smirked, a rare flicker of humor breaking through the gruff exterior. “Yeah, I promise. But if you don’t take care of yourself, I’m gonna regret makin’ it.”

You let your eyes flutter closed, the pain ebbing slightly as the warmth of his presence steadied you. His hand lingered against your forehead for a moment longer before pulling away.

“Get some sleep,” he murmured, his voice like a quiet vow. “I’ll be right here.”

“You should sleep too,” you murmured, barely audible over the soft crackle of the fire.

Joel snorted quietly, his hand shifting from your forehead to your shoulder. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

You cracked an exhausted smile. “You won’t do either if you keep this up.”

He huffed, sitting back on his heels, his sharp gaze flicking over your face. “Ain’t the first time I’ve gone without. Don’t worry about me.”

You frowned, managing the faintest shake of your head. “I’ll worry about you as much as you worry about me. So… get some rest, or I’ll have to start givin’ orders.”

Joel’s lips twitched, but his stubbornness was as strong as ever. “I’ll rest when you’re better,” he said gruffly, but his voice carried a gentler edge now.

Your eyelids grew heavier, and you could feel sleep tugging you down again. “Just… try,” you whispered. “I’ll be okay for a few hours. Promise.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. You felt his hand linger on your shoulder, steady and warm, before it finally withdrew.

“All right,” he muttered, settling against the tree trunk beside you. His knees bent, his shotgun resting across them. “I’ll shut my eyes for a bit. But don’t you dare get any ideas about movin’.”

A quiet hum of agreement left your lips as you drifted further into the darkness of sleep.

Joel sat still for a while, the firelight reflecting faintly in his tired eyes. Eventually, with one last glance at you, he let his head tip back against the tree, his hand still loosely gripping the shotgun. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to rest, his body slumping slightly as exhaustion overtook him.

And for those few hours, the world around you both was quiet.

—————

Joel’s sleep was shallow at first, his body unwilling to fully give in. But eventually, the days of exhaustion pulled him under, and his dreams came unbidden.

In the dream, he stirred awake to find the fire burned low, its embers dimming in the darkness. He blinked, groggy, reaching out instinctively for you. His fingers met only cold ground.

“Hey,” he called softly, sitting upright, his voice rough with sleep. “Where’d you go?”

Silence answered him.

His chest tightened as his eyes scanned the campsite, his pulse quickening when he noticed the dark smear on the ground where you’d been lying.

Blood.

It was pooled thick and black in the dying firelight, spreading out from the spot where you’d slept.

“No…” Joel’s breath caught, his voice breaking. He scrambled forward, his hands shaking as he touched the edge of the blood, his stomach churning at the warmth still lingering there. “No, no, no.”

He looked around wildly, his heart pounding in his chest. You were nowhere to be seen. No tracks, no sound, no sign of where you’d gone.

“Where are you?” he shouted into the void, his voice cracking as desperation clawed at his throat. The forest around him swallowed his words, offering no answer, no solace.

It felt like the world was collapsing in on itself, the blood staining his hands, his knees, his soul. “You can’t be gone.”

•

He jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his hand already gripping the shotgun as his body snapped to alertness.

The fire crackled softly, now nothing more than glowing embers. His breath came in harsh, uneven gulps, his heart hammering against his ribs.

His gaze shot to you.

You were still there, slumped against the tree where he’d left you, your face pale but peaceful in sleep. The rise and fall of your chest was slow but steady, your body unmoving except for the occasional twitch of your fingers.

Relief hit him like a freight train, his entire body sagging as he lowered the shotgun.

“Christ,” he muttered, running a hand down his face, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare.

Joel shifted closer, kneeling beside you. His hand hovered over your shoulder, trembling, before he gently touched you, needing the reassurance of your warmth beneath his fingers.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, his voice raw. He let out a shaky exhale, closing his eyes briefly. “You’re still here.”

For a long moment, he just sat there, his head bowed as he let the nightmare fade into the shadows. When he finally leaned back against the tree beside you, he didn’t shut his eyes again. He couldn’t. Not after that.

Instead, he stayed awake, watching over you, gripping your hand tightly in his own as if it might tether you to him.

“Joel? What’s wrong?”

Joel flinched slightly at the sound of your voice, his tired eyes snapping to yours. He hadn’t realized you were awake, your soft squeeze startling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, his voice gruff, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. “Just… couldn’t sleep.”

You blinked slowly, your body still weak, but your concern for him outweighed your pain. “You’re lying,” you murmured, your voice raspy but steady. “I can see it on your face. What happened?”

His jaw worked for a moment, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around yours. He seemed to wrestle with himself before letting out a long, shaky breath.

“Had a dream,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, as though speaking too loudly might summon it back. “Woke up, and you… you were gone. All that was left was blood. So much goddamn blood.”

Your heart sank, and you gave his hand another weak squeeze. “Joel,” you whispered, unsure of what to say, the weight of his words heavy between you.

He shook his head, his gaze fixed on the dying embers of the fire. “Felt real. Too real. Like I’d failed you again.”

“Again?” you echoed softly, the raw pain in his voice cutting deeper than any wound.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, still avoiding your gaze. “I’ve lost too many people. Couldn’t save them. And the thought of…” His voice faltered, and he finally looked at you, his eyes shining with a vulnerability he rarely let show. “The thought of losing you too? I can’t—”

“You won’t,” you interrupted, your voice stronger now despite the weakness in your body. You forced your fingers to curl tighter around his, grounding him. “I’m still here, Joel. I’m not going anywhere. Not without a fight.”

He exhaled shakily, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of his fears was too much to bear. “You don’t know that,” he muttered, his tone bitter. “This world—”

“This world sucks,” you cut in, your lips curving into the faintest smile. “But you? You make it worth staying in. And I’m not giving up. Not on myself. Not on you.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find some flaw in your resolve. But there was none.

Finally, he nodded, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

“Learned from the best,” you teased, your voice soft but teasing.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “Get some rest,” he murmured, his tone lighter now. “You need it more than I do.”

“And you’ll sleep too?” you asked, raising a skeptical brow.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll try.”

You closed your eyes, comforted by the warmth of his hand in yours. This time, when you drifted off, you felt safe, knowing Joel would never let you go.

But then Joel nodded off again

Joel's dream unfolded in vivid, horrifying detail.

He stirred awake in the dream, the fire dead and the world eerily silent. His hand, once clasped tightly around yours, now held only the cold, empty ground.

"Hey," he called, his voice hoarse as his heart began to pound. He stood quickly, his movements frantic, his eyes darting around the campsite.

That's when he saw it a dark, glistening trail of fresh blood leading away from where you'd been.

"No... no, no, no," Joel muttered, panic rising in his chest like a tide threatening to drown him. His breath came in

shallow gasps as he grabbed his shotgun, following the trail with shaky legs.

The blood wound through the trees, each crimson smear sending a spike of dread through him.

His mind raced, his thoughts fragmented and desperate.

"She wouldn't leave," he whispered to himself. "She couldn't leave..."

The trail led to a clearing, the moonlight casting an eerie glow on what lay ahead. Joel froze, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him.

There you were.

Your body was crumpled on the ground, torn apart, your blood pooling beneath you in a gruesome sprawl.

A clicker hunched over your remains, its grotesque face twitching and jerking as it tore into you.

Joel's world crumbled. His shotgun slipped from his hands, clattering to the ground as a choked sound escaped his throat.

"No... no, please," he whispered, his voice breaking. He stumbled forward, his boots heavy as if weighed down by cement.

The clicker snapped its head up at the noise, blood dripping from its jagged teeth. It shrieked, the sound deafening, but Joel didn't care.

He fell to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as they hovered over your ruined body.

"Joel..." Your voice was faint, a cracked whisper that sent a dagger of hope and anguish through his chest.

Your bloodied hand twitched, reaching weakly toward him.

"I'm here," Joel croaked, tears streaming down his face as he grabbed your hand, his fingers trembling as they closed around yours. "I'm right here, darlin'"

Your lips moved as if trying to form more words, but all that came was a pained gasp.

And then your hand went limp.

Your eyes, clouded and vacant, stared up at him, unseeing.

Joel's breath caught, his entire body shaking as he let out a guttural, broken sob. "No! No, no, no!" he cried, clutching you to him as if he could will you back to life.

The clicker screeched again, but Joel didn't care. The world around him faded into nothing, swallowed by his grief.

•

He woke with a sharp inhale, his entire body jerking upright. His hand was still wrapped tightly around yours, damp with sweat.

The fire crackled softly, its light illuminating your face, peaceful and very much alive.

Joel's chest heaved as he struggled to steady his breathing, his wide, panicked eyes taking in every detail of you, searching for any sign of blood, any movement to confirm that it had been a dream.

"Joel?" Your voice, soft and tired, broke through his haze. You blinked up at him, your brows furrowing in concern.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled you closer, his hand cupping the back of your head as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

"You're okay," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You're okay."

Your weak fingers squeezed his hand, grounding him. "I'm here, Joel," you murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

He closed his eyes, his grip on you tightening as if he could hold you together with sheer will. "You better not," he rasped, his voice trembling.

"I can't... I can't lose you."

“You had a nightmare again…” you whispered, your voice soft but filled with concern. Slowly, you brought your trembling hand up to his face, your fingers brushing against the rough stubble on his jaw.

Joel froze for a moment, his eyes shutting tightly at your touch. He leaned into your palm, exhaling a shaky breath that sounded more like a quiet sob he was trying to suppress.

“Yeah,” he admitted hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper. “A bad one.”

“What happened?” you asked, though you could see the haunted look in his eyes, the weight of whatever he’d seen still pressing down on him.

His hand came up to cover yours, his calloused fingers enveloping yours as he held your hand against his face. He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t wanna talk about it,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Not now.”

You frowned, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone. “Joel…”

“I can’t lose you,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking as he finally opened his eyes to meet yours. The raw fear and vulnerability in his gaze made your heart ache. “Not in this world, not like that. I couldn’t take it.”

Your chest tightened, but you managed a small, reassuring smile. “You won’t lose me,” you said softly, trying to infuse your words with as much conviction as you could muster. “I’m still here, Joel. I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a shaky breath, his head bowing slightly as he pressed a kiss to your palm, his lips lingering there for a moment. “You say that now,” he murmured, his voice low and pained. “But this world doesn’t care about promises.”

You moved your hand to his chin, gently lifting his face so his eyes met yours again. “This world may not care,” you said, your tone firmer now, “but we do. And I’m not going to let it take me without a fight. You’ve taught me that much.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The quiet was filled only with the crackle of the fire and the soft sound of your breaths. Finally, Joel nodded, squeezing your hand tightly.

“Get some more rest,” he said quietly, his voice steadier now. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Not if you fall asleep again,” you teased lightly, though your exhaustion was already pulling at you.

Joel smirked faintly, the ghost of a smile you didn’t see often enough. “I won’t.”

You closed your eyes, your hand still entwined with his, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Joel let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—you’d both be okay.

•

Joel kept having nightmares. Each time he let himself drift into sleep, the horrors clawed their way back into his mind. The firelight danced shadows across the forest, but in his dreams, it was always dimming, fading into blood and loss.

In one dream, he woke to the sound of your voice calling his name, but when he reached for you, his hands came away slick with blood. Another time, he dreamt of running, chasing the sound of your laughter through an endless maze of ruins, only to find you trapped, surrounded by clickers. They swarmed you before he could save you, your scream piercing the air and snapping him awake with a guttural gasp.

Each nightmare was worse than the last, and each time he woke, he’d find himself clutching you tighter, his breathing ragged, his body trembling.

You noticed, of course. You saw the lines deepening on his face, the exhaustion in his eyes. The way his grip on his shotgun lingered, even when he should have been resting. The way he’d glance at you every few minutes, as if needing constant reassurance that you were still there.

“Joel,” you whispered one night, after he’d startled awake again, sweat dripping down his temples. His wide eyes darted to you, his chest heaving as though he’d just run a mile.

You reached for him, your fingers grazing his arm. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m fine,” he muttered, but his voice was strained, cracking under the weight of his fear.

“You’re not,” you said gently, sitting up a little despite the ache in your stomach. “You keep dreaming about me, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer, but his silence was confirmation enough.

“Joel…” You shifted closer, wincing as the movement tugged at your stitches. He noticed immediately, his hands darting out to steady you.

“You shouldn’t be movin’,” he scolded, but his voice was softer this time, laced with worry.

“And you shouldn’t be carrying this alone,” you countered, your hand covering his. “You can talk to me, you know.”

He shook his head, his lips pressing into a tight line. “Talkin’ don’t change nothin’.”

“Maybe not,” you admitted. “But it might help you sleep. Help you stop blaming yourself for things that haven’t even happened.”

His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him. He looked at you, his eyes raw and vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache. “Every time I close my eyes, I see somethin’ worse,” he admitted quietly. “Somethin’ I couldn’t stop.”

You squeezed his hand, your voice soft but firm. “But they’re just dreams, Joel. They’re not real. What’s real is that I’m still here. You’ve kept me safe this far, and I trust you to keep doing it.”

He let out a shaky breath, his hand tightening around yours. “I don’t deserve that trust,” he muttered.

“You do,” you insisted, your tone leaving no room for argument. “And you’ll believe it eventually, even if I have to remind you every damn day.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you, his expression conflicted. Then, finally, he nodded, his grip on your hand steadying him as much as it steadied you.

“Get some rest,” you said softly, leaning back against the tree. “We’ve got a long way to go, and you need your strength.”

Joel hesitated, but the exhaustion was too heavy to ignore. He nodded again, reluctantly letting his head rest back against the tree.

This time, as he drifted off, you didn’t let go of his hand. And when he stirred, caught in the grips of another nightmare, your voice was the anchor that brought him back. “I’m here, Joel. I’m not leaving.”

—

The sharp crack of gunshots tore through the silence, jolting you awake. Your heart pounded as you snapped your eyes open, instincts taking over before the grogginess could. Joel was still slumped against the tree, his face slack with exhaustion. He hadn’t stirred.

Your stomach ached as you forced yourself upright, every movement pulling at your stitches. You grit your teeth, biting back the pain as you grabbed Joel’s shotgun from where it rested beside him.

“Joel,” you hissed, glancing at him, but he didn’t move. Whatever nightmares he’d been wrestling with had left him in a state so deep he hadn’t heard the danger.

The ringing of the shots still echoed in your ears as you leaned against the tree for support, scanning the tree line with sharp, darting eyes. The shadows danced in the dim light, and the woods felt alive with tension, the silence between each gunshot oppressive.

Your grip on the shotgun was tight, your palms slick with sweat. The pain in your stomach flared, but you pushed it down, your focus narrowing to the potential threat.

Another gunshot rang out, this one closer. Your breath hitched as you spotted movement between the trees—two figures, running, their silhouettes darting in and out of the shadows.

Your mind raced. Raiders? Infected? You couldn’t tell from this distance, but they were heading straight toward you.

“Joel,” you said louder this time, urgency bleeding into your voice. You stepped forward, planting yourself between him and the approaching figures. “Joel, wake up!”

This time, he stirred, his brow furrowing as he blinked himself awake. “What—?” His voice was groggy, but the sight of you standing, shotgun in hand, had him snapping to attention.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growled, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his pistol.

“Gunshots,” you said quickly, wincing as you shifted your weight. “Coming this way. Two people, maybe more.”

Joel cursed under his breath, his gaze following yours to the treeline. He moved in front of you without hesitation, his body a protective shield as he raised his weapon.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice low and steady.

“I’ve got your back,” you replied, even as the pain in your stomach made your knees tremble.

The figures broke through the trees moments later, stumbling into the clearing. It was a man and a woman, their clothes bloodied, their faces wild with panic. The man held a rifle, the woman clutching a handgun.

“Don’t shoot!” the woman yelled, her voice desperate. “Please!”

Joel’s aim didn’t waver, his eyes narrowing. “Stay where you are,” he barked, his tone icy. “Hands where I can see ’em.”

“We don’t mean any harm!” the man panted, his hands half-raised. “We’re running from infected—there’s a swarm back there!”

At the word “infected,” your heart sank, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

Joel didn’t lower his gun. “How many?”

“Too many,” the woman said, glancing over her shoulder. “At least a dozen, maybe more. They’re close!”

You exchanged a tense glance with Joel, your grip tightening on the shotgun. The forest behind the pair was deathly still, but you knew better than to trust that calm.

“Let them pass?” you whispered, your voice tight.

Joel’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck flexing as he weighed the risk. Finally, he nodded sharply. “Get out of here,” he snapped at the pair. “And don’t lead them back this way.”

The man nodded, his eyes wide with fear. “Thank you,” he said quickly before grabbing the woman’s arm and pulling her along.

As they disappeared into the woods, Joel turned to you, his expression grim. “We need to move. Now.”

Your stomach churned as adrenaline coursed through you. The pain was sharp and unrelenting, but you nodded, knowing he was right. The swarm wasn’t far, and staying here would only mean death.

You and Joel moved swiftly through the forest, the looming threat of the infected pressing you forward despite your exhaustion. Every step was agony, your stomach burning with each jarring motion, but you gritted your teeth and kept going. Joel stayed a few paces ahead, his head on a swivel, scanning for danger.

“C’mon,” he urged, his voice sharp but not unkind as he glanced back at you. “Just a little further.”

You wanted to push harder, to move faster, but the pain slowed you, each step feeling heavier than the last. Your breaths were shallow, your body trembling from exertion.

And then your boot caught on something—a gnarled tree root hidden in the undergrowth.

You barely had time to register what happened before you were flung forward, the ground rushing up to meet you. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through your stomach, stealing the air from your lungs.

“Shit!” Joel hissed, whipping around as he heard the crash. He was at your side in an instant, crouching down and placing a steadying hand on your shoulder.

“You okay?” he demanded, his eyes scanning you for injuries.

Your breath came in gasps, the pain radiating from your stomach almost unbearable. “I—yeah,” you croaked, though you weren’t sure how true that was.

Joel’s jaw tightened as his gaze flicked to your hands, pressed protectively over your middle. “You’re bleeding,” he muttered, his tone grim.

You glanced down and saw the dark stain spreading across your shirt, fresh blood soaking through the bandages Joel had so carefully wrapped. Your stomach twisted with both pain and dread.

“I’m fine,” you lied, trying to push yourself up. The moment you moved, though, the world tilted, and a wave of nausea hit you.

“Don’t,” Joel barked, his hand pressing firmly against your shoulder to keep you down. “Just—stay still. Let me look.”

His hands moved with practiced urgency, lifting your shirt just enough to check the wound. The stitches had torn, and fresh blood oozed from the gash. Joel cursed under his breath, his face a mask of frustration and fear.

“You’re not fine,” he growled, pulling a bandana from his pocket and pressing it firmly against the wound to staunch the bleeding. “This ain’t the time to be stubborn.”

You bit back a groan, your hands gripping the dirt beneath you as he applied pressure. “Joel, we don’t have time—”

“We’ll make time,” he interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. “I’m not leavin’ you behind.”

The distant, guttural wail of an infected echoed through the forest, sending a chill down your spine. Joel’s head snapped up, his body tensing as he scanned the trees.

“Damn it,” he muttered, his voice low.

The guttural wail of the infected cut through the forest like a knife, and Joel’s entire body went rigid. His hand pressed harder against your wound as if sheer will could stop the bleeding.

“Alright,” he said, his voice low and urgent, a quiet growl of command. “You’re not walkin’. Get on my back.”

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head weakly. “Joel, I—”

“Don’t argue with me,” he snapped, his gaze locking onto yours. There was fear in his eyes, raw and unrelenting, but it was buried beneath his determination. “You’re losin’ too much blood, and we don’t have time for this.”

You hesitated, torn between your pride and the throbbing, unrelenting pain that made it impossible to stand. Another wail echoed closer, louder this time, and Joel didn’t wait for your answer.

“C’mon,” he urged, shifting to his knees and turning his back to you. “Wrap your arms around my neck. Now.”

With his help, you managed to maneuver onto his back, though the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through your body. You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood, refusing to cry out. Joel’s hands gripped under your legs, hoisting you up with ease despite the strain you could see on his face.

“You good?” he asked, his voice tight but steady as he adjusted your weight.

“As good as I can be,” you muttered, your voice barely a whisper.

He nodded, muttering under his breath, “Hold tight.”

And then he started moving.

Joel’s pace was faster now, almost frantic as he wove through the trees, his breathing steady but strained. The infected were close, too close, their inhuman cries growing louder with every second.

“Joel,” you rasped, your voice weak. “You—can’t carry me and outrun them.”

“Watch me,” he bit out, his grip tightening on your legs. “Ain’t leavin’ you behind. Not now, not ever.”

The conviction in his voice was enough to silence you, though guilt twisted in your chest. Every bounce of his step sent sharp jolts of pain through your stomach, but you clung to him, burying your face in his shoulder to block out the growing chaos around you.

You could hear the infected now, their guttural growls and frantic screeches cutting through the trees like knives. Joel didn’t falter. His steps were sure, his path deliberate as he pushed forward with every ounce of strength he had.

“Almost there,” he muttered, though you weren’t sure if it was for your benefit or his own.

The trees began to thin, and you spotted the faint outline of a dilapidated cabin up ahead. Joel must’ve seen it too, because his pace quickened, his breath hitching as he pushed himself harder

“Hold on,” he said again, his voice rough but steady. “We’re gonna make it.”

And despite the pain, despite the fear clawing at your chest, you believed him. Because Joel wasn’t the kind of man to let go of what he cared about—not without a fight.

Joel barreled through the clearing with you on his back, his muscles burning and his breaths coming in sharp, measured huffs. The cabin loomed ahead, battered and weatherworn but still standing—a fragile promise of safety in an unforgiving world.

He reached the door and shouldered it open with a grunt, the wood creaking under the force. The inside was dark, the air stale with the scent of rot and damp wood, but Joel didn’t hesitate. He shifted his grip under your legs, adjusting your weight as he carried you over to a rickety table pushed against one wall.

“Alright, we’re here,” he said, his voice low and tight as he crouched slightly, letting you slide gently onto the table. His hands hovered around you, as if afraid you might break under his touch.

You winced as your back hit the cold surface, but the relief of being off your feet outweighed the discomfort. Your stomach throbbed, the torn stitches oozing blood that pooled under Joel’s intense gaze.

He swore under his breath, already digging into his pack. “We gotta stop the bleedin’,” he muttered, pulling out a roll of gauze, some antiseptic, and a needle and thread. His hands moved with practiced urgency, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers.

“Joel,” you croaked, your voice weak. “You—saved me.”

He didn’t look up, his focus razor-sharp on your wound as he pressed a clean cloth against it to stem the bleeding. “Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered. “You’re not outta the woods.”

You tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. “Literally.”

Joel huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, but it was humorless, his expression dark as he worked. “You’re real funny, darlin’. Now hold still, this is gonna hurt.”

He didn’t wait for your reply before pouring antiseptic onto the wound. The sting was immediate, searing through your abdomen like fire. You gasped, your hands gripping the edges of the table as your body tensed.

“Breathe,” Joel ordered, his voice firm but soothing. “In and out. You gotta stay with me.”

You did as he said, your breaths shallow and shaky as he began stitching you up. The pain was sharp and relentless, but you forced yourself to focus on him—his steady hands, the furrow of his brow, the way his lips pressed into a thin line as he worked.

Outside, the distant sounds of infected grew louder, but Joel didn’t waver. He finished the stitches with a practiced efficiency, wrapping the wound tightly with gauze before finally leaning back, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

“That’ll hold for now,” he said, his voice rough. He reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow, his hand coming away streaked with your blood.

You reached for his arm, your fingers weak but insistent. “Joel,” you murmured, your gaze locking onto his. “Thank you.”

He shook his head, his jaw tight. “Don’t,” he said quietly, his voice thick with something unspoken. “Just… don’t.”

You wanted to say more, to tell him how much it meant that he’d carried you, fought for you, but the words wouldn’t come. Exhaustion weighed heavily on you, pulling you back into its grip.

Joel noticed, his hand coming up to brush a stray hair from your face. “Get some rest,” he murmured, his voice soft now. “I’ll keep watch.”

You nodded faintly, your eyes slipping shut as the darkness claimed you. The last thing you heard was Joel’s voice, low and steady, murmuring promises to keep you safe.

—-

The cabin had fallen into an eerie

silence, the distant wails of the infected fading into the background.

Joel sat by the door, his rifle in hand, every muscle in his body taut with tension as he kept watch.

You lay on the table, your body heavy with exhaustion, your mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

It happened so fast, neither of you had time to react.

The unmistakable screech of a clicker shattered the stillness as the door to a side room burst open.

The creature moved like a blur, its grotesque face twisted in a permanent grimace, its guttural clicks filling the air.

It lunged at you with terrifying speed.

"No!" Joel bellowed, already on his feet, but it was too late.

The clicker slammed into you, its weight crushing your chest as you screamed. Its fungal jaw snapped inches from your face, its rancid breath hot against your skin.

You thrashed beneath it, panic surging through you as its claws raked across your arms, holding you down.

"Joel!" you screamed, your voice raw with terror.

Joel charged, his knife already in hand. He grabbed the clicker by the back of its neck, yanking it off you with all his strength.

The creature snarled, twisting violently as it tried to sink its teeth into him.

Joel's knife plunged into the clicker's skull with a sickening crunch, silencing it instantly

The clicker collapsed to the floor in a grotesque heap, its body twitching once before falling still.

Joel stood over it, panting hard, his knife still buried in its fungal skull. His eyes immediately darted to you, his heart pounding in his chest.

You were trembling on the table, your hands pressed to your head, your breaths coming in panicked gasps.

"You okay?" Joel asked, his voice strained as he dropped to his knees beside you.

His hands gently but firmly moved yours away from your head.

“I—I think so," you stammered, your voice shaking. "It didn't get me, I don't think."

Joel frowned, his sharp eyes scanning you for injuries. The adrenaline coursing through your body had dulled your senses, and you barely noticed his fingers brushing against the side of your head. Then he froze.

"Shit," he muttered, his voice low and cold.

"What?" you asked, dread pooling in your stomach.

Joel didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened as he tilted your head, his eyes locking on the jagged wound where your ear should have been.

The bite mark was unmistakable, the flesh torn and raw.

"No," he whispered under his breath, his hand trembling as he pulled away.

Your heart sank as you saw his expression. "What is it?" you asked again, your voice rising in panic.

Joel looked at you, his face pale and haunted.

"It... it bit you," he said quietly, the words cutting through you like a knife.

"By your ear."

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt. Your hand shot up to the side of your head, your fingers brushing the blood- soaked wound.

The absence of your ear hit you like a freight train, but the weight of his words was heavier.

"Joel..." Your voice broke, tears stinging your eyes.

“No, no, no. It didn't—I didn't feel it "

"I know," Joel interrupted, his voice thick with grief and anger.

He stood abruptly, pacing the room as if the movement could shake off the reality

bearing down on him.

You stared at him, your chest heaving with shallow breaths.

"Joel, what do we do? What-what do we do?"

He stopped pacing, his fists clenched at his sides.

"You're not turnin" he said firmly, his eyes blazing with determination.

"Not if I can help it."

"But-"

"No buts," he snapped, his voice hard. "You've lasted this long, and I ain't losin' you now."

Joel grabbed his pack and began rifling through it, pulling out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and gauze.

"We'll clean it," he said, more to himself than to you.

"We'll clean it, bandage it up. Maybe... maybe it didn't get deep enough."

The tremble in his hands betrayed his desperation, but he didn't stop.

He worked quickly, pouring alcohol over the wound despite your pained cries, pressing gauze to the jagged flesh.

"I don't care how bad it looks," he muttered, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap.

"You're not turnin'. Not you." His words hung in the air, a fragile thread of hope that neither of you wanted to let go of.

•

The hours crawled by in agonizing silence. Joel sat by your side, his rifle resting across his knees, his eyes darting between the dark forest beyond the cabin and you. Every groan of the wind, every distant sound made him flinch, but nothing compared to the growing fear eating away at him as he watched you.

You had started sweating profusely, your breathing shallow and uneven. He tried to convince himself it was just exhaustion, just the blood loss—but deep down, he knew better.

“Stay with me,” Joel muttered, his voice low and desperate. His hand hovered over yours, unsure if he should touch you. “You’re gonna be fine. You hear me? You’re gonna be fine.”

You stirred slightly at his words, your head rolling to the side. “Joel…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I’m here,” he said immediately, leaning closer. “I’m right here.”

You blinked up at him, your gaze unfocused. “Don’t… don’t let me…”

“Don’t you say it,” he cut in sharply, his voice trembling. “You’re not goin’ anywhere. You fight this, you hear me? You fight.”

But then it happened.

A violent shudder ran through your body, and your back arched off the table as a strangled gasp escaped your lips. Joel shot to his feet, his heart slamming against his ribs.

“Hey!” he shouted, grabbing your shoulders to steady you. “What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

Your body convulsed, your hands clawing at the air, and then foam began to spill from your mouth.

“No,” Joel breathed, horror twisting his features. “No, no, no—this ain’t happening.”

He tried to hold you still, his hands firm but trembling. “Stay with me!” he yelled, his voice cracking. “Don’t you do this! Don’t you leave me!”

But the signs were unmistakable—the erratic spasms, the froth bubbling from your lips, the vacant glaze in your eyes. The infection had taken hold.

Joel’s world came crashing down around him as the truth hit him like a freight train. He froze, staring at you as tears streamed down his face, his grip tightening on your shoulders.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”

For a moment, he considered the worst—what he might have to do if you turned. His hand hovered over his revolver, the thought tearing him apart. But then your convulsions slowed, your body going limp beneath his hands.

Joel leaned over you, his heart pounding. “You’re still in there,” he said firmly, trying to convince himself as much as you. “You’re still you. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix it, I swear.”

Even as your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered shut, Joel refused to give up. He pressed his forehead against yours, tears mixing with the blood and sweat on your skin.

“I ain’t losin’ you,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Not like this. Not ever.”

———

The week dragged on like a nightmare Joel couldn’t wake from. The cabin became a prison, and time lost all meaning. Every second was filled with unbearable tension as he sat by your side, watching your shallow, labored breaths and waiting for a sign—any sign—that you were still in there.

You hadn’t woken up, but you hadn’t turned either. It was a cruel limbo, one Joel didn’t know how to navigate.

Each day, he cleaned the wound by your ear, whispering reassurances to you as if you could hear him. He brought water to your cracked lips and forced small amounts into your mouth, praying it would be enough to keep you alive. He ignored his own needs—barely eating, barely sleeping. His entire world had narrowed to the rise and fall of your chest.

“You’re stronger than this,” Joel muttered one night, his voice raw and low. He sat slumped in a chair he’d dragged close to the table, his elbows resting on his knees. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on you, desperate for any flicker of movement.

“You’ve made it this far,” he continued, his voice trembling. “Don’t you dare give up now. You hear me?”

The infection should’ve taken you days ago. He’d seen it happen—watched others turn in hours, their bodies overtaken by the fungus. But you were different. Somehow, against all odds, you were still fighting.

Or maybe it was something else.

Joel leaned back, running a hand down his face. He tried not to think about the possibility that the infection wasn’t killing you but slowly consuming you, keeping you alive just long enough to make him hope before it all came crashing down.

The thought of losing you clawed at his chest, threatening to tear him apart. He couldn’t go through it again—not after Sarah, not after Tess. You were the one thing tethering him to the world, and the idea of facing it without you was unbearable.

Outside, the forest was quiet, the infected having moved on days ago. But Joel still kept his rifle close, his senses sharp for any sign of danger. He couldn’t let his guard down—not when you were so vulnerable.

As the seventh night fell, Joel sat in the chair again, his head in his hands. His body ached with exhaustion, but he refused to sleep, afraid he might miss something.

And then he heard it.

A faint sound—a low, strained exhale that didn’t come from him.

Joel’s head snapped up, his heart leaping into his throat as he looked at you. Your fingers twitched, your chest rising in a shaky, uneven breath.

“Hey,” he said urgently, scrambling to your side. His hands hovered over you, unsure where to touch. “Hey, darlin’. Can you hear me?”

Your eyelids fluttered, your face scrunching up in a weak, pained expression. A soft groan escaped your lips, and Joel’s breath hitched.

“C’mon,” he urged, his voice breaking with emotion. “Open those eyes. Let me see you.”

Slowly, painfully, your eyes cracked open, unfocused and heavy. You blinked up at him, your gaze hazy and distant, but it was enough.

Joel let out a shaky laugh, his shoulders sagging with relief as tears streamed down his face. “There you are,” he whispered, brushing a gentle hand against your clammy forehead. “There’s my girl.”

You tried to speak, but your throat was too dry. Joel quickly grabbed the water flask, tipping it carefully to your lips. You drank weakly, your gaze never leaving his.

“You’re okay,” he said, more to reassure himself than you. “You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

For the first time in days, Joel allowed himself to hope. You had fought through the worst of it, and you were still here. Maybe—just maybe—you’d beat the odds.

Joel’s relief was short-lived. As the hours passed, something changed.

Your breathing grew irregular, sharp gasps interspersed with guttural, unnatural sounds. Your movements became jerky, your fingers curling into claws as you clutched the edge of the table. Joel’s heart sank as he watched you, his mind racing with denial and fear.

“No,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

You thrashed, your body convulsing as your head snapped to the side. A low, guttural growl escaped your throat, one that didn’t sound like you. Joel staggered back, gripping the rifle at his side, his hands shaking so badly he could barely hold it.

“Stop,” he pleaded, his voice trembling as he stepped closer. “You’re still in there. I know you are.”

Your head snapped toward him, and for a brief moment, he saw a flicker of recognition in your eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by something feral, something that wasn’t you.

You lunged off the table with an animalistic snarl, your movements quick and uncoordinated. Joel stumbled backward, raising his rifle instinctively.

“Stop!” he shouted, his voice cracking as he aimed at you. “Please—don’t make me do this!”

You shrieked in response, a horrific, guttural sound that made his blood run cold. But even through the growls and snarls, there was something in your gaze—something human.

Joel hesitated, his finger hovering over the trigger. “Darlin’,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face. “If you’re in there… give me a sign. Please.”

You paused, your body trembling as you tilted your head at him. Your lips parted, and for a moment, Joel thought you were going to speak. But all that came out was a low, distorted croak, followed by another agonized screech.

Joel’s chest heaved, his mind racing with despair. “I can’t,” he muttered, lowering the rifle slightly. “I can’t do it.”

Instead of attacking, you staggered forward, your jerky movements faltering. You reached for him, your clawed fingers shaking as if you were trying to touch him. Joel froze, his heart pounding in his chest as he saw it again—that flicker of recognition, the faintest hint of you.

“You’re still there,” he breathed, his voice trembling with hope. “You’re fightin’ it.”

But then another inhuman growl ripped through your throat, and your body spasmed violently. Joel’s hope shattered, replaced by a gut-wrenching grief as he realized the truth.

You weren’t gone, but you weren’t fully you either. You were trapped, aware but unable to control the infection’s hold on you.

Joel took a shaky step back, raising the rifle again, his tears blurring his vision. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so damn sorry.”

You lunged again, your shriek echoing through the cabin, and Joel’s finger tightened on the trigger.

But he couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not when there was even a sliver of you left.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, his voice shaking as he backed toward the door. “I’ll fix this. I’ll find a way. Just… stay with me, darlin’.”

You snarled in response, your movements erratic and desperate, as if battling something inside yourself. Joel knew time was running out—for both of you.

You crumpled to the floor, clawing at your head like you were trying to tear the infection out of yourself. Joel froze, his rifle trembling in his grip as he watched you writhe, your body caught in a violent battle between human and monster.

And then you spoke—or tried to.

"J-Joel..."

Your voice was barely recognizable, distorted and broken, but it was enough to make his heart stop.

"Joel," you croaked again, your voice a chilling mix of human pain and the

infected's guttural rasp. Your trembling hand reached out toward him, your bloodied fingers twitching as if you were begging for his help.

Joel's knees buckled, and he dropped the rifle. It hit the floor with a heavy thud as he staggered toward you, his face etched with raw, helpless grief.

"I'm here," he said, his voice cracking.

He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering uncertainly, afraid to touch you but unable to pull away.

"I'm right here."

You looked up at him, your eyes glassy and wild. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw the person he loved staring back at him, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared.

"It hurts," you rasped, your hands clawing at your head as tears mixed with the blood and dirt on your face. “Joel, it hurts—make it stop."

His breath hitched, and he clenched his fists to keep from breaking down completely.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so damn sorry, darlin'"

You let out a guttural sob, your body convulsing violently as you rocked back and forth on the ground.

"Kill me," you said, your distorted voice filled with agony.

"Please, Joel-kill me."

Joel recoiled as though you'd struck him. His hands shook as he stared at you, his mind reeling. "No," he choked out, shaking his head. "No, I—I can't do that. I can't."

"Please," you begged, your voice breaking into a distorted wail. "I don't want to be this-don't let me turn into this."

Joel's world shattered around him as your words sank in. He reached out and cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against the streaks of tears on your cheeks.

"I can't lose you," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Not like this."

Your body shuddered under his touch, and for one heart-wrenching moment, you leaned into his hand. But then a guttural growl escaped your throat, and you jerked away, your body spasming uncontrollably.

Joel grabbed his rifle, his hands steadying as he aimed it at you. His heart felt like it was being ripped from his chest, but he couldn't let you suffer anymore.

"Forgive me," he whispered, tears streaming down his face as he prepared to do the unthinkable.

But then you stilled. Your body collapsed onto the floor, your breathing shallow and uneven. For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by Joel's ragged breathing.

"Joel..." you whispered again, your voice faint but clear this time. "...don't let me go."

Joel lowered the rifle, his hands trembling as he fell to his knees beside you. "I won't," he swore, his voice raw and broken.

"I swear to you—I won't let you go."

Even as your body remained trapped in the infection's grasp, Joel refused to give up on you. He held you close, his tears soaking into your bloodied hair as he whispered promises to save you, no matter what it took.

Joel froze as your teeth sank into his forearm. The pain was sharp and immediate, but it wasn't what shattered him-it was the tears spilling down your face, the unmistakable grief in your glassy, infected eyes.

He gasped, jerking slightly, but he didn't pull away. He didn't shove you off.

"Goddamn it," he rasped, his voice trembling with a mix of agony and heartbreak. "No... no..."

Your distorted growls mixed with pained sobs as you released his arm, your bloodied mouth trembling. You collapsed backward onto the floor, clawing at your head, as though punishing yourself for what you'd done.

"Joel..." you croaked, the sound more human than it had been in hours.

"|—...I didn't want to... I didn't want to..."

"I know," Joel whispered, his breath hitching as he pressed his hand over the bite to stem the bleeding. He sat there, staring at you, his mind spinning.

The infection was taking over, and now it had marked him too.

Your body shook with sobs, the guttural sounds breaking through as you choked out, "I-can't-stop-"

Joel crawled closer, his movements slow and deliberate as if approaching a wounded animal. His heart broke at the sight of you, torn between who you were and what the infection was turning you into.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice low and steady despite the storm raging inside him. He reached out, his hand trembling as he cupped your cheek. "This ain't you. This ain't your fault."

You flinched under his touch, your body wracked with another violent tremor.

"Joel... I hurt you," you whimpered, your distorted voice cutting through him like a knife.

Joel let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to stay calm even as the reality of the bite burned in the back of his mind. "You're still fightin'," he said firmly. "You're still in there."

But you shook your head violently, your tears mixing with the blood smeared across your face. "It's—too late," you croaked, your voice breaking into another guttural growl. "I-I can't hold it... much longer."

Joel gritted his teeth, his mind racing. He couldn't lose you, but he also couldn't ignore the infection spreading through his own body. Time was running out for both of you.

"Then we fight," he said, his voice trembling with conviction. "Together. You and me we fight this."

You stared at him, your body trembling as the infection fought for control. "Joel..." you whispered, your voice fading into a growl.

He leaned forward, his forehead resting gently against yours as tears streamed down his face. "I ain't leavin' you," he whispered. "No matter what." For a moment, the world stood still. You closed your eyes, a single tear sliding down your cheek as you whispered, "I'm sorry."

Then the growls returned, louder and more feral than before, and Joel knew the infection was winning. But he refused to let go-not yet, not ever.

——————•

As the infection consumed your body, the world around you began to fade. The pain, the fear, the chaos—it all started to slip away like a distant memory. You felt weightless, unburdened, and when you opened your eyes, the sight before you took your breath away.

Joel was there, standing just a few feet from you. His face was no longer streaked with tears or etched with anguish. He looked at you with an expression of quiet relief, though confusion lingered in his eyes.

You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your physical body lay crumpled on the floor of the cabin, lifeless and infected. Joel’s body was slumped beside you, the bite on his arm raw and angry. The two of you floated just above, untethered from the pain and the weight of the world.

“Joel…” you whispered, your voice clear and unbroken for the first time in days.

He turned to you, his brow furrowing as he took in the sight. “What… what’s happenin’?” he asked, his voice low and cautious. “Are we…?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your gaze flickering back to your physical forms. “I think we’re… between.”

Joel took a step closer to you, his movements tentative but deliberate. His hand reached out, hesitant at first, before it cupped your cheek. The touch was warm, solid, and real.

“You’re here,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re really here.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded. “I’m here, Joel. I didn’t leave you.”

His jaw tightened, and he closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek. “I couldn’t stop it,” he said, his voice breaking. “I couldn’t save you.”

“You tried,” you said softly, your hand covering his. “You did everything you could.”

Joel shook his head, his shoulders trembling. “I couldn’t protect you. I failed you… like everyone else.”

“Stop,” you whispered, your other hand resting on his chest. “You didn’t fail me, Joel. You loved me. You stayed with me when no one else would. That’s what mattered.”

His eyes opened, meeting yours, and for a moment, the heaviness lifted from his expression. He nodded slowly, his hand tightening against yours.

The world around you began to shimmer, faint light filtering through the walls of the cabin. You felt a pull, gentle but insistent, as though something—or someone—was calling you both.

“What happens now?” Joel asked, his voice steady but filled with quiet uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, glancing at the light. “But… I think we’ll go together.”

Joel nodded, his hand sliding down to entwine with yours. “Together,” he agreed.

And as the light grew brighter, surrounding you both in its warmth, the pain and fear melted away. Whatever awaited you on the other side, you knew one thing for certain: Joel would be by your side, and you would face it together.

Fini

A/N: bro dreaming this was literally so scary I don’t think writing it out is doing it justice

[cozmowrites]

Wistoragic: Forty Two

Chapter Forty Two - 1257 words

The air outside was dry and heavy, the sky permanently stuck in that post-apocalyptic gray that made everything look like an old film reel left out in the sun. A cracked billboard loomed above the gravel road. Someone had spray-painted over the original ad with crude black letters: "SAFE ZONE AHEAD – WATER, FOOD, SHELTER."

A lie, of course.

Dabi leaned against the rusted hood of a half-destroyed van, arms crossed, black-dyed hair slicked back with oil and sweat. His expression didn’t change as the first of the survivors came stumbling into view. It was a woman dragging a limping child, both covered in ash and desperation.

Twice was pacing, which was not unusual for him. “This is bad. This is good. This is so bad. We’re saints, we’re monsters, we’re saints—”

“Shut up, Jin,” Dabi said flatly, eyes scanning the road behind the newcomers. “We need more than stragglers. We need a crowd.”

Toga twirled a knife between her fingers, teeth glinting when she smiled. “They’ll come. They always come. You just have to look hungry enough. Bleed a little, cry a little. People lap it up like syrup.”

Behind them, the fake outpost sprawled like a hastily assembled camp: battered tents, smoke from fake cooking fires, plastic water jugs filled with dirty rainwater, and strategically placed children’s toys to make it all look human.

The walls were real enough. Metal sheets and fencing stolen from military stockpiles. It gave people false hope, a false narrative. The entrance was narrow. Controlled. Easy to funnel the desperate into and harder for them to escape.

“Cameras are up for us to watch them,” Twice grumbled finally, calling from the platform above. “Heard through our earpiece that Spinner’s tweaking the generators now.”

“Tell him to hurry up,” Dabi muttered. “We need lights when the sun dies.”

Inside one of the tents, Toga paced slowly around a captive. The man was bound, gagged, and barely conscious. A former government, maybe a mid-level logistics officer. They didn’t keep track anymore. What mattered was information, and more importantly: routes.

Toga crouched, voice low and crawling with intent. “You said the western bunkers were still active. I gotta let me superior know, you know.”

The man whimpered through the gag.

Twice spoke out as well once he was down from the heights. “We should rotate the prisoners soon. The ones in sector three are starting to resist food. Kurogiri said so.”

“Then let them starve,” Toga smiled, cracking her knuckles. “They’re just mouths. They had their chance when this world burned.”

Spinner said through their walkie-talkies. “Power’s back. We’ve got five hours until the fuel tanks dry again.”

“Good.” Dabi pushed off the van. “The bigger groups will hit by then. The bait’s working.”

Outside, more survivors were arriving. A few men carrying bags of rice. A girl with a rusted baseball bat. They all looked rough. Thin, dirty, and scared, but they looked like hope, too. That was the key.

Toga stepped forward, blood smudged on her cheek in a perfect little arc. She waved, eyes wide and warm. “You made it! Oh my god, you made it! Come inside—please, you’re safe here.”

The woman with the child cried.

Dabi didn’t blink.

Another man came running, wild-eyed, his voice breaking from shouting. “They’re coming! They’re right behind me! A whole horde! They followed me from Sector Six!”

Twice practically vibrated. “Zombies! Great! Terrible! Great!”

Toga laughed, a little too bright. “That’s perfect. I mean. Oh no, scary! Get inside, hurry!”

The gates groaned shut behind the new group.

Inside, Twice was redirecting people toward the inner sector of the compound. A series of rusted freight containers had been transformed into ‘dorms.’ Each one had a locking mechanism. From the outside.

Mr. Compress spoke into the walkie-talkie to Dabi, “We’re almost at capacity. Just enough to cull half and keep the rest for leverage.”

“Don’t overdo it,” Dabi muttered. “Not yet. Make ‘em comfortable.”

Toga bounced beside him. “Can I pick the next one? I like the quiet ones. They scream the best when it hits.”

Dabi stared ahead, silent for a beat. Then slowly. “We only have eight bottles of the cure left. That’s it.”

“And they’re ours,” Twice snapped, voice switching mid-sentence. “Mine, mine, mine.”

“We’ll let the first wave settle in,” Shigaraki said into the walkie-talkie. “Feed them. Wash them. Give them comfort. Then we’ll burn it all down when this herd hits. There will be more, of course.”

Twice spoke back. “What about the others out west? The ones building the real settlements?”

Shigaraki grumbled into the device. The walkie-talkie breaking up his voice a bit. “They’ll fall in time. People don’t build anything anymore. They cling. And we’re going to make them let go.”

Dabi lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp, expressionless face.

“We’re not just killing them,” he said. “We’re killing hope.”

Toga twirled and giggled, her knife catching the light.

“And hope bleeds so pretty.” Toga giggled again, turning to Dabi. “The last guy said there were more coming. A whole group. Said they were desperate. That's gotta be a whole camp! We gotta let them in.”

“Desperate makes them dumb,” Dabi said. His boots crunched on the gravel. “We should be ready to burn this place down again. By tomorrow, max.”

Toga pouted. “But I liked this group. It has character.”

Twice snapped his fingers. “Character? You mean corpses. It has a lot of those. They give a place charm.”

Dabi ignored both of them. He walked across the courtyard, passing one of the empty metal bins they used to pretend it was a supply drop-off point. A few fake water bottles, torn food wrappers, a useless flashlight. Enough stuff to give hope.

“You think the others are doing fine?” Toga asked suddenly, not looking up. “Shigaraki and them?”

“They’re in another section. You know that. A whole damn day away, even if we used the bikes.” Dabi crouched by a rusted fuel drum, drawing meaningless circles in the dust with a stick. “No one’s seen the full layout but Kurogiri, anyway.”

“I’d rather be with Spinner,” Twice said, shrugging. “At least he doesn't monologue.”

“You monologue to yourself.”

“That doesn’t count. That’s therapy.”

The three of them drifted apart, each retreating to their chosen corners of the fake sanctuary. Toga wandered into the rows of makeshift homes, tents, eyeing the carefully staged setups. Blankets, plastic cups, a doll missing one eye. She’d picked it out herself. People trusted scenes like that. It made them think someone had lived.

Dabi continued to smoke his cigarette and leaning against the container wall, watching the sun disappear behind the polluted horizon.

Twice leaned on a broken streetlamp, muttering softly to himself in fragmented rhythm. “You let ‘em in, let ‘em hope, let ‘em dream... then crush it. Crush it like the bugs they are, crawling over everything we lost.”

None of them spoke about the real reason they were there. The cure. Bottles of it, just eight, secured in a hidden vault beneath one of the false dorms. Enough for them. And only them. No one else. Dabi had made that decision, and no one argued.

Because what was the point of saving a world already eaten alive?

Toga appeared again, brushing off her skirt. “We should get some sleep. That scream earlier? I think someone made it past the west barricade.”

“Good,” Dabi said, flicking the cigarette away. “We need fresh bait tomorrow.”

“Do you ever wonder,” Toga said quietly, almost like she was asking herself, “if this is how it was always supposed to end?”

Twice answered for her, stepping into the dim lamplight. “Only if we make it the end. And we will. Over and over again.”

And from the distance, the sound of footsteps scraping through gravel. Zombies. Dabi's mouth twisted into a hollow smile.

“Showtime.”

=====

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[hollowghostsonfilm]

[Geto/Gojo Fic] Hollow: The Fracture [3/7]

Summary:

Satoru Gojo wakes up in the body of his sixteen-year-old self, 6 months before the Star Plasma Vessel mission. He's certain its a domain. Or a curse. Or a hallucination born at the moment of his death. It can't be real. Geto is alive. Shoko is there. The dorm floorboards creak at the exact right place. He has to focus, has to work out how to break out of this domain. But hope has teeth, and Gojo has been bitten. Haunted by a future that only he remembers, Gojo has to walk the knife's edge between redemption and madness. Because if this is real, he can't let it go the same way again.

Master List for previous chapters.

Link to AO3 or read below:

Satoru’s shadow spread him so thin across the dirt in the late afternoon sun that he looked like he was made of pool noodles. Somewhere in the trees surrounding the practice ground, the cicadas were screaming in last defiance of the turn of the season.

Satoru leaned lazily against the fence, arms folded, watching Yuuji and Megumi in their spar. Yuuji was still all wild energy, grinning and reckless, throwing himself into the fight with wild abandon. Megumi flowed around him elegantly, like a stiletto blade.

“Yuuji, you’re as subtle as a freight train,” Satoru put his hands to the sides of his mouth as he shouted over to them. “You’re lucky Megumi hasn’t buried you yet!”

“He’s trying!” Yuuji replies, breathless, pivoting around a jab. “Give me, like, five minutes and I’ll win though! For sure!”

“Five minutes?” Megumi deadpans, sidestepping Yuuji’s retaliatory blow easily. “You’re not going to last one.”

Satoru hears Suguru chuckle low in his throat beside him and he turns to catch the fond smile on Suguru’s face. It undoes him from the inside out, that soft smile.

“Remind you of anything?” Satoru asks, if anything to get that smile to turn his way.

“They’re younger. I doubt it’s the same,” Suguru responds, rolling his eyes.

“You so sure about that?” Satoru elbows him. “First year of middle school, all those hormones and things starting up. Prime first crush time.”

Suguru seems to consider this. “Mm. But Yuuji spends a lot of time with Mimiko too. If it’s like that, Megumi better say something fast or he’s going to end up best friend zoned.”

Satoru chuckles and is about to respond when the alarm splits the air like a razor.

Then a second.

A third.

All high and shrill, until the whole campus seems to be shrieking.

“Barrier breach,” Suguru breathes.

Satoru’s muscles snap taut as he looks around. He feels Suguru’s cursed energy flare sharply next to him, trying to detect the source of malice that is suddenly rolling across the grounds.

Satoru turns slowly, scanning the environment for the spike and sees it – there.

The dormitories.

Fuck.

Tsumiki. Nanako. Mimiko.

For a heartbeat he stays frozen, the golden hour light fractured under the rolling wrongness of the cursed energy surrounding them.

Then he manages to get his mouth to work. “Dormitories.”

He’s already running. Suguru keeps pace with him, the boys not far behind. Their feet hit the ground hard in the space between Satoru’s frantic heartbeats.

He reaches for Limitless, intending to wrap it around himself like an impermeable shield and it shivers.

For a moment, the world snaps sideways. The trees are bending wrong, reality slurs around him. He bites back a curse, fighting the pull on his powers.

“Satoru!” Suguru barks, sensing something wrong. “You good?”

“I’m fine!” Satoru lies, forcing himself forward, ignoring his own stumble. His hands curl into fists until the bones in his knuckles sing.

The dormitory looms into view, the old wood trembling under the pressure of something. Suguru skids to a halt, and Satoru barrels forward. Above them, he sees Suguru’s veil slowly descending.

“I’ve got the Veil. Get the kids!”

Satoru sees the shape coalescing in front of the dorm door, slow and syrupy, a grotesque figure wrapped in loose white fur, with chains that drag against the ground. It wasn’t humanoid, wasn’t even whole and yet a cold spike of dread twisted in Satoru’s chest.

Because just behind it, he sees a flash of her face.

Kaori Itadori.

Kenjaku.

The curse that’s blocking any direct blow flickers towards the kitchen window, where Satoru can see Tsumiki’s silhouette through the glass. She’s got her arms wide. Is she trying to pull Nanako and Mimiko towards her to shelter them?

There’s no time to hesitate. He can’t let Kenjaku get inside.

He has to take the risk.

His technique blooms outward, elegant and terrifying, and he desperately tries to keep a tight rein on it so that it doesn’t total the dorm as well. He starts when a shadow-etched dog launches out of nowhere beside Blue, teeth snarling as it runs.

Of course, Megumi wouldn’t sit idly by.

Blue impacts and the thing shrieks, folding in on itself. The Divine Dog bounds onto it, tearing what’s left apart, ripping, shredding, tearing, its tail wagging proudly as it does.

Satoru raises his hand once more, ready to fire off another blast in the direction of Kenjaku but he’s not there anymore. His cursed energy cloaked could mean that he’s anywhere but… Satoru looks around.

No, he’s fairly certain that he’s strategically retreated instead.

The alarms stop suddenly, and the silence rings instead. The Veil comes down around them and droplets of rain start to fall onto the top of Satoru’s head.

Satoru keeps his eyes on the mess that’s left of the curse as Suguru comes to his side. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Piece of cake. Check on Megumi. That was his first battle experience,” Satoru says, his voice clipped.

He’s not ready to talk about this. He needs a moment to process what just nearly happened right under his nose.

Suguru doesn’t believe him, Satoru can see it in the way his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push. He instead goes to do just that, escorting Megumi and Yuuji inside and checking on the girls.

Satoru stands outside like a guard dog until the moon is high in the sky, black Divine Dog at his feet.

The air stays too sharp even after the danger passes.

The rain picks up as the night deepens. Fat drops drip down the barrier of Limitless. He stays planted outside the dormitory long after the noise inside dies down, after the sound of showers and baths disappears, after the slow shuffle of everyone being sent to bed, after Suguru had come out to touch his arm lightly once to try to get him to come inside, only to be shaken off.

He can’t settle. His whole-body buzzes from the wrongness of it.

The weakness.

The almost.

Kenjaku had gotten too close.

He can still see Tsumiki’s silhouette through the glass, her thin arms spread out, mortal and breakable. Defending Mimiko and Nanako against something that she couldn’t see, couldn’t defend against.

The rain distorts his vision enough that he’s not sure if it’s the mist or that he’s shaking so much that he can’t get his eyes to focus.

“Satoru.”

Suguru’s voice is low and certain behind him. He doesn’t turn, afraid what his expression might be. Shoko probably would have a hundred new diagnoses for him now if she could see him.

“You’re not fine, I get that,” Suguru says. “But you can be not fine with me.”

The dam breaks, sudden and ungraceful.

He isn’t aware he’s running until he’s already taken off.

Branches lash at his face, Limitless not working well enough to keep them off. One hits so hard it scratches his cheek and Satoru can feel the blood dripping down his chin. Mud pulls at his shoes. The rain smears everything into streaks of silver and shadow.

Suguru is following him without hesitation. He catches up at the edge of the clearing where they’d finally had that first conversation, the fault line where everything had started to come out into the open.

Satoru collapses to his knees at the edge of the cliff, his knees sinking into the mulch, and gasping like he’d run through every timeline just to reach here.

He slams his fists into the earth.

Blue light sparks violently around him, unstable and formless, splintering and fractured gaps of his power.

“Satoru…” Suguru stops a few feet away. Safely distant from any power surge or backfiring technique.

“It was so close, Suguru…” Satoru gasps. “We were so close to losing them.”

“We didn’t. You stopped it. It’s all right-“

“No!” Satoru slams his fists into the ground again. “It’s not all right. Kenjaku was right there! Inside the wards! He almost got her-“

“Satoru-!”

Satoru finally lifts his head, eyes wide, red-rimmed. He feels like a boy again, standing in a busy street, desperately trying to understand what he has to do in order for the world to go back to normal again.

But this isn’t that version of Geto Suguru looking back at him.

This one steps forward, joins him in the mud, and doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the distance between them, ignoring when Satoru scrambles back, and grabs him by the front of his collar and kisses him.

The kiss is a battlefield. Suguru’s desperation to reach him clashing like their teeth. Satoru feels the mud soaking into their clothes, blood from his cheek smearing across Suguru’s.

The rain softens around them, the world dims to only breath, and Suguru’s heartbeat, sure and steady against Satoru’s chest.

Suguru’s hand cups the back of his head, cradling it in a way that’s so gentle it hurts. Satoru turns his face up, surrendering to this now, letting Suguru have him. Letting Suguru see the spiral and help calm it.

Their mouths find each other again, slower this time. Satoru’s fingers curl into Suguru’s shirt, clinging as though if he let go for a second, he might get pulled down into the mud and drown. Suguru lets him, lets him tremble, swallows all the breathless gasps and tiny broken sounds he tries and fails to swallow.

Hands move over him, not to undress, but to uncover, to peel away layers of years and regret and what if. Damp fabric sticks stubbornly to his skin, but it doesn’t matter. Suguru is patient, working at it between kisses designed to keep him grounded.

When Suguru pushes him back into the earth, he covers Satoru’s body like it’s shelter. It’s a promise that he’ll hold the pieces together that Satoru, in this moment, can’t.

Their bodies slide together, soaked skin and stuttering breaths. Satoru’s nails scrape down Suguru’s spine, desperate for anchor, and Suguru shudders like Satoru has reached all the way inside him.

When Suguru presses into him, slowly, carefully, hands shaking just a little with an apology for if it hurts, Satoru feels no pain. He doesn’t even really feel pleasure.

He feels, strangely, like he’s being forgiven.

Satoru’s breath hitches in his throat and Suguru presses their foreheads together, murmuring nonsense against his lips. Sweet nothings. Promises. They move together, pulled by some gravitational thread that nothing can sever.

There is no edge to fall over, no end to chase, only a rising feeling in Satoru’s being that breaks as his arms wrap around Suguru’s back so tightly that his ribs creak.

Suguru follows moments later, burying his face in the crook of Satoru’s neck as his whole body shakes.

Satoru holds him for a moment, before reaching down to thread his fingers through Suguru’s, bringing the hands between them so he can see them, stripped down to bone and starlight.

They curl together on the forest floor, half-buried in wet leaves, the world around them blurred in soft watercolour greys.

“They’re safe, Satoru. You’re safe,” Suguru murmurs, kissing his cheek.

Satoru closes his eyes and chooses to believe it.

The storm softens to a breath.

Satoru can feel the mud cooling beneath his bare skin, a fine mist starting to drift through the air above them. His lungs still stutter with their rhythm, not from the act itself, but just feeling so in sync.

He’s still shaking.

He tries to hide it, tries to keep his breath even, but Suguru is still Suguru. He’s too attuned, too close. Satoru has hidden, sidestepped this too long. His hand brushes down Satoru’s spine, and the tremors betray him.

Satoru presses his face into Suguru’s shoulder, searching for the warmth of his skin and the press of something living. “M’fine,” he murmurs, but his voice sounds small to his own ears.

Suguru says nothing, just pulls him closer.

There’s a crackle, and Limitless hums weakly, out of sync with him, warping faintly against Suguru’s presence momentarily before smoothing out again. Satoru can feel the edges of it fracturing.

Suguru shifts slightly, finding the hem of Satoru’s abandoned shirt that had been discarded earlier in the soaked grass. He tugs it gently, guiding Satoru’s arms back into it one at a time. He still doesn’t speak, just dresses him like he’s something precious.

When they’re both fully dressed again, Suguru pulls him to his feet, taking a moment to bury his nose in Satoru’s neck and press a kiss against his shoulder.

“We’ll get colds if we stay out here,” he says, adjusting Satoru’s collar.

Their hair is plastered to their heads, their cheeks pink with cold, but Satoru still gives Suguru a smile that isn’t bitter.

“Come home with me,” he says, holding his hand out for Suguru to take.

Suguru takes it. “Always.”

♾️

In the morning, the dormitory still smells like rain. That, and Suguru’s miso soup. Megumi doesn’t mind Japanese style breakfast, but he prefers bread, and just once he’d like to wake up to toast instead.

He sits crossed legged under the kotatsu, back straight, arms crossed. Yuuji slouches next to him at the low table, hair still a mess from bed. Megumi pretends not to notice how his oversized pyjama shirt is sliding off one shoulder. He chooses not to acknowledge why that might be capturing his attention too.

Across from them, Satoru stands in his usual black. The blindfold’s on, hiding his face. His hair is damp, and curling slightly around his ears. Had he stayed out in the rain all night? Even so, it seems Suguru has supplied him with something to warm him through, if the steam rising from the mug in his hands is something to go by.

Tsumiki is tucked between Nanako and Mimiko. Both of the twins are tense in different ways. Nanako’s knee is bouncing. Mimiko is chewing a lock of her hair. Tsumiki isn’t blinking.

No one slept much last night.

Satoru doesn’t speak immediately, but when it does, his voice isn’t the usual flippant, over-loud playsong cadence. It’s soft and quiet.

“Something happened last night.”

Understatement of the century.

Yuuji leans forward, eyes wide. “Was it that thing… That thing that the shadow puppy ate?”

Megumi decides to let ‘shadow puppy’ go for now. He wants to see Satoru’s reaction, waiting for what truth he decides to reveal.

“Yes,” Satoru’s knuckles are white around his mug. “There was an attack. It didn’t get in. You’re all safe.”

Not a lie, but Megumi has a good enough bullshit detector to know it’s not the whole truth either.

“But it got close,” Tsumiki says, her voice is calm but Megumi can hear the edge in it. He knows her well enough to know when his sister’s will has turned to steel. He shifts subtly, pushing his foot against hers under the table, not to comfort per se, just… to connect.

Satoru nods to her. “Too close.”

Yuuji looks guilty. Of course he does. If there’s one thing that Megumi has learned over the last few months its that the other boy has a tendency to take on all blame as his own. Megumi’s chest tightens. That face does stupid things to his internal logic. Like it short-circuits something in his brain and makes him want to wipe that look of his stupid face.

“Was it because of me? Because of Sukuna?” Yuuji asks.

“No,” Satoru says, fast and firm. Too fast and firm.

“Then it was Ken-“ Megumi starts, because he has to say it, they have to know.

Satoru cuts him off sharply. “You’re all here because we can protect each other. You’re here because this place is the safest. And that hasn’t changed.”

Megumi believes him. Just. Though it’s getting harder to.

“I’m not… a hundred percent right now,” Satoru admits, his eyes flickering over to Megumi. There’s no visible injuries on Satoru right now, but that doesn’t mean anything. Megumi saw the state of him in Tengen’s domain, and he can feel it. The way that Satoru’s energy is jittering slightly.

Yuuji shifts again and Megumi bites down the urge to tell him it’s not his fault.

Mimiko raises a hand. “What did it want?”

Satoru hesitates. That’s enough of an answer for Megumi.

“It was just a message,” he says at last. “A test. But he didn’t get what he came for.”

“Good,” Nanako mutters, arms folded. “Because next time I’ll be ready and we won’t be relying on you or shadow boy to protect us.”

Megumi glances at her, sees the way her hand is curled into a fist, and thinks to himself that he’d be grateful if she was battle ready enough to fight alongside him next time. She and Mimiko both. Anything to put more bodies between whatever that thing outside had been and Tsumiki.

Satoru’s smile is faint, tired around the edges, but real.

“I know you will.”

Then he gestures to the hallway. “You should go eat breakfast. Suguru will cry if it gets cold while we’re in here yapping.”

That gets a snort out of Mimiko. From the kitchen there’s a muffled, “Hey!”

They all rise slowly. Mimiko tugs at Tsumiki’s sleeve. Yuuji hops up with too much energy, his calf brushing against Megumi’s shoulder as he makes his way out. Megumi chooses not to react.

He lingers, just a second, watches as Satoru tips the rest of the coffee down his throat. The mug clinks softly as it’s set down on the kotatsu, now empty.

“It was too close, Megumi, do you understand?” Satoru says again, voice quiet so the others won’t hear.

Megumi watches him. The way his shoulders are tight, even though the danger has supposedly passed. The way his power is flickering.

“So train us harder, sensei,” he says, before slipping out so that Satoru can’t see the determination on his face.

[dailyanarchistposts]

NIGHT OF

Temperature 77 Degrees

As the wind howls around us I can’t help but stare into the street. From torn and slightly battered black drapes I watch a world thought indestructible brought to a standstill. There are no shops open, no lights on, and nobody in the street save for the few police officers driving threateningly by, intent on making sure they don’t surrender their power; even here in the middle of the storm the vague promise of force looms in an attempt to keep the proles off the streets.

“Jesus CHRIST,” a loud slam startles me and turns my head from the window. “Did you hear that?”

“Is it something on the roof? Is the roof being hit with something?” My wife is in bed and packing a bowl, her hands moving from cellphone light to the darkness surrounding us. Green flashes pierce through the holes in curtains, the flames of another blown transformer obscured by sideways shooting rain.

“It’s….it’s the fucking tree. That oak next to the house, it’s slamming into it.”

“Are we going to be okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. As long as it doesn’t spawn any tornados. A little earlier I thou-LOOK! Look there! Hooooly shit look at that.” A sudden gust of wind rips a fence through the river that used to be our driveway, branches following like launched projectiles. The air doesn’t howl but screams, as if the very act of dragging itself along the land was painful.

As we stood in awe I struggle to take notes under the candles. No written description can capture the full gravity of what a hurricane is.

Folks who’ve never tasted alligator and never will like to believe a hurricane is just like any other big storm. Nothing could be further from the truth. A tornado strikes out of nowhere, disappears and leaves a confused or dead populace; a blizzard pours sheets of sleet and snow but never gains a personality, never gains a spirit.

A hurricane is a different beast entirely. From the moment it is born on the coast of Africa it is named, tracked, and plotted by nearly 20 million Floridians, an energetic focus that might convince most chaos magicians to call it a goddess. It is alive, in every sense of the term, and power is added to it with each word spoken in hushed tones of fear and worry. A hurricane lingers long after the damage it leaves behind. Big storms will be spoken about like dragons seen once in a lifetime, plywood saved for the inevitable next storm bearing the names of previous combatants; these wood shields are often scrawled with dire prayers for the storm to spare them or intimidating calls to “go fuck yourself.”

There we were, members of the same species that dared to walk on the moon, huddled in darkness as wind and water took everything we built for its own. We don’t have money for plywood, and we can’t afford a generator. Whether we live or die may be a forgone conclusion. All we can do is arrange the details.

Or to put it another way, Hurricane Irma is now “the boss.”

“If it gets like that again for more than three minutes we need to go into the downstairs bathroom. That last gust had to be 130. If it stays that way for a set amount of time that’s a fucking tornado.”

Primeval conditions have brought about the abandonment of the merchant class’ territory. Everything seemed open to possibility. I wanted to be out there, wanted to do many things I could never write about publicly, the creative urge to destroy drowning my senses like a beach at high tide. I couldn’t shake the feeling that under this liminal time between worlds scores could be settled and new powers seized. Irma had, if only temporarily, halted Capital in ways most Anarchists could only dream of.

Instead I spent my time running downstairs to fervently mop the water coming up from the floor tiles and the streams of rain pouring through my door. We squeezed out mops by hand and cleaned what we could in the light of small flames; at one point we both held the windows, fearful of them flying away or breaking.

We paced and whispered as the candles flickered, trapped in the structure we were surrounded with. We could only monitor the leaks, tape the holes, and stare out at a watery and hostile realm where streets used to be. Through it all bangs, cracks, and snaps kept our anxiety at a max, hopes and prayers rising that whatever was making the noise would do no permanent damage to my jeep outside. If the gods were cruel we’d be unable to get cheap food or enjoy ac on the way to work; if they were kind I could continue to pay insurance and fear a rogue cop’s ticket destroying the meager savings we depended on.

After awhile it all became too much, and we flopped into bed, putting our faith in whatever dice rolls the spirits had in store for us. I remember praying, right before my eyes closed and I wiped sweat from my brow, that “someone” would watch over us.

BOOM BOOM BOOM

What. The. FUCK. Was. That? What time is it? 3:30am? No no doll, just wait. Let me listen. See? Nothing. Probably just a tree. Now if it were to happen again-

BOOM BOOM BOOM

FUCK! Okay, okay, who is that? Look at that wind! Those trees! That was a piece of goddamn fence right there, nobody’s out in that. What? The two-meth heads that tried to break into a neighbors house. You think? Or maybe the guy who robbed the elderly couple in broad daylight at the mall before that? Decided to try his luck under the cover of Irma? Who else would be out knocking on doors at 3:30am in the middle of a goddamn hurricane?

“What are you doing?” my wife asks as I make my way to the closet.

“Nothing,” I say, “nothing at all.” Six rounds slip into my revolver. “I’m just going to see who’s at the door. Might be somebody who needs my help.”

Silently head downstairs. Draped in darkness, nothing but memory and a heightened sense of adrenaline to guide me. I peer out the front door’s peephole. Nothing, nothing at all. Must have left. I’ll just go back-

BOOM BOOM BOOM!

Okay you fucks, here goes. Carefully now, duct tape peeling away from the edges of the door, water spilling out from behind them. A shadow in the crack, my finger on the trigger, look me in the eye as I make your head into a canoe you goddamn motherfu-

“Hey man, are you okay?”

“What?” The winds are still raging well past 100mph and I can barely make out the voice in front of me. Flying hair and glowing eyes. It is bigfoot?

“Are you guys okay?”

“D-Dick?”

“Yeah man.” He held his hair back so I could see his face, glassed from what I could only assume to be enough booze to choke a crocodile.

“Uh…yeah. A little water but nothing major. What uh…”

“Cool, cool. I was out so I wanted to come and check up on you and XXXX. Don’t open the door all the way, it’s windy’er than SHIT out here.”

“What uh…what are you doing?” The revolver now hides behind the door as I struggle to hear Dick shouting into the wind.

“Wanted to check shit out. Crazy out here, water everywhere. I wanted to check out 192 with a few friends. You know, check it out.” The beer can in his hand almost flew out into the river.

“Oh. Uh, okay. Well thanks. We’re all good, thanks for checking up on us buddy.” A tree branch skidded along the sidewalk.

“No problem man. Have a good night!”

I closed the door and went back inside.

“Who was it?” my wife asks.

“Dick got super drunk and is wandering around waist deep in sewer water.”

“Oh,” she rolls over, “how nice. I’m surprised you didn’t go out with him.”

[fountainpenguin]

"Hey, youngblood! Doesn't it feel like our time is running out? I'm gonna change you like a remix, then I'll raise you like a phoenix!" (x)

---

New Criminal Experience chapter today!

Chapter 8 - “Shot”

❤️ Read on AO3

💙 Start from Chapter 1

💚 More Pixels Imperfect fics

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Mumbo and his new friend sneak up on Carrie's illager patrol... Looks like she, BigB, and their friends have Impulse in a pickle. But what happened to Skizz?

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

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Minutes later…

Despite Mumbo's insistence to the contrary, the enderman girl jogs with him down the messy street. Her name is Hazel, or at least that's what she tells him. What, are you gonna argue with her? She's just a kid, but when Mumbo urges her to stay out of the way, she laughs and skips backwards, keeping pace ahead of him.

"She can't catch me! I'd like to see her try. And I'd love to see those foreigners come crashing down. You should've heard that vex lady this morning; she was so rude when we were playing. I wish she'd run into my wall so I could crush her head with sand."

"Goodness me."

"Come on- Your glow will give you away. Can you turn that off?"

"Ah… No, I'm afraid. The illusioner pinged me with a spectral arrow, so even if I try to hide behind blocks, my outline's visible to everyone in range. Oh- Be careful with him. His species can see through blocks, whether you're lit up like this or not. Lighting us just makes it easier. For him and all his buds." The scythe hangs like an ice-coated stalactite in the center of his chest, right where his soul slot lies.

"Got it."

Wandering traders do get around quite a bit, you know. Even those who aren't big on going far from home (and there aren't many) have visited the neighboring hubs more summers than they've likely spent at home. Mumbo's seen a great deal of blocks, of course. The rare and the novel pass through Little Sun all the time.

But wherever he expected Carrie and her remaining raiders (Amused huff of emphasis on "remaining") to drag Impulse, it wasn't this. As they encroach the looming building, which must be at least, ah, five or six chunks high, Mumbo slows his jog to a trot. "Oh, my."

It's… a stadium? Yes, that might be the word for it, but if you think a community building like that has stayed untouched in an enderman city, you're terribly mistaken.

It's nothing the average person would construct. Mismatched blocks make up the walls, including anvils, birch, fence posts, gravel, leaves, and even sponges and kelp blocks. Those last two must have been traded for, because they stem from the ocean, and you certainly won't find one of those near the enderman hub. Mumbo gawks at them anyway. Wait a moment… Maybe he's been too hasty. Is it even a building? Is it the local dump? There are plenty of other endermen and endermites wandering around, browsing the walls like they're at the market for cupcakes and flowers. They cluster in groups, pulling blocks out and easing them back into place the way you do with drawers. Even the scrape of wood on wood's familiar, scratching in the grooves of blocks below.

"Who would trade for rare blocks, then shove them in a wall for anyone to take?"

"It's Mish-Mash," Hazel says, waving one arm with a flourish like she's introducing him to the finest work in the Fox Dragon's museum. "Mish-Mash is 'Give a block, take a block."

Mumbo tilts back his head, stepping backwards to take it in again. Technically, they're still within city walls (and the partially built ceiling above the amalgamation of strange things is there to prove it), but that doesn't stop a breeze from whisking through this place. It's dark out there… but the locals seem to like it that way. The claw-scratch moon hangs high above. "And… people do that? I mean, do they actually follow the rules of leaving things behind? … You wouldn't find that type of self-restraint among my kin; we wandering traders stock and sell whatever we can find."

Hazel huffs. "It's art. And if you take anything without leaving a drop-off, I'm turning you in."

"Well, we can't have that."

Right. So… Mish-Mash, then. Well. Mumbo asks his earlier private question, but leaves out the 'dump' bit this time: "Well, is this a building? I'm not seeing a door… And why do I smell pork?"

"It's a sparring ring," she says, making a bowl shape with her hands. "The seats go all the way around. They start up high, but the sparring ring is in the middle, down low."

… That might be a problem. Endermites can cling to blocks, scaling with little effort, and enderman can poof past walls without needing doors anyway. No stairs in sight, though. "So it's an amphitheater, then."

Hazel looks at him. "I'm 8."

Well, the semantics aren't important. Mumbo smiles anyway, shaking his head. Whatever it is, Hazel gets him in. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she teleports them both up to the upper seats, tucked as far in the back as she could get them. Vision blurs, the sky dips, stomachs squeeze… Now, how do endermen go from standing before they teleport to landing in a crouch? Do they still comprehend whatever twisted position their bodies take in that in-between space, even as the world ripples like smoke? That's a question for the ages.

Hazel sits up on her knees while Mumbo clutches his head, wincing through the ringing in his ears. She peeps above the awkward chairs for a few seconds, then ducks her head like a startled duck. Did I say 'duck' twice? Ah, it doesn't matter; you get the point. "The skunk's cooking."

"The skunk is cooking?" Mumbo sits up too. Hiding has its limits; even up here, behind all the careful seats made from cobble walls and stairs, the spectral glow pulsing from his skin is sure to sell him out. His flesh gleams with lantern light. Yeah, you could shake him back and forth and stick him on a hook, too. Carrie might try. He did tear through the whole patrol. Mumbo creeps his eyes above the lip of the nearest stair block chair. Hazel does the same. "Oh," he blurts. "Now, how about that? The skunk is cooking!"

Let's set the stage...

[Full chapter on AO3 - Link at top]

[citrusexcalibur]

Widower in the Window

Have I ever told you the story of when I first saw a widower?

I don't know what compelled me, but when it struck midnight in my village and I had been tossing and turning for the past hour, I decided that I needed fresh air. My lungs didn't do well in stuffy rooms and if I breathed too hard, my chest would feel unbearably heavy; so I always had to keep it at a steady pace. As if I was constantly submerged underwater, reserving oxygen.

In Out . . . In Out . . .

Pushing myself out of bed and grabbing the nearest jacket on my coat rack, I buttoned it up and glanced out the window from my bedroom. With the illuminating night sky, casting blue and white rays on my neighbour's homes, and the pitch-perfect silence that seemed to break the speed of sound, it wasn't very far off from how it felt.

As I stepped out my front door, a chill crawled up my spine, but I didn't flinch, rather, I held my hands together and hurried along. It was easier to get used to the cold this way.

My slippers slapped behind me with every step I took, and as I passed all the houses and huts on my road, I reminisced on all the good times I had with my wife in this village. Each spot in the neighbourhood had a memory attached to it, and as I walked past each one, it was like flipping through a photo album.

The alleyway where she would feed the stray cats every morning before work, and the small cafe where we had warm tea on our days off.

She refused to cut her silky raven hair that flowed off her back and shoulders. Every time I'd even mention tying it for her, she would whine and ramble on about how she took such pride in combing it every day. So when she went for a sip, she'd always have to tuck it behind her ear. How I admired that about her.

"Good days," I mumbled to myself as I looked up at the clear skies and countless shimmering stars while I walked to a special place.

Beyond the village boundaries, following a wagon dirt strip, I find a flat unkept plot of land, overgrown with ivy and tall grass. We used to come out here occasionally to watch the wild animals who came to eat from the pastures. But tonight I didn't find a resident of the forest, but the red baron himself.

Like a fighter plane, it swooped down from above. The crimson stripes on its lower neck feathers were so potent that it was like watching a flaming meteor pass the earth, but in the blink of an eye, it was gone. In a swift turn and a gust of wind, the bird blended in so seamlessly with the shadows, like a raven or a crow, but it was far to small to be either of those. And that distinct glossy tailcoat he had, it was undeniable. It was a long-tail widow bird.

Once it finished its fluttering dance and skillful tricks, the pilot fell back down on the fencing around the vacant plot, and as it rested, I watched peacefully.

Although it was my first time seeing a widower in person, I had long dreamed of going bird-watching with my wife, and seeing such magnificence in person eased the unrest in my heart.

"Chirp Cheep . . . Chirp Cheep . . ." sang the wider bird into the voiceless night sky; but not a sound came back to it.

"Chirp Cheep . . . Chirp Cheep . . ." again went the lone bird, but still to no avail.

Our shadows began to loom over us and then for a while longer. All while the little widower sang and rang its call throughout the fields and beyond. I just stood there, feeling colder by the second.

"She's not coming back. . . " I blankly interrupted the little bird's chimes, while I stood a few feet away from him. It frantically turned its head in my direction.

"Chirp Cheep . . . Cheep Chirp!" he demanded with flapping wings in my direction, like sending me a gutsy threat. The man was a stubborn fool.

"Keep it up all you want, you just wasting your breath, lonely bastard." I talked back to it with a sneer and scowled brows.

"Chirp Chirp!!" squeaked the widower a bit louder this time as it kept tweeting into the skies desperate like it could actually understand what I was saying.

Chirp Cheep!

again. . .

"Chirp Cheep!"

I dare you. . .

"Chirp Cheep!"

Louder-

"Chirp Cheep!"

Till your throat goes dry-

"Chirp Cheep!"

Until you can barely breathe-

"Chirp Cheep!"

And your neighbours get worried-

"Chirp Cheep!"

Call you crazy-

"Chirp Cheep!"

Dead beat-

"Chirp Cheep!"

But all you really want-

"Chirp CHEEP!"

Is to see her again . . .

"CHIRP CHEEP!"

. . .

Again their is not a word, or noise in the air and just like before, he flies off to the moon with the rest of the stars.

All of a sudden, I feel a weight in my chest so I walk back home to take my medicine.

I kept my head down, and my breathing at a minimum. My hands stayed in my jacket pocket, till I swiftly swung my front door open and quickly shuffled into the bedroom where a jar of pills sat at my bedside table. Reaching for it, I screwed off the top and shook a couple of them into the crevis of my palm, ready to take them.

I didn't count the amount, but I didn't need to at the end of it all. Soon I'd be flying away like the widow bird into the crimson moon, who missed their loved one till death did they part.

. . .

. . . .

"Chirp. . . Cheep . . ." faintly came from the outside.

The lonely spouse in his glossy black funeral clothes, stood outside my bedroom window.

A widower on either side of the glass.

In. . . out. . .

He made me put down the pills and I went back to bed.

That dam widower in the window.

[wildroseofarran]

Birthday Boy, Part II || Rose Rune || December 21, 2023

Rune: The request had been audacious. He wasn't thinking. The request was visceral, riding the wave of sensation and baser needs. He was in pain, and in that moment, all he had wanted was to see Kelly without.

To witness one of his creations in a positive light. To know he had done something.

But nothing so articulate, nothing verbal.

He forced himself from the bed and returned his trousers. He wiped his eyes and crumpled the tissue for his pocket. He would eat in silence, but not alone. A minute to himself, and he was leaning his shoulder against Kelly's.

Kelly: No, not alone. Regardless of how Kelly was feeling, what he’d been asked for wasn’t enough to make him turn away from Rune or ignore him. Kelly had his flaws but pettiness wasn’t one of them.

He wouldn’t shy away from contact, wouldn’t make his mood Rune’s problem, wouldn’t stop caring. Sure it wasn’t exactly the atmosphere he’d been anticipating for a birthday dinner but what could you do?

Kelly finished his sandwich and fries and enjoyed both. He made sure Rune had that glass of water and had one himself, ignoring the unfinished beer on the table. Wouldn’t do him any good until later.

When their meal was finished and the time to stall was coming to an end, Kelly asked, “Are you claustrophobic?”

Rune: Every breath made him aware of his body. The pain reminded him of where he was. He kept track of Kelly's breathing, and eventually breathed in time with him.

He thought of 1912. 1924. 1982. The number was significant and there was nothing he could do about it. What did that mean, then, to have met Kelly in '23?

Another two.

Rune's shoulders tightened with a start, yanked from his thoughts.

"No. No."

Kelly: Kelly nodded and stood up to get more water, letting himself have a deep breath too while he was at it. He was…anxious.

For years and years after he’d left Maine, he’d managed to get through his transformations without anyone seeing and somehow, living here, he’d racked up three witnesses in barely any time at all and was about to have a fourth. A person had to wonder just what the hell went wrong.

Not that there were any answers to be had.

“Follow me.” Kelly grabbed his cane and led Rune out the back door and to the shed.

Such a commonplace thing to find in a yard, so easy to overlook, and yet this one seemed to loom over them as they approached it.

The wolf opened the reinforced double doors and gestured for Rune to enter. Although the outside looked ordinary and mass-produced enough, the interior was a different story.

It was almost completely empty save for some shelves and yet still managed to feel oppressive. Suffocating. Scuff marks and scratches of varying depths littered the padded floor in between smears of dried blood. The walls had been reinforced just like the door and soundproofed to within an inch of their lives. Bolted in the middle of the floor, a length of chain with an open lock on the end.

There was no light save for a camping lantern in a corner. No windows either; only two small vents to allow for some air flow.

It may have been called a shed, but what it really was, was a cell.

Rune: Rune watched Kelly’s pace throughout the kitchen while remaining rooted in his chair. The end piece of his sandwich was picked at. He hadn’t been hungry. The only time the sensation ever overwhelmed him was behind the Veil. The Umbra had ruined him, in a way. Starvation in the Penumbra altered one’s perspective on the word.

Shoes, before Kelly could scold him. No shirt, only his trench coat, buttoned as they walked to block the clawing wind.

He looked at the wooden fence. Was it any wonder Kelly had been so territorial. He needed brick. Something even more private.

Kelly didn’t seem like a picket fence man, anyways. He’d said as much the week he’d been allowed to stay. Had been a quiet and uneventful week. He realized as he slipped into the shed, how much he had missed the routine. Drinking tea in silence had been… tranquil.

Rune froze in the doorway. His childhood bedroom had been bigger than this. Squeezing the collar of his coat, he stepped out of the way and took a breath. He knew the scent of blood, wasn’t afraid of the sight. It bothered him that it belonged to Kelly, and that he sat in it, just… existed with it.

Bet that Verbena would love that, he thought bitterly.

He dug his fingernails into the flesh between his thumb and index finger. Pinched harder and harder, threatening to break skin.

To the corner of the room, he leaned against the wall, and slid to the floor.

“Cozy.”

Kelly: He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t have even if he wanted to.

Kelly felt raw and exposed by having the shed be seen, by having someone know what it looked like on the inside. Nobody was supposed to see it or see him and even though a few already had, it hadn’t been his choice. Not that having a choice and choosing to allow it was any better.

Kelly would’ve given anything for Rune never to have made that bracelet, so that a reason to see what he was about to see wouldn’t exist.

The doors were closed and the two deadbolts that had been attached to them were slid into place and secured with a lock each, plunging the shed into complete darkness. Unfazed, Kelly crossed to the corner that held the lantern and turned it on for Rune’s benefit, but on the dimmest setting for his own.

Normally this was the point where the chain would be locked around his ankle, but Kelly didn’t think it would be required this time. This was a short transformation, not an all-nighter.

Finally, with his back to Rune, Kelly knelt in middle of the floor, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

A sharp, loud crack of reforming bone cut through the heavy silence, the first of many, bringing Kelly to his elbows with a gasp. The bracelet may have taken away the pain, but it didn’t make the transformation easier. Any ease had been taken away when he’d been altered and made what used to be a natural process brutal and exhausting.

Rune: Rune kept solidly in place. The darkness didn't unnerve him, but the deadbolts had stilled him. Only now did he realize the potential consequences. In his long years, he'd heard stories of mauling. Bodies found in pieces scattered throughout rooms and fields. They were either riddling annoyances in the shadows behind unfathomed plots, seen as passing figures in the Umbral Wilds, or feral animals existing on instinct and hatred.

Kelly was so much more than that. He would have warned of aggression. Would have told him no in his flat, raspy tone. Sunk his teeth into his flesh for the very idea.

The mage leaned forward at the first wet osseous sound. Shifting from his ass to squat on his hunches. To flee? To aid? He just wanted to be ready to move, for whatever reason.

Kelly: Rune was right in thinking that Kelly would’ve refused if there was a potential for danger. If there was even a hint of risk, Kelly would’ve nipped all this in the bud despite any protests Rune might’ve had.

But this wasn’t that fateful night in the alley behind Pete’s pub. The bolts had been secured merely as a precautionary measure because as much as Kelly had reinforced the shed, the vents prevented it from being completely soundproof. The potential for someone to hear something they shouldn’t was slim, but regardless, the last thing he needed was someone to come snooping around.

Luna knew there was plenty to snoop on.

Moment by moment the being in the center of the room became less human and more animal. The wet squelch of tearing flesh soon joined the chorus of sickening cracks as features changed and claws and fur emerged.

But what would soon be before Rune was no majestic wolf. It bore the true extent of the damage Kelly had endured in a way he never showed in human form. The chaos of burn scars lived side by side with the straight precision of surgical scars. What fur there was amidst the ruin of ugly, puckered flesh was patchy and rough, almost giving the appearance of mange. His back leg, though not in any pain, hung uselessly, atrophied and as mangled as the rest of him.

This was what Rune had wanted to see, thrown into brutal relief by the dim light of a camping lantern.

Rune: Rune stared wide-eyed at the ghastly transformation. No shredded clothes or sloughed skin, but he couldn’t look away, not even for relief. It wasn’t the gruesome sight of devastation that had him swallowing back the contents of his stomach, but that this damage had once been accompanied by unmitigated agony. That scream from within the sepia world. The reason, he believed, for being there in the first place. Blindly searching for the source.

It had just been one more mission. He had prayed to Saint Anthony to find the soul. If found suffering, prayed for the strength to put the creature out of his misery.

Are you miserable?

Thickening the Gauntlet hadn’t been his purpose. He knew that now. His purpose was in front of him. Had the bracelet been enough, or just a balm on an infected wound?

Tears welled and blurred his vision. Blinking broke the dam, and were wiped thoughtlessly with his wrist. Others followed unnoticed.

He fell to his knees, held out his hand. There was nowhere else he wanted to be.

“Kelly.” His voice wet and broken.

Kelly: The wolf kept his eyes trained on the wall behind Rune. He didn't want to look at the mage. He didn't want to see the pity, or at least what he perceived to be pity. There was a reason he'd never allowed himself to be seen in this state of his own free will, and Rune's reaction proved to him that he'd been right to prevent it up until now.

His body bore his greatest shame. His regret, his grief. Things that were his to feel and for no one else to look at. Not even Leslie, his friend that he loved, had ever been witness to this, nor would he. Leslie was a good man and didn't deserve to have to look at Kelly in this prison of his own making.

But even as he cursed himself for agreeing to transform, Kelly knew there had been a reason. One he refused to acknowledge perhaps, but still a reason.

Rune: He refused to drop his hand. Held out in invitation, however to be accepted. He breathed wet through his nose and sighed from his mouth.

He was ugly. He was beautiful. The bracelet had served its purpose, but he wondered what hell Kelly had endured without it, and for how long. The answer was there on his skin. Only now was he truly curious.

Seconds without regard, and his hand slowly dropped. But so too did his other. Crawling forward on hands and knees to meet him halfway.

Kelly: Hell wasn't a one-time experience. Getting to this state had been hell, but so was every transformation in the years since. Truthfully, it was impossible to say when exactly the screams Rune had heard had come from. There were simply too many of them, spread out over a very long time.

This shed hadn't been soundproofed for nothing.

Kelly resisted the urge to step back as Rune approached. There was no point in doing it, anyway. For one, he knew there was nothing he could do to stop Rune. For two, the space was limited and moving away would only mean backing himself into a corner.

So he would let Rune come closer, but if the mage attempted to touch him, he'd get a soft growl of warning.

Rune: The growling he would receieve gave him momentary pause. His cheeks shined in the near darkness, eyes pink rather than white, but wide and cautious. Cautious of what, one could hazard a guess, because retreat was unfathomable.

Not the body. Not with his fingertips. He leaned forward, a nuzzle for a nuzzle, perhaps. It was reckless. Downright stupid, but lingered inches from Kelly's nose, sniffling.

Kelly: Kelly would've sighed if he'd been able. He knew deep down in his soul that growling was just as useless as backing away. All he could do was give warnings but what could he do if Rune ignored them? Nothing. He had no intention to hurt Rune and nowhere to go. He was powerless.

And that was the benefit of being fully in control of himself; he could offer a degree of safety. Rune had the nerve to get this close to a wolf's face and there was no threat to him, no danger. There would be no consequences for his recklessness, which Kelly had half a mind to lecture him about when he could speak again.

You really have no sense of self-preservation.

He wouldn't nuzzle, but if Rune wanted so badly to touch his face to Kelly's, the wolf wouldn't stop him.

Rune: Kelly could believe whatever he wanted. He wouldn't change his mind with telepathy or argument, but Kelly was the only wolf he knew this intimately. He would be sooner dead than locked in a box with someone else's beast.

It was confidence and trust that had him so close, and something he refused to acknowledge. Those elements that had him resting his forehead on Kelly's cheek and breathing evenly.

Kelly: Kelly stood still as a statue. The only time he’d felt safe being touched in this form was, ironically enough, the night he’d changed against his will behind Pete’s pub. Details of that night were hazy, but he did remember being comforted by Pete in a field of blue flowers that had dulled his pain.

He’d never felt brave enough to ask where that field was. Maybe someday he would.

It was just Rune’s luck that Kelly’s face happened to be one of the few parts of his body where his fur still felt soft. The non-scarred half of it, of course.

Little comfort, but at least Rune didn’t have to feel rough fur against his head.

Rune: He could berate himself later. Would probably forget. It was too much too fast. His care was unfounded and strong. Foolish and foolhardy. But there he remained, existing. Wondering why Kelly allowed this to linger.

His hand came up slowly, fingertips beginning to bury in the wolf's chest.

Maybe he would be punished.

Kelly: Rune was given a half-hearted growl that barely sounded like a growl. It was more like the tired, defeated grumble he often heard his great grandfather make when something displeased him.

Not a punishment, not even really a warning, just…an expression of disapproval at being touched more than he already was.

As for the lingering, as soon as Kelly caught his breath, he was changing back. Transforming was a tiring process even if it wasn’t painful.

Rune: Nothing. His fingers curled in the fur, combed downward and returned just a little bit higher. Again, and up, closer to his neck.

Only at the first snap of Kelly's spine did he retreat against the wall.

Kelly: It was just as well that Kelly decided to change back when he did. He’d already allowed as much as he felt mentally able to safely allow.

There was a world of difference between how he saw physical contact in human form and wolf form, the simplest and most significant one being that touch was something he only accepted in human form. What he’d just let Rune do…was something he hadn’t let anyone do in ten years.

And he was painfully aware of it as his body reversed course and the man replaced the wolf again.

The process was much the same and again, painless. Kelly’s clothes remained intact, though plastered to his body with sweat, and his chest heaved as his damaged lungs struggled to take complete breaths.

Rune: Rune remained in place, knees hugged to his chest, mouth resting against his knees. Fear of being reprimanded didn't exist. Apprehension of being ignored entirely, simmered.

He didn't dare move. Only watched in fascination as the wolf became man. Clothes like an uncomfortable second skin. He wanted to peel them away. Put his lips to bare skin and -

Remembering the growls stilled his tongue in his mouth.

Kelly: Even when there was pain, this was the worst part of his bi-monthly transformations. The exhaustion, the weakness in his limbs, the struggle to get his breathing under control.

The air in the shed was too close, too hot, too much and yet not enough at all.

Kelly managed to lift an arm to gesture at the two little keys hanging on individual pegs by the door.

“Open,” he wheezed. “Please.”

Rune: The keys were yanked from the pegs and the door opened. The offering of his hand was instinct.

His fingers felt like ice. The first breath of frigid wind gave a visible shiver.

Kelly: The cold wind on his sweaty, clammy skin had him shivering immediately but it was a welcome relief regardless. He finally felt like he was actually getting some air with each breath.

“Thank you.” Kelly closed his eyes and rested his head on the floor. He registered his hand in Rune’s and didn’t mind it or yank it away.

Rune: "Inside," he croaked, swallowed. They couldn't stay out in this for very long. Not without magic. His first concern was Kelly.

He knelt close to his shoulder.

"Put your arm around me."

Kelly: Kelly shook his head. He was too winded and unwilling to move at the moment. “You go on. I’m from Maine, nothing’s gonna happen to me.”

Rather than put his arm around Rune, he patted his shoulder. “Cold isn’t gonna hurt me.”

Rune: Then Rune would take a seat. He wouldn't be beat by some wolf from Maine. Just because Kelly did this often didn't mean he would abandon him.

Kelly: So damn stubborn. Where did a person get off being so stubborn? Did the mage think Kelly was going to up and disappear from his own house if he lost sight of him for a few minutes?

These were the things Kelly pondered as his breathing slowly returned to normal and his body temperature evened out. He was feeling…a lot of things, none of which were important just now.

He had no delusions that he’d be able to avoid being asked about them, but he could comfort himself with ignoring them for just a little longer.

Eventually, he’d retrieve his cane and get to his feet. The door to the shed would be closed and they could finally go inside.

Rune: His knees had raised to his chest at some point, staring at and through his host as he contemplated life and the categories of man. Recessing to sour cherry memories of other maimed mortals he had met along his journey. How each person coped was unique to their experience.

The man that had lost his eye to a rejected lover enchanting the useless thing in his skull for prophecies. The woman with patterns on her shoulders like scales on a fish. Without desire or consent. The man with a Glasgow smile.

His vision resharpened when Kelly stood. He kept his silence as he followed inside.

Kelly: “Gonna shower,” Kelly said as they entered the kitchen. He was already hungry again, which was one of the reasons he’d insisted on finishing dinner before they’d gone out to the shed. Changing took a lot of energy and he’d learned his lesson about not eating first the hard way.

“Give me five minutes.”

Rune: Only a raise of his chin in acknowledgement. Rune lingered in the kitchen as Kelly excused himself. At the sound of running water, he began tidying up.

Something. He needed to do something with his hands before he dug his nails into his skin.

Tea. He could make tea. What else? He wasn't hungry, but... tidying didn't mean putting food away. He should leave it out. Yeah, he would do that.

He knew this kitchen well enough, and knew Kelly's tea by heart. Down to his preferred mug.

Kelly: Even though Kelly didn’t need the full five minutes to get clean, he took them.

He needed a breather, needed a moment to let himself feel what he was feeling and be alone and try to ground himself again. There was no use in wishing that he hadn’t agreed to Rune’s request; what was done was done.

But maybe, just for a second under the shower spray, it was all right to feel that, too.

When Kelly returned to the kitchen dressed once again in sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, he felt a whole lot calmer. After going straight for the Vicodin and downing a couple, he set about making some ramen.

Rune: Rune remained cross-legged on the kitchen counter, nursing his cup of tea. Usual tea, usual cup. His eyes remained to himself.

Kelly: For once, Kelly didn’t let the silence linger. He’d made his mind up when he was getting dressed.

They’d come this far already. Might as well go whole hog.

“Go ahead,” he said as he emptied the seasoning packet into the pot. “Ask what you wanna ask. It’s all right.”

Rune: The exorcist shook his head. Another sip from his mug to keep his silence.

Kelly: “What’s wrong, Rune from Amsterdam?”

Rune: His eyes closed, as if that name were a kiss on his neck.

His question came slowly, from a quiet voice.

"Do you want to die?"

Kelly: “My dealer asked me that the day I met him,” he mused. His tone was very light for such a heavy question. He sounded like Rune had asked what his favorite movie was.

“I’ll tell you what I told him. If I wanted to die, I would’ve taken care of it years ago.”

Rune: "Some people are afraid of that last step. Need a little push. I've pushed a lot of people."

Elbow on his knee, his face hidden by his hand, fingers in his hair. A block, keeping Kelly out of sight.

"Godzijdank."

Kelly: “Is that why you cried when you saw me? You were afraid you’d have to be the one to give me that last push?”

Rune: Again, silence. He couldn't look at the wolf, lest he be seen himself. He looked as much opposite as he could, and sipped his drink.

Kelly: Kelly added the noodles and turned to Rune while they cooked.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said gently. “I don’t need a push because I don’t intend to die any time soon. I wouldn’t need a push even if I did. I was ready to go with all of my reapers and I’ll be ready to go with the one who comes to get me when it’s finally my time to go.”

Rune: "No," he said firmly. "No, you would. Because without it... without it, you -" Eyes closed again. He forced a meaningless smile.

"Doesn't matter. Good for you."

Kelly: “It does. You wouldn’t be this upset if it didn’t matter.” Kelly sighed. “You’re worried I’m going to turn into that man in the Wastes, aren’t you?”

Rune: He shook his head, but still, the wall was so interesting. His eyes had yet to clear. What should be white was pink. He was an ugly crier.

"No."

Kelly: Kelly reached behind him to turn off the stove and a went over to Rune, bracing his hands on either side of him like he had earlier.

“Then what are you afraid of, hm? Your bracelet works. I change without any pain. I’m not looking to off myself or hang on when I get to the end of the line.”

Rune: His nearness caught him off guard. Shoulders coiled in tight, and his eyes fell between them. He seemed to be bracing for something that would not come.

And with those words, his shoulders sagged. He offered the only thing he could when words failed, his lips.

Kelly: The reaction was impossible to miss but Kelly could venture a guess as to the source.

His intention wasn’t to hurt Rune, of course. Not even to touch him if he didn’t want to be touched. Kelly sought only to offer reassurance and perhaps a bit of comfort with his presence.

Or with a kiss, as the case may be.

A kiss he wouldn’t take control of or push further since it had been offered in lieu of conversation.

Rune: His apprehension spurred from a realization less distressing than the idea putting a silver bullet in Kelly's temple. Less than hearing bloodcurdling screams in the Wasteland, and less humbling than the tinge of guilt he harbored for admiring Kelly's scars.

It was his own ruin that kept his silence. He was perceived. Neither man appreciated the eyes, and neither man said a word about it. They had shared mind, body, time, and history. Might as well have given Kelly a knife to press against his throat. He was too fucking gentle.

His body was sore, and still, Kelly was too soft, too much. This wasn't the same man he had met on the soggy lawn.

He was ruined. He didn't deserve to love anyone. Not romantically, platonically, or lustfully.

"Shut up." He held the wolf by his neck, his kisses became desperate. "Hou je mond."

Kelly: If Kelly were to be asked which  of the two men standing in the kitchen was the ruined one, he sure as shit wouldn’t say Rune. But it all came down to perspective, didn’t it? Always did. What you saw and understood wasn’t what others saw and understood and vice versa.

Rune’s ruin was only ruin to him. Kelly didn’t see it. He just saw someone who had had a lot of life happen to them and didn’t feel like talking about it too deeply.

And since Kelly wasn’t one to talk too much or too deeply either, he’d indulge the mage and just kiss him. As hard as he wanted and as long as he wanted, until Rune either pushed him away or one of them had to breathe.

Rune: Fear of drowning gave Rune powerful lungs, but with the burden of emotions on his chest, and the ache Kelly caused in the same spot, breathing became a conscious effort.

There on the counter, he sat, cradling Kelly's head in both hands, fingers buried in dark addictive hair. Breathing in the scent of an irresistible creature.

Get away from me. What have I done?

This man didn't belong to him. No one did. Not in any meaningful way, as a loving relationship should. This was make-believe.

What was the phrase? My own private Idaho.

But, this had been his purpose. Another silence in the Wasteland. Maybe. God, he prayed. His ear hadn't tingled. He had the bracelet. He wouldn't lose him to suicide. Not haunted by his own self-imposed Hell. He had never been so deep in the Shadowlands, but the rumors had to be true.

His breath came sharply to the realization that they were hugging. Realizing too late what he had done, he forced himself from the counter and sighed.

"I'm... going for a walk."

Kelly: Even though Kelly had no telepathic ability and Rune wasn't saying a word, he could feel the mage thinking. There was a weight to the air that had begun to settle when they'd had their meal and had only been growing heavier and heavier ever since. What reassurances he'd already given weren't enough to disperse it, if he was in fact the cause for it which he suspected he was. Partly, at least.

Maybe that's why it didn't surprise him when Rune made his sudden announcement. If he could feel what hovered in the air, a mage would feel it even more. He didn't blame Rune for wanting to clear his head.

Kelly nodded. "Want company?" he asked even though he could guess the answer.

Rune: Rune had no intention to say no, simply because he hadn't expected Kelly to offer in the first place. He stood where he'd dropped and stared. What was with this man exceeding and sidestepping every expectation?

If he was alone, there was a possibility he would run. To the Wayside Inn he'd never booked. He would abandon his clothes and the umbrella just to feign control.

But this moment was no different than Kelly carrying him in the rain.

"Your... Your hip...?"

Kelly: ...Or maybe he couldn't guess the answer. Apparently he wasn't the only one whose expectations were being sidestepped. Of course, that could've just been him projecting. When Kelly had a weight on his mind, the very last thing he wanted was company.

He shrugged. "Not a problem. S'what the cane is for." His hip could withstand hikes and camping trips; one walk wasn't going to kill him. Besides, his physical therapist was always nagging him to exercise and if they didn't, Henry would do it for them.

Rune: His body didn't feel his own. Not when he stared at the floor between them. Not when he muttered "Alright," and turned for the door, knowing Kelly would follow.

This... wasn't running. This wasn't an escape of his thoughts or feelings. The very source of his confusion and heartache was following him.

Rune felt in his coat pocket for a little oval tin. The lid was popped back on its hinge. A small blue pill dropped on his tongue.

Kelly: Maybe if Kelly knew the true extent of what Rune was feeling and just how much of it was actually because of him, he wouldn’t have asked if Rune wanted company. But, in his ignorance, all the wolf could do was defer to Rune and trust that he would’ve said no if he really didn’t want company.

Kelly grabbed a jacket from the hook by the door and his cane. He noticed the appearance of the pill, thought it might’ve looked familiar, then left it at that. Wasn’t any of his business.

As for the walk itself, he’d let Rune take the lead.

Rune: His coat was warm enough without a shirt. He could hardly feel the wind, but now the cold reminded him of the shed behind the house, and he wondered how long that would fucking last. Another aesthetic he had no say in. Another gut feeling that would linger long after his departure.

And he should, he thought. He didn't know what this was and he wasn't about to ask. It was beautiful, and that's all he had to go on. It made no sense. This man sighed at the very sight of him, and yet everything... every action was in opposition. More than once he had tallied Kelly's behavior. Following him, clothing him, warming him. God in Heaven, every blessed bite.

But, if he could just... not think. He had felt this way before. A woman in New York. A perfect creature. Another burn victim.

Why does everyone I love burn?

And where were they now? Rune had been walking without looking up. And at some point, had taken Kelly's hand.

Kelly: The shed would last as long as it lasted. When it fell to bits, another would take its place and the cycle would repeat until he could no longer stay in Edenton.

That sentiment, he supposed, also applied to the two of them. Or it would, if thinking about it longer than a few seconds didn’t cause an uncomfortable clench in his gut that he recognized all too well.

It was attachment. They’d known each other a month (technically) and had spent a grand total of about a week in each other’s company, but even someone as stubborn as Kelly could call a spade a spade. In the privacy of his mind, anyway.

Why else would letting Rune hold his hand be so easy? Facts were facts.

They’d made it almost to where the woods began all the way at the end of the main road that led into Kelly’s neighborhood. Their options were to keep on into the woods or turn back.

Rune: He was grateful for the silence. It was to be expected with Kelly, and the moments where he gave himself significant little gems. This evening had been a splash of crisp cool water to his skin, and no amount of dubious antagonism would negate the beauty and truth.

But they had reached the end of the manmade intrusions. He stood in their silence, squinting through his hair at the edge of the woods, and without realizing, squeezed Kelly's hand.

The way back was significantly slower. The little blue pill he had taken was finally kicking in. It did little to quiet the noise, but made him so fatigued he forgot to care.

Kelly: Kelly could’ve spent a good hour staring into the woods, and he probably would have if he hadn’t felt Rune squeeze his hand. That tiny little amount of pressure brought him out of his thoughts like a splash of water and because of it, he was far more present mentally on the walk back.

For the best it seemed, because it looked like whatever Rune had taken was making him drowsy.

That was fine. He could lean on Kelly all the way home and if need be, the wolf would wrap an around him to keep him upright. Carrying him wasn’t an option because of the cane but he could do that much. Thankfully they didn’t have far to go.

Rune: He realized, with that arm warm around is shoulders, what it was that disturbed his emotions. Realizing only made his ache nearly unbearable. These little things, these intentional actions were a familiar love language, one he spoke fluently. Whether it was genuine adoration and concern or a wolf's instinct, a part of him didn't want to know. If the former, he was doomed, or the latter, he was still doomed. A knife was a knife.

He was being ridiculous. This didn't mean anything. All of the Valium in his tin was for the trash.

"I'm... I need sleep."

Kelly: The gesture had been almost subconscious, and although Kelly would say it was no big deal, to say it had no meaning would be a lie. Of course it meant something. He wouldn’t have felt compelled to do it if he didn’t care.

He nodded. “You can crash when we get back. Need the rope again?”

Rune: "I'll disappear if I don't," he whispered.

Kelly: Kelly took his time before he answered. He weighed each word, considered it, asked himself if it was really what he wanted to say.

Then, just before the silence could stretch too long or become unbearable, he finally said, “Rope it is. Can’t have you disappearing.”

Rune: All he could manage was a smile, one that, he hoped in his exhaustion, reached his eyes.

But then, he had to ask, "Couch, or bed?"

Kelly: The smile on its own was enough. Kelly didn’t care too much about the particulars, he knew Rune was sleepy.

“Bed. It’s more comfortable.”

Rune: "Happy birthday," he sang.

Kelly: Kelly didn’t realize that he smiled, or just how soft it was. “Yep. Joyeux anniversaire, Felix.”

Rune: "Joyeux... anniversaire." French words from a Dutch accent. There he was smiling again, tighter around his cheeks this time.

"Will you teach me?"

Kelly: He couldn’t help but be amused at Rune’s pronunciation. The mage had probably felt the same when he’d had Kelly speak Dutch.

“French? Sure. Fair warning though. It makes no damn sense.”

Rune: "Ik ga hiervan genieten." His cheek pressed gently to Kelly's shoulder, exhaling his impending burnout.

Home, and not a minute too soon. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

Kelly: Kelly didn’t understand what Rune had said but he was going to take it as acceptance.

When they were back to the house and inside, he set his cane aside and guided Rune the rest of the way to the bedroom. “Go on and get into bed. I’ll go grab the rope.”

Rune: He didn't have to be told twice. What he was doing could barely be considered a walk. More a waddle, a stumble, and soon a belly flop onto the mattress, arms and legs spread. Every single bruise felt with his collapse. His pain was nothing more than a pleasurable moan.

Kelly: The shed stood just as ominously as ever, feeling utterly unaltered by Rune’s presence in it. The difference lay only with Kelly and how being inside it now made him feel.

Something to ponder later.

He was in and out in mere seconds, returning to Rune with the rope as quickly as he was able.

Rune: In his return, he would find the mage fast asleep spread eagle on his bed. A steady rise and fall, even breathing commanded by the Valium he had taken. His coat remained buttoned. He'd still had the sense to hang his dressed feet off the edge.

Kelly: Safe from Rune’s gaze, Kelly smiled at the sleeping mage on his bed. Out like a light.

He laid the rope beside Rune and set about removing Rune’s coat and shoes, careful not to jostle him too much and disturb his sleep. Whatever he’d taken probably made waking him hard but still, Kelly didn’t want to take any chances.

With comfort out of the way, he moved on to the practicalities. He secured one end of the rope around the bedpost nearest the mage and the other around Rune’s wrist, just like he’d seen the mage do every night that he’d been here a month ago.

Rune: Still on his stomach, the mage might as well have been a lifeless body. One might suspect if not for the subtle breathing. Even with drugs, the odds of him sleeping through the night were slim, but one could hope.

How rare it was to sleep without dreams. It was jarring, but this was the consequence of his actions.

The position Kelly left him committed him to prone. Whether the drugs wore off or being bitten by cold, in six hours' time, he was stirring, startled by his surroundings. He moved only his head, looking around as he tried to remember how he got here.

On instinct, he felt the other side of the bed.

Kelly: There wasn’t much that could be made out in the darkness of the room except for the smallest sliver of light peeking between the curtains. That and the sound of steady, somewhat labored breathing.

Rune’s inquiring hand would meet the immovable form of Kelly Rose sleeping beside him. The wolf was resting on his back with his face turned slightly to Rune and one arm stretched toward the mage as closely as it dared without touching him. He’d made sure Rune was completely covered by the blankets but had covered himself only to the waist.

Rune: For a time Rune just stared, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, determined to watch the rise and fall of his chest. His hand remained where it had fell against his ribs. So rarely did he ever wake this warm. The blanket was thoughtful, but his presence - he didn't know why it caught him off guard. He'd expected to wake alone, to the wolf sleeping on the couch. Some silly excuse some way or another. Not wanting to disturb his sleep. But, no.

Fingers slowly curled over the fabric of Kelly's shirt. He inched just a little closer. Until his nose touched the warmth of his shoulder.

Kelly: While cleaning the kitchen and putting away leftovers, Kelly had debated sleeping on the couch, not out of some sort of consideration for Rune’s sleep but rather his own mental comfort.

However, he’d ultimately come to the conclusion that sleeping on the couch was the coward’s way out and had joined Rune on the bed. Couldn’t overthink while he was asleep anyway.

Kelly’s sleep was neither heavy nor light but tired as he was, he didn’t stir when Rune moved closer to him. The mage could fully cuddle into him and still Kelly wouldn’t move beyond turning his head just a little more toward the mage as he sensed his nearness.

Rune: There was something stirring in his stomach when Kelly leaned an inch closer. A recognizable and fearful feeling. He knew he'd lost himself in this situation well before this moment, but knowing didn't lessen the tingles, the cartwheels, nor the dread.

Kelly had offered just enough slack on his tether. Enough to scoot one final inch, very carefully draping his arm around the wolf's torso. His cheek came to fully rest on his shoulder then. He stared out the blackening curtain and contemplated his life. Of every probability that would lead this to ruin.

He was an entropy mage. He couldn't help himself.

Not until the first sliver of light penetrated the small opening of the window did he finally close his eyes again.

Kelly: His body became aware of the warmth several minutes before he finally opened his eyes.

As sleep began to fade, Kelly slowly became aware of the slight weight against his shoulder and the scent surrounding him. Two bodies in the same bed would always gravitate toward each other during sleep, and theirs were no exception.

There was medication to take and breakfast to have, but no move was made to get up. The wolf felt relaxed and comfortable and was loath to disturb the sleeping man beside him. He didn’t have to work until later in the evening and he’d already slept longer than he’d meant to; there was no harm in letting himself doze for a while.

Rune: Kelly's first move to finally escape would be met with a gentle sigh, fingers curling into his shirt, nose slowly nuzzling his shoulder. Beyond this, he could move the exorcist as he saw fit. He was tethered, after all, and deep in his own demesne. He wasn't going anywhere.

Kelly: Although he wanted to stay in bed a little longer, and had intended to, there came a point where the ache in his hip grew too insistent to ignore.

He made that first move, waited for Rune to settle, then gently extricated himself from Rune’s hold and got up. Medication would follow a quick shower and a series of stretches, all done in the privacy of the bathroom in case Rune woke up.

Once clean and dressed, coffee was the next priority. He’d figure out breakfast once he had it in his system.

Rune: The bedroom remained quiet throughout his medication, his shower, and every other segment of his morning routine. When the scent of coffee spread throughout the little house, the box spring groaned, the floorboards shifted. Still, no Felix Rune.

Kelly: Kelly subconsciously cocked his head at the sound of movement from the bedroom. Looked like Rune was awake, and sooner than Kelly had expected.

“Want coffee?” he called, getting a second mug from the cabinet without waiting for an answer.

Rune: Only silence answered him, and another creak of the hardwood floors.

Kelly: More movement and no answer. He’d definitely called loudly enough to be heard in the bedroom.

If Rune was actually awake to hear him, of course.

Curious, the wolf went to go take a look.

Rune: His guest stood in the clothes he had fallen asleep in. Standing beside the bed, leaning forward, his wrist caught on the tether, supporting much of his weight.

Those dark eyes were open, but only just. Staring at the floor and nothing. Nothing that existed in this realm of reality.

Kelly: Sleepwalking. Should’ve figured.

This time was very different from the time Rune had sealed the portal in the tree. There was no rain, no cold, no threat of something crossing over the boundary, and no pressing reason to wake Rune.

The things Kelly had read all said to gently guide sleepwalkers back to bed, so that’s what he would do.

Rune: His body was cool to the touch. Not worse than usual, but the warmth he'd had left when Kelly did. He was light as a feather in this state, easily turned with a few gentle presses of fingertips. Back on his stomach. His free hand swept over Kelly's side of the bed. Looking for him, ignorant of who had put him back in the first place.

It wouldn't be for another hour before the bed creaked and groaned again. This time with wakeful noises; sighs, purposeful footsteps, and the drop of rope onto the floor.

Kelly: Something about that little searching gesture almost tempted Kelly back into bed. Almost.

He managed to get a hold of himself and quash the impulse, leaving Rune to hopefully get some more sleep.

An hour and a cup of coffee later, Kelly heard varied sounds of movement and made a second attempt at calling out.

“Want coffee?”

Rune: "Yes, please," he would hear from behind the door. A moment more and his guest appeared. His coat was gone. His blue seersucker shirt returned. A red wrinkled rim made a bracelet of his wrist, above his actual silver affair. His hair was an absolute mess.

"Good morning."

Kelly: After getting Rune back into bed Kelly had only made a single cup of coffee. Now that the mage was awake, he’d make three; another for himself and two for Rune in case he wanted more than one.

He looked up from measuring grounds as Rune walked into the kitchen. “Morning. How’d you’d sleep?”

Rune: He looked to the indent on his wrist and shrugged. He considered, stared at the ground, then Kelly.

"I got up, didn't I?"

Kelly: The wolf nodded. “Couple of times. First one didn’t stick though.”

Rune: "A couple?"

Kelly: “You were sleepwalking a while ago. I heard you and thought you were awake.”

Rune: "You said a couple." He scoffed, smirked. "Does this one count?"

Kelly: “Yep. This one is the one that stuck.”

Rune: "You're ridiculous."

Kelly: That made the wolf smile. “Want breakfast?”

Rune: "What are you making?"

Kelly: “I’ve got eggs and bread.”

Rune: "Where can I help?"

Kelly: “You can be in charge of making toast. How do you like your eggs?”

Rune: "Boiled," he laughed. "However you make them is fine." He was looking for a pan before remembering toasters were now a thing.

Kelly: “Hard or soft boiled?” he asked, already getting a pan to fill with water.

Toasters were indeed a thing, and Kelly’s was on the counter beside the coffee maker.

Rune: "Americans don't eat boiled eggs."

Kelly: Kelly snorted. “Who told you that?”

Rune: "I've been here since 1927 I haven't seen a single boiled egg."

Kelly: “You’ve been here since 1927 and haven’t had a single deviled egg? Or any egg salad?”

Rune: "What's a deviled egg?"

Kelly: “Hard boiled eggs but better. There’s stuff mixed in with the yolks.”

Rune: "You can make them?"

Kelly: “In theory, after a trip to the grocery store and a text to Leslie.”

Rune: That made him smirk. "Should pay him a visit."

Kelly: “He’s probably busy filling orders or doing Christmas stuff with his family.” But a visit would be paid eventually. He hadn’t made that cutting board for his own good health.

…Although…

“What are you doing for Christmas?” he asked.

Rune: "I thought he was a dance naked under the pale moonlight kinda guy."

Rune looked up from staring into the depths of the toaster. He had yet to add the bread, seeing as the eggs would need a minute.

He hadn't planned anything outside of visiting a friend.

"Nothing."

Kelly: Did he really want to ask what he was about to ask? Was there any point in asking himself a question he already knew the answer to?

Denying it, like sleeping on the couch, was the coward’s way out.

“…Want to spend it here? With me?”

Rune: There he was staring, feeling quite complex and disheveled by his host.

He took a breath, but his gaze remained fixed.

"Ok."

Kelly: Okay. Okay? Yes.

Kelly nodded. “Okay.”

He let the coffee maker do its thing, let the water do its thing, and went to grab eggs and butter from the fridge.

Rune: He wouldn't dare ask why. The why he didn't want to know. The why would ruin everything.

But he did find himself behind the wolf, his arms around his middle, his cheek resting on his shoulder blade.

Kelly: The why didn’t matter as much as the fact that the question had been asked. For a man like Kelly, wanting Rune to stay and actually saying those words aloud meant everything, regardless of whether either of them was prepared to accept it or not.

And with Rune at his back unable to see his expression, Kelly was free to smile to himself and hide in his denial for a little while longer.

“How many eggs do you want?” he asked softly.

Rune: He couldn't explain his affections any more than anything else in Kelly's presence. Eloquence didn't exist under this roof. Aloof infatuation ran amok in the rafters.

Could he love more than one person? For more than one reason? Did he have room in his heart to care for anyone, have the right to care for anyone, after everything he had lived through?

He didn't have to ask if Kelly minded; it had been his idea. He just had to stand there and accept it.

But then, maybe the wolf just wanted company.

"Two. How much toast do you want?"

Kelly: “Two,” the wolf echoed back. He couldn’t be certain, but he had the distinct sensation that Rune’s mind was working a mile a minute again.

With no idea what to say to quiet the chaos, he simply placed one of his hands on one of the arms wrapped around him and caressed it with his thumb. Very lightly and briefly.

“Coffee’s almost done.”

Rune: That was a well-placed response. Kelly would be able to feel the mage breathe in, breathe out.

"Coffeeeee." He kissed the back of his neck and released. Fingertips lingering a second longer over Kelly's ribs.

"What are you doing today?"

Kelly: Well that seemed to have done the trick. He’d even gotten a deep breath out of it. Good.

“I have to work in the evening and I should probably go to the store at some point. No plans otherwise.”

Rune: "What do you need from the store?"

Kelly: “Pretty much everything. I’ve been putting off going for too long.”

Rune: "Put pretty much everything on a piece of paper."

Kelly: “You want to go grocery shopping for me?”

Rune: "I want something to do." Yes, he wanted to do something for him. More than make his tea perfectly.

Kelly: Kelly nodded, deeming the answer acceptable. Not that he was inclined to protest too much at the offer; he was all for avoiding a trip to the store, which was bound to be slammed since Christmas was a couple days away.

“You got it. I’ll make you a list.”

Rune: Bread was finally put in the toaster once the eggs were transferred to a cool bath. Butter on the table, but what else? He was on the hunt for fresh fruit or preserves.

"Is the kitchen always this empty?"

Kelly: With Rune’s eggs done, Kelly got out a pan to fry his.

“Not quite this empty, no. I just really hate grocery shopping so I put it off until I get to this point.”

Rune: "The walking?"

Kelly: “It’s boring. And the music in the store is always way too damn loud.”

Rune: "They make things you can put in your ears now. They call them headphones."

Kelly: “I don’t like headphones. They make my head hurt.”

Rune: "Alright, Goldilocks. That's what I'm for."

Kelly: Kelly snorted. “Goldilocks, my ass. Just for that I’m adding extra shit on the list.”

Rune: "You haven't even told me the first shit. Should have kept your mouth shut."

Kelly: “I’m making it in my head. Want it texted or written down?”

Rune: "I'm an old man. I want words on paper."

Kelly: “Written down it is.”

Kelly got a notepad and a pen from a drawer and put them on the table. He’d start working on it while they ate.

Rune: Rune covered his toast in butter and a thin spread of jam. Presented to Kelly as an offer to do the same for him.

Kelly: “No jam for me, just butter.”

Rune: The toast was quietly doctored. His own neatly folded and shoved in his mouth in its entirety. Just as quietly, he looked over the table at the growing grocery list.

This was... nice.

Kelly: In between bites, Kelly would alternate between adding to the list and looking up to squint at the fridge or the pantry, as if taking mental stock of what was supposed to be inside.

The domesticity of the scene wasn’t lost on him, but if it wasn’t causing mental chaos for Rune, then Kelly wasn’t about to draw attention to it.

The completed list was slid over to Rune. “Feel free to add whatever you wanna eat.”

Rune: "Mhm." It was his money, after all. Maybe this town would have a proper array of pickled foods. More than just cucumbers. Maybe little fish in a can. A tolerable substitute for what he was accustomed to.

Without another word, he dusted the crumbs from his hands and set off to the bathroom to freshen up.

Kelly: Kelly couldn’t speak to the selection of pickled food that Edenton had to offer, but he had absolutely no intention of allowing Rune to pay for anything. They were Kelly’s groceries, so Kelly would be paying.

By the time Rune returned, cleanup would be well underway and there would be money on top of the grocery list.

Rune: Rune was smart enough not to push the money aside. Refusal required a little more elegance than a tedious argument. It along with the grocery list was stuffed in his coat pocket.

How long since he'd bothered with groceries himself? Food required there and then in Willemstad; a nun usually supplied all of Hillkate's requests.

They really were going the extra mile for each other.

"Prima. I'm off."

Kelly: Very smart indeed. An argument would’ve just pitted him against Kelly’s stubbornness.

“Have fun listening to loud Christmas music,” said Kelly, looking enormously pleased that he himself would not be doing that and would be staying in the quiet. “Get yourself a treat.”

Rune: Kelly was given such a look. That sounded like something one would say to a child.

"Mm, banketstaaf and chocoladehagelslag on aisle three." Without another word or goodbye, he shut the door behind himself.

Kelly: It wasn’t until Rune had given him that look and turned to leave that Kelly had realized what he’d said.

He turned back to the dishes with great unease. He hadn’t intended to say it; it had just slipped out, which was somehow worse. The only person he ever said that to was Betsy so for him to say it to Rune without even thinking meant…

He didn’t know what it meant, but it meant something. Just like asking Rune to stay meant something.

Kelly shook his head as he dried his hands. He was so fucked.

Rune: Rune walked in thoughtful silence. The day was blissfully partially cloudy, and the traffic sparse. The grocery store was small and local, the people chatty, and the music as loud as Kelly warned. Nothing about this was terrible. Quieter than he was accustomed in New York, Tokyo, Amsterdam, and London. That slice of town life.

Unfortunately, town life meant long stares from elderly people across the store, caught off guard by a fresh face. No matter, he roamed from aisle to aisle, window shopping more than gathering, debating on ringing the Verbena just to hear from another mage. Perhaps he knew a recipe he could use. Something to surprise Kelly...

... What the hell was he thinking?

The 'foreign' section of the store was laughable. Mostly Mexican and Asian - Asian as a whole? - and two shelves dedicated to Germany. Sausages, sauerkraut, and a packet for matzo balls.

"Of course," he sighed. But there was one item, just one, that taught his attention and brightened his expression.

He bought two.

All groceries paid for in cash. His cash. And then a stroll across the street to the liquor store for whiskey. No, bourbon. There was a difference, just like there was a difference between genever and gin, and no one in America seemed to know it.

Kelly: Perhaps it was because he was feeling unsettled, but Kelly did not stop moving from the moment Rune walked out the door.

After he finished with the kitchen, he scrounged up some laundry and changed his sheets. Once that was going, he prepared for the coming groceries by going through the fridge and the pantry and seeing what needed to be tossed or consolidated. It took less time than he would've liked--because the fridge and pantry were all but empty--so he decided to clean the bathroom.

He'd never been annoyed at himself for being a neat freak but there was a first time for everything. Absolutely nothing was providing adequate distraction because everything was too damn clean.

Sighing, he took out his phone.

{Text to Leslie} I want to ask you for something but you're not allowed to ask me why

Leslie: The Verbena was in the middle of a pile of dishes from breakfast when his phone vibrated. This was exactly why he kept it in his back pocket. His music was far too loud so the girls could enjoy from upstairs while they started their studies for the day.

He dried his hands and checked.

{Text} I can pretend to promise.

Kelly: Kelly shook his head. That was about the response he expected. Still, hope was the last to die.

{Text} I need a deviled egg recipe

Leslie: {Text} See now you've made deviled eggs a big deal. Could have just asked for deviled eggs.

{Text} Sending you a photo of the recipe

Kelly: He wouldn't say that deviled eggs weren't a big deal. Not because he didn't want to lie, but because he'd already painted himself into a corner. Only way to get out of that corner was to pretend there was no paint on the floor at all.

Or in this case, to refuse to acknowledge the first text.

{Text} Thanks

Rune/Leslie: Leslie knew a pain-free way around this. First, he took a photo of the recipe from his book. And then another text.

{Text to Rune} Hey I didn't know you were back in town!

Minutes later, a foot tapped on Kelly's front door.

Kelly: Kelly shoved his phone back into his pocket, shaking himself off mentally as he went to get the door. Whatever it was that he was feeling, he was better off putting it out of his mind so it wouldn't get picked up on.

"That was quick," he said as he opened the door.

Rune: Kelly thought he had been quick; Rune thought he had wasted too much time unwinding at a store of all places. Over an hour absent from the house, and four tightly filled plastic bags to show for it.

"The locals are interesting," he greeted.

Kelly: The wolf took all the bags and carried them into the kitchen.

“Did they all try to make conversation and play twenty questions with you?”

Rune: "Just the cashier." Everyone else seemed afraid. Maybe afraid wasn't the right word. Apprehensive. Skittish. He kept that to himself.

Kelly was followed into the kitchen, eyes on one particular bag, which he rustled through the moment it was placed on the counter. Two white containers were removed and held to his chest, their labels facing away from the wolf.

"I found a taste of home," he muttered. "Can you eat chocolate, wolf?"

Kelly: “That tracks.” The cashier was always trying to talk to him and ask him questions even after years of barely getting responses. It simply wasn’t possible to discourage her.

“Did you actually?” he chuckled as he started unpacking everything. “Color me shocked. And yeah, I can.”

Rune: The packages were turned over. De Ruijter Dark Chocolate Sprinkles, and Flakes. "In the German section," he scoffed.

"They'll put anything not in English." He pointed to the picture, sprinkles on bread. "This is how we eat it."

Kelly: “‘Section’ might be a little too generous.” He knew very well that it was maybe half a shelf at most.

“Those are Dutch?” he asked, reaching for one of the boxes. He’d seen them a couple of times before but had never paid them much attention. “Lucky I put bread on the list then.”

Rune: "I would have gotten some anyway." His smile was soft and... something else. Something almost bashful. The other was set aside to finish unloading the last bag.

Kelly: There was that thought again, echoing the second Kelly was graced with that smile. You're so fucked.

Distance was no longer possible now that Rune had returned, but the wolf was still going to take a crack at creating some, even if it was just a few seconds every time he put something away in the pantry or the fridge. Not that it would help anyway, but...

"You ever go to O'Charlie's last time you were here?"

Rune: All remaining items were divided between fridge or pantry. He realized he was tired, and he also realized it wasn't fatigue. It was... relaxation. Tea and a nap kind of tired. A sensation only felt around those with absolute trust. What to do with that, he didn't know.

"Mm. A little drab. Last time there was a fight - I wasn't involved. Some old men with good stories."

Kelly: The feeling of relaxation was shared. It was almost scary how comfortable Kelly felt around this man he’d known for so little, but not so scary that he was fighting it very much.

He snorted. “Yeah, sounds about right for O’Charlie’s. That’s where I’m working tonight.”

Rune: A glance. "Mm." Perhaps it was best he didn't make an appearance there. Too much of a good thing, or something. Besides, billiards was a no contest in this town. The Brig it would have to be.

"I'll break back in if I'm home first," he smirked.

Kelly: Another snort that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “Go for it. Just go in through the back and don’t break a window.”

Rune: "Aye aye, captain." His chin fell to his chest, trying to hide his smile.

Kelly: A moment or two of hesitation before he found enough bravery to say, “You can come by tonight. If you want. Charlie is hosting a poker game.”

Rune: "I think you're catching my thoughts again," he muttered.

Kelly: Muttering was more than loud enough for a wolf to hear.

“Were you thinking about coming?”

Rune: "Was thinking I shouldn't."

Kelly: “You don’t have to but it wouldn’t be a problem or anything if you did.”

Rune: "Wouldn't be?" he looked up.

Kelly: Rune would find Kelly already looking at him and smiling his not-quite-a-smile. He shook his head. “Not a problem at all.”

Rune: He hadn't considered that Kelly would be watching him. He felt warmth at his cheeks, but refused to believe he'd been had.

"Fine. I love poker."

Kelly: There were very few times when Kelly wasn’t watching Rune in some way, even if it was only in his periphery.

The smile got a little bigger. “I’d tell you to watch out for Charlie but I have a feeling he won’t be able to get anything past you.”

Rune: "He can have a few. Let people think we're a team."

Kelly: “Better to be on Charlie’s team than most other people’s. He can at least play well.”

Rune: "What about you?"

Kelly: “I’m half decent. My face makes up for the gaps in skill.”

Rune: "Resting wolf face," he fought a smile.

Kelly: “To put it nicely, yeah,” Kelly chuckled. “It’s never fuckin’ worked on Charlie. That man isn’t intimated by much of anything.”

Rune: "You're not intimidating. Not the wolf thing, not the scars thing." But there was something.

Kelly: “To the average person I am. Scary voice, scars, my height. Old man didn’t hire me for my looks.”

Rune: "Your voice is sexy. Your height is offensive. Your scars are beautiful."

Kelly: “You’re not the average person. What you see isn’t what most people see.”

Rune: "Most people are fucking bootless."

Kelly: Kelly actually chuckled again and shook his head. “Maybe. But to them I’m still intimidating.”

Rune: "You're here because, what, blending in?"

Kelly: “Here in Edenton you mean?”

Rune: "Mm."

Kelly: He shrugged. “Elysiums that are open to anyone aren’t easy to come by.”

Rune: "There's one in Brooklyn. If you ever want a change of pace."

Kelly: “This probably won’t shock you but I don’t like big cities. Too many eyes, too much noise.”

Rune: "Exactly why I prefer them. Another face in the crowd."

Kelly: “I’ll take not being anonymous if it means I can have the quiet. Even fucked up wolves need to be out in nature on a regular basis.”

Rune: "Offer still stands," he sighed.

He couldn't believe what he was about to suggest, but, there it was coming out of his mouth, "Willemstad, too."

Kelly: “I’ll keep it in my back pocket.” Never say never, right? He might be inclined to at least visit someday. Maybe.

“Where’s Willemstad?”

Rune: "Dutch Caribbean." He held up an invisible globe. "We are here," he lowered his finger near imaginary Venezuela, "my house is here."

Kelly: That sounded infinitely more appealing than a city like Brooklyn.

“I’ll keep that one in my pocket, too,” he said softly. Front pocket. Metaphorically.

Rune: "Yeah?" His laugh was silent. "Look for the magenta apartment. Fourth floor."

Kelly: “Magenta, huh. Didn’t really take you for a magenta person.”

Rune: "I didn't have a say. I came home one day and the apartment building was pink. I think it was white before that."

Kelly: “Does it change colors on its own or is someone doing it to mess with you?”

Rune: "It's an apartment! People took a vote," he laughed. "It's by the beach. I can't vote for gray and depress people."

Kelly: “They let the tenants vote on what color the building is going to be?” That seemed like an iffy idea.

Rune: "You've never been to a beach past New England, have you?"

Kelly: “Been all over the eastern seaboard from Maine to Florida.”

Rune: "Think Florida. It's like that all over. It's an island."

Kelly: “Minus the alligators I assume?”

Rune: "I haven't seen one. Drunk tourists are worse."

Kelly: Kelly sighed with an exhaustion born of experience. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Rune: Rune fought a smile. "You dealt with me well enough."

Kelly: “You weren’t drunk.”

Rune: "I had you fooled. I was after Brig."

Kelly: “That why you poked at the Lollipop Guild?”

Rune: "What English did you just say?"

Kelly: Kelly snorted. “The preppy guys at the Brig. Did you poke at them because you were drunk?”

Rune: He waved his hand dismissively.

Kelly: He chuckled and shook his head. “You’ve gotta be the most peaceful drunk I’ve ever come across.”

Rune: "You should see me dance," he smirked.

Kelly: “I’m sure it’s a sight.”

Rune: "Get drunk with me you might find out."

Kelly: “I haven’t gotten drunk in years and years.”

Rune: "I think we're overdue."

Kelly: “You might end up drunk before I do. How’s your tolerance?”

Rune: "Five shots I'm warm. Eight shots I dance."

Kelly: Kelly nodded. “That’s not bad. Ever woken up in a ditch before?”

Rune: "Woken up behind the veil. Woken up under a love curse. I'll take the Umbra."

Kelly: Must’ve been a bad curse for Rune to prefer the Umbra, Kelly thought.

“I’ll take the ditch, personally. Quicker to recover from.”

Rune: "Why would anyone be in a ditch?"

Kelly: “Because Jäeger was put on this earth by satan himself.”

Rune: "Hey, now - you're right." He couldn't even defend the drink. "What's that thing people do now, with energy drink? Or is it soda?"

Kelly: “What, Red Bull? That shit goes in the same category as Jäeger and people who mix them are not okay.”

Rune: Well now he was biting back a smile. "We should."

Kelly: “I’d rather be shot in the street.”

Rune: The mage laughed. Little pops of noise from his throat, lighter than he was accustomed to feeling lately.

Kelly: That laugh did something to Kelly, but he wasn’t about to admit to himself just how much he liked hearing it or why.

“You can drink it if you want. I’ll stick with something saner like bourbon.”

Rune: That thought remained his own, for now, but Rune would catch something, eventually. In the meantime, he remained smiling and oblivious.

"I want to do something stupid with you."

Kelly: “Yeah?” Kelly gave Rune a smile that was almost indulgent. “What stupid thing do you wanna do?”

Rune: "You already said no to one. What else? Skinny dipping." He liked their little games. Liked especially the way Kelly looked at him during their little challenge, and he was hungry for more.

Kelly: “Jaëger and Red Bull isn’t stupid, it’s psychotic.”

Skinny dipping though…that wasn’t unappealing exactly.

“It’s winter. Water’s cold as fuck. You able to handle that?”

Rune: The mage scoffed. "I said stupid. We can be less stupid and do it midday tomorrow."

Kelly: “Won’t make that much of a difference but all right.”

Rune: A glance was cast to Kelly's hip. Maybe not. Maybe too painful.

"Or just fuck me in the shower."

Kelly: Noticing the direction of Rune’s gaze, Kelly said, “I swim all the time for physical therapy. I’m good to skinny dip.”

Rune: "Not in the cold," he muttered, tone apologetic.

Kelly: “Cold water is therapeutic for sore joints.”

Rune: "I thought warm water."

Kelly: Kelly shook his head. “Cold water helps inflammation. Also, I’m from Maine. I’ve gone swimming in half-frozen lakes.”

Rune: "So, you want to?"

Kelly: “I’m in if you’re sure you are.”

Rune: "If it won't hurt you." He didn't mean the biting cold. Where was this coming from?

"So, what now?"

Kelly: “No need to worry about me, I’ll be fine.” Going at midday was less than ideal but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

“Still have a lot of time to kill before I need to work. Wanna go now?”

Rune: "Right now, now?" He didn't need to glance at the clock to know the time, but still, surprised.

"Ok. Yes."

Kelly: Kelly shrugged. “Why not? Gonna have to be the river instead of the sound, though. Getting arrested for indecent exposure isn’t how I wanna spend Christmas.”

Rune: "Not a creek or a pond nearby? No lake?" Didn't matter. A naked Kelly was a naked Kelly, so, a sight to behold.

Kelly: “That’s why it has to be the river. There are creeks that branch off of it that are secluded deep in the woods.”

Rune: His smile reached his eyes. The birthday boy was pleased.

"I'll get the towels."

Kelly: Kelly nodded. “Go on then. I’ll meet you at the truck.”

He already had his camping gear in there, which had tools to make a fire to warm them back up after their swim. Might as well grab a blanket too.

Rune: The only thing Rune needed he already had on him. A bottle of water and two towels later, he was at the driver's side door of the truck, waiting to usher his driver into his seat.

Kelly: The wolf would allow himself to be ushered, but only after he’d tossed everything in the back seat and told Rune to do the same.

“Last chance to back out.”

Rune: "I'm not about to die of hypothermia. Are you?"

Kelly: “Not by a long shot. Let’s go.”

Kelly got in the truck and would wait for Rune to do the same before starting the engine.

Rune: Kelly's door was shut for him - just deal with it - before crossing to the passenger's side. Seatbelt, yes yes, but his knees were coming to his chest.

Kelly: If Rune wanted to listen to something, he could turn on the radio. Otherwise Kelly was happy to drive in silence as he took them down a dirt road into the woods.

Rune: Music was preferred to distract from the engine and the road, but he was willing to try what Kelly seemed to prefer. Forcing his gaze out the window only lasted so long. Looking too close to the truck was going to do him in.

So, he would look at the wolf instead.

Kelly: One chilly morning a while back, Kelly had been doing exactly what he was doing now: wondering how long the person beside him could allow the silence to stretch while he performed a mundane activity. By his estimation, Rune was well on his way to beating the previous record but whether or not he would remained to be seen.

Kelly felt those eyes settle on his face but didn’t acknowledge them; if Rune wanted to look at him, that was his business. It wasn’t like Kelly could stop him anyway.

What he could do was try to figure out how far into the woods they would have go, so the wolf focused on that instead.

Rune: The longer the drive, the more... Rune began... to lean. By the time they reached the woods, his cheek was resting comfortably on his shoulder. Not a bad way to die, if twisted steel be his fate.

"I hate automobiles."

Kelly: “‘Course you do. You’re a sailor.” Not once had Kelly attempted to remove Rune from his shoulder. He was, however, a little impressed that the mage had managed to keep silent until they’d reached the first leg of their destination.

He pulled over on the side of the road. “Creek—if we can call it that—is a good ways through there.” He nodded toward the tree line to their left.

Rune: "You good for that kind of walk?" he asked, reluctant to move and making conversation just to keep to Kelly's warmth.

Kelly: Kelly hummed. “I’ll be fine. Terrain is even enough. Just have to watch out for tree branches.”

Rune: Then, buttoning his coat, he had no choice but to get out. He would not offer his hand as he had their previous walk. He wasn't feeling as tender, and assumed Kelly could only stomach so much intimacy in 24 hours.

But he wouldn't walk ahead, nor would he lag behind. He wanted to keep in step, should the wolf lose his footing.

Kelly: Although intimacy wouldn’t have been unwelcome—did a hand hold even count?—Kelly wasn’t the type to make the first move in these situations. If contact was desired, it could be asked for verbally or non-verbally, just like back in the truck when Rune had leaned on his shoulder.

Kelly’s footing had the surety of familiarity even with his limp. He didn’t know every inch of these woods quite yet, but he’d spent enough time in them over the years to be able to get around confidently in them.

He knew this spot particularly well, having come here in the warmer months to bathe.

“Hear it?” he asked Rune after a while, nodding up ahead.

Rune: Hand holding absolutely counted, if anyone were to ask, but present company was mute on the subject. But there was a time, and again, when Rune's shoulder found Kelly's. The softest bump whilst looking elsewhere. Not at all innocent, but willing to feign lack of coordination for his fix.

"I oughtta slap you," he smirked.

Kelly: Kelly just smiled to himself. If Rune wanted to play the bump off, so be it. The wolf didn’t mind even a little bit.

He snorted. “Slap me for what? Pointing out the creek?”

Rune: A head shake. "Like asking the blind if they see anything." But he was smiling.

Kelly: “The blind see plenty.”

But, whether Rune could hear the creek or not, they’d arrived. It wasn’t the clearest of the creeks that branched off the river and that was by design. Murky water was more comfortable for the wolf.

Rune: "You're ridiculous."

The water did not look friendly, but Rune was biased. He would have chosen the ocean had it been even a month warmer.

There would be no cowering now. He was walking to the edge, kicking off shoes and shrugging off his coat.

Kelly: Rather than join Rune in undressing, Kelly gathered some dry leaves and branches for a fire. Getting out of the water after their swim was going to feel a lot better if there was already a fire going to warm them up and help them dry off.

Rune: Rune watched the gathering of fallen debris and sighed. Not just yet, then. He would do his part and gather stones to create the barrier for the fire. Better motivated without his shoes to move his ass.

Kelly: Kelly chuckled to himself. "What's that sigh for, huh? You're gonna be glad we did this first once we get out of that cold creek."

Rune: "I'm over a hundred years old and you're showing me up on responsibilities. I can't even be reckless in your presence."

Kelly: “There’s being reckless and there’s signing up to be uncomfortable when you don’t have to be. Wanting to skinny dip in the dead of winter is plenty reckless.”

Rune: "You're the old man," he smirked.

Kelly: “Apparently so.” An ailing old man who for some reason had agreed to go skinny dipping.

He was getting soft.

The wolf built their fire to his satisfaction and got a lighter out of his pocket.

Rune: "I thought wolves were supposed to have their own brand of magic. It's what I was told." He played with one of the stones he had encircled the wood with, already feeling the sting of cold on his toes.

Kelly: “Producing fire isn’t in my wheelhouse.” And that’s all Kelly would say about that.

He babied the kindling for a moment or two and when he was certain the wood was catching, he straightened.

“Come on then. Or are you chickening out on me?”

Rune: Not in his wheelhouse. He had nothing to say about that. There were brands of magic he couldn't reach with both arms and a ruler.

"As if you'll say no to seeing me naked." Hands came to rest on Kelly's chest. "Undress me."

Kelly: The wolf grinned. “I sure won’t. Bear in mind, this ain’t gonna be sexy. It’s gonna be like ripping off a bandaid. You good with that?”

Rune: "My clothes? You promise to be rough?"

Kelly: “I promise to be quick. Being naked in the cold and swimming in cold water come down to two things: constantly moving and not thinking about it.”

Rune: "I'm from Amsterdam, Mr. Maine."

Kelly: “Then this is old hat to you, right?”

Kelly had promised speed and a complete lack of sexiness and that’s how he would go about undressing them both as soon as Rune gave him the green light.

The only thing he took a little extra time to do was lay their clothes out by the fire so they’d stay a little warm.

Rune: The lack of sexiness was killing Rune's mood, but between two stubborn men, at least one would be entertained. No sooner was Rune out of his clothes was he making a dash to the water - the murky, ugly, muddy water. Were their alligators this far north? He didn't know, didn't care. He was waist deep in cold and hollering as a means to keep warm.

Kelly: Currently the entertained one was Kelly.

He had himself a good laugh as he stepped into the water, hissing at his body’s initial protest before resolutely ignoring it. The relief to his joints would be worth it.

“You’re gonna scare all the birds out of the trees!” he said before biting the bullet and submerging completely.

Rune: "What, are you gonna talk to them?" He turned around to find his partner gone, and for a split-second his heart skipped a beat. He was there in front of Kelly by the time he reemerged.

"Do it to me, or I won't do it." His arms wrapped around the wolf's impressive shoulders.

Kelly: Even though there wasn’t so much as a breeze, the air hitting his wet skin still managed to feel colder than the water, which in turn made the water feel just a little more bearable.

“You don’t have to, you know. Just keep hanging onto me, body heat will help.”

Rune: "I'm gonna bite you in a second. Just do it!"

Kelly: Well now, wasn’t someone snippy because of the cold.

Kelly wouldn’t try to talk Rune out of it a second time. The mage was old enough to make his own choices and if he wanted to go whole hog then that was his right.

He wouldn’t give a countdown; Rune would merely be given a moment to hold his breath before Kelly quickly took them both under.

Rune: Not only arms but legs were around the wolf as they reemerged. Stuck on Kelly like his own fur, the mage wasn't going anywhere, face buried in the crook of his neck.

"Fuuuuck!"

Kelly: Kelly’s whole body shook with silent laughter as he held on to the mage with one arm. Oh yes, one of them was definitely entertained.

“You all right there?”

Rune: "Fuck you." Yes, he was fine. He would live! But he was already shivering, nails digging into Kelly's back.

Kelly: “Snip snip snip.” The wolf submerged them up to their necks and got moving.

Rune: "Where are you taking me?" The higher the water rose, the tighter he clung.

Kelly: “Nowhere. Just keeping moving so we don’t get too cold.”

He bit back the sudden impulse to kiss Rune’s temple.

Rune: What Kelly couldn't see was his eyes closing, but he could feel the soft and silent sigh against his chest.

Kelly: The tone of Kelly’s voice matched Rune’s sigh. “Tell me when you’ve had enough of the cold.”

Rune: "Mm, you're warm. I've got an hour."

Kelly: “A whole hour? Aren’t we ambitious.”

Rune: "Don't you feel cold?" Remembering the shed.

Kelly: “Not so much it’s unbearable.”

Rune: "Are you all like this?"

Kelly: “All wolves?” Kelly shrugged. “To some degree, probably. It’s the nature of the beast. Wolves live in cold climates.”

Rune: "And you lived in Maine." His eyes opened enough to admire the man holding him. "Since forever, your family?"

Kelly: He nodded. “Mm. Been a good few generations.” Enough that no one could agree which region of France they’d originally come from.

Rune: "Ever been? Holiday, or family?"

Kelly: “Yep. Layovers.”

Rune: "Nothing special there?"

Kelly: “Not really. Don’t feel any particular attachment to the place or the culture.”

Rune: "Mainers have no French culture?"

Kelly: “Sure but it’s not the same. It’s Maine culture of people who happen to be of French descent. We don’t even speak the language the same way.”

Rune: "Do you think people are in tune with the culture of their blood?" Something he'd thought about for years.

Kelly: “I think it’s a case by case basis kinda deal. If you were given a connection to it since you were a kid, then yes. If you weren’t, it’s harder to find one on your own. Not impossible though.”

Rune: His eyes remained open, staring out at nothing.

"I never knew my mother. My father wouldn't talk about her." He recalled Kelly's attitude toward his father, last time, and smiled, just a little.

"A witch on a pirate ship told me more about her than he. I was thinking about her when I was lost in the Umbra, my first time. I came out the other side in Hokkaido. It's where she lived. I've always wondered, ever since, how I ended up near her Ainu village."

Kelly: That attitude hadn’t changed; the mention of Rune’s father still caused disdain. But rather than linger on it, today Kelly simply listened to Rune and pondered fate and the possibility of coincidence.

“That’s why you ended up there,” the wolf mused. “You we’re thinking about her and in a way, you were brought to her. Or more like…you were brought to somewhere that linked to her.”

Rune: "I didn't even know where she was from. What island, anything." His eyelids felt heavy. So, so heavy. He would close them for a little.

"When he was totaled, I'd find him sitting in his chair in the kitchen, staring at nothing. He'd sometimes pull me in and tell me how much I look like her. That, and how she died, is the most he ever told me."

Kelly: “Sometimes…I don’t know whether to call it fate or the universe or whatever the hell but sometimes, you’re just…given what you need. Or what you want but have never asked for or weren’t even aware you wanted. You were meant to know more about her than what the old man would share and something out there made sure it happened.”

Rune: "Are all wolves as wise as you?" His eyes had closed again, cheek resting on Kelly's shoulder.

Kelly: Kelly smiled. “I think it’s got less to do with being a wolf and more just…living life, seeing things for what they are.”

Rune: "I'm heading towards 200 years old and I'm listening to you."

Kelly: “Even kids have enlightening shit to say every now and then.”

Rune: "Ha." For that, he would have a kiss on the neck. And another, just below his ear. Breath warm despite his cold skin, teeth lightly scraping his earlobe.

Kelly: Kelly let him, quietly and briefly wondering why a man like Rune would care about what some crippled wolf had to say about anything. Had to be his bartender aura following him everywhere.

“Had too much yet?”

Rune: "Have you?" He didn't necessarily mean the water, but, Kelly could interpret how he pleased. Wasn't stopping him from enjoying the taste of his skin. Not unless told to stop.

Kelly: “Not yet.” He would never admit just how much of a relief the freezing water really was for his body. Better to let Rune assume he liked taking these winter swims mostly for fun and that any relief was just a bonus.

Easier that way.

Stop? As if Kelly would ask Rune to stop. This at least he could enjoy without having to hide why. The mage could have at him as much as he pleased.

Rune: As much as he pleased. Despite the cold distracting water, the needling air, the man he cradled was stiff against him. As much as he pleased would have them on the shore's edge making waves. He whispered as much in the wolf's ear. He would have him again before tomorrow. He wanted to bounce. Longed to struggle for breath. Needed those hands on his body like his favorite possession.

Kelly: Rune sure knew how to entice a man into wanting to ignore safety, reason, and practicality. He was so good at it he almost had Kelly wondering if his body heat and the fire a few feet would be enough to protect them while they fucked like rabbits on the shore.

Almost. If it was a little less cold…

“Come on,” he said as softly as a man with ruined vocal cords could while he headed back for the shore.

“You can have all that and a shower after we get dry and warm.”

Rune: It had only been a few minutes, hadn't it? A blink in the passage of time, and yet it could have been hours. His body insisted as much.

"I'll never be warm again." Such drama! But Kelly might have understood the truth of it. The relentless chill down to his bones that begged for a warm bath. He belonged in a hot spring, not here, deep in the woods of the Carolinas.

"Why didn't you want me to kiss you?"

Kelly: A chuckle rumbled through Kelly. “That’s the price for skinny dipping in the winter.” And that was why he’d taken the time to build a fire, which was roaring along cheerfully and waiting for them.

“You can kiss me when we’re warming up. Brace yourself. The air is going to feel like knives when it hits your skin.”

Even with all his conditioning, Kelly still hissed as he eased them out of the water.

Rune: Evasion, then. He wasn't going to harbor guilt when both of their hands were dirty, but curiosity was certainly itching his brain.

"Keep your secrets then. You can't have any more of mine."

Had he clung any tighter, Kelly would have lost all of the air in his lungs. Nails sharply dug into his shoulder blades, growling while the wolf hissed.

"It never gets any easier."

Kelly: “Duly noted.”

Kelly had never owned a cat before, but he felt like he got the gist with Rune clinging to him like his life depended on it.

“It’ll be over soon.”

Although reaching the fire was welcome relief, it wasn’t enough. “Gotta let me put you down so we can dry off.”

Rune: "Try a lake in north London in September. I didn't think it would be that bad until - mm. Or falling overboard a ship in the Atlantic. Wasn't stupid enough to do that again."

But he wasn't yet letting go.

"You just love getting rid of me," he smirked.

Kelly: “I have gone into the Atlantic. I’m up from near Canada, remember?”

Just like he would a cat, Kelly would attempt to dislodge Rune’s fingers one by one until he let go. Kelly was exposed and about to start shivering; he desperately wanted a towel.

“If I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn’t have come out here with you.”

Rune: "Not in the middle of it," he was just warm enough to sass. Still, it wouldn't take much effort to pry those fingers. Wanting to remain attached had everything to do with the man.

But he was soon rolling onto his knees, staring at the fire like it owed him money.

Kelly: “Or so you think,” said Kelly, vaguely smiling as he made quick work of getting himself a warm towel and one for Rune, which he draped over the mage’s shoulders and head.

“Forget the Atlantic. Just think about the hot shower waiting for you.”

Rune: "Bath," he gently corrected. "Bath, cider, pastries." A moment to breathe, still staring at the fire. "Sleeping on you, like a hot stone on a summer's day."

Kelly: “Bath it is.” Kelly chuckled as he dried his hair. “Summer’s day makes you want to sleep on a hot stone? It’d make me wanna get back into the river.”

Rune: "I was born on the coldest day on the coldest month. Probably the coldest year in... " He shrugged, finally pulling the towel in tight.

"I don't feel it, the cold. Not like other people. When I'm warm I bask. Who knows when I'll feel it again."

Kelly: “So you’re a lizard.” Kelly might have said something that may have sounded like he was calling Rune cute, but it was so quiet it was swallowed by the rushing of the creek’s current.

“You’ll be warm soon enough.”

Rune: "Come here so I can smack you one."

Kelly: The wolf laughed. “Yeah right. Go on and dry off so you can get dressed.”

Rune: "You're the least romantic beast I've ever met." Just teasing, but with a hint of truth stemming from his previously unanswered question. The only source of heat he desired were those massive arms around his shoulders. Alas, he had to resort to nearly sticking his hands in the flame, before getting back on his feet to rub himself down.

Kelly: “Yeah, yeah. It ain’t in my wheelhouse.” It never had been, even before life had hit him with a building. Just one of those things.

Until Rune had appeared in his life, Kelly really hadn’t given the matter much thought.

Humming pensively, he finished drying himself and grabbed his clothes. He got them on as quickly as he’d gotten them off and joined Rune by the fire.

Rune: "What do you think that word means?" he wondered out loud, sitting in trousers and nothing more, hunched over just a tad too close to the fire.

Kelly: “Hell if I know. Why do you think I suck at it?” Couldn’t be good at something you couldn’t define, right?

“You’re gonna singe your hair,” he chided softly, pulling Rune back to lean against him.

Rune: Kelly could have every ounce of his weight, slouching to fit his form perfectly.

"I think it's that," he muttered.

Kelly: The was fine by him. He was a warm wall of muscle for Rune and only Rune to rest on.

“Hm? It’s what?”

Rune: "Nothing." Kelly's hand was pulled in front of him, palm gently kissed.

Kelly: The wolf smiled in that way he could only when his face wasn’t being watched.

“Okay.” He got hit with the urge to rest his head against Rune’s and he allowed himself to give in.

“What kind of pastries do you want?”

Rune: You've already given me a birthday, he thought. The feeling of Kelly's head against his own was a gift in itself.

"We've got apple at home," he yawned.

Kelly: “Don’t want anything else? Might have to get it frozen and there’s not a whole lot of variety but we can look.”

Rune: The mage only shook his head, keeping his silence, basking, as he called it, in Kelly's warmth.

"Bedankt," he whispered.

Kelly: One nuzzle wouldn’t hurt. Just a small one. A light one.

“What’s that?” he whispered back.

Rune: "How do you give thanks in French?"

Kelly: “Merci.”

Rune: "Bedankt," he repeated. "Merci... Bedankt."

Kelly: “Gotcha. Bedankt.” Rune had repeated, so Kelly would repeat too.

No trip to the grocery store then. Just the bath, cider, and whatever was left of the apple tart. They could always order a pizza or something later if they got hungry again.

Rune: Kelly was thinking about food, but there was only one thing on Rune's mind, and he turned to take it for himself. Moving just enough to steal the warmth of his lover's lips. His own might as well have been ice.

Kelly: Kelly had enough for them both. His body temperature was returning to normal a lot faster than Rune’s and his lips were as warm as usual against the mage’s cold ones.

Telling himself it was just to chase the cold away, he deepened the kiss and let it linger and languish, tucking Rune close against him.

Rune: So rare it was to feel so small and safe that he felt no pressing need to remove himself from those arms. The bitter cold tingling and numbing his extremities was nothing new, but Kelly was, and he was as delightful as exotic fruit.

Kelly: One of those arms was going to wrap the towel around Rune like a blanket to shield him a little bit from the cold. It was damp but between Kelly’s body heat and the fire, they’d be okay for a little bit.

Long enough for him to indulge Rune and himself with what he’d denied them in the river and get a nice long taste.

“You’re freezing.”

Rune: "Aren't I always?" was a rhetorical question, of course. He wasn't concerned for the toes and fingers he'd lost considerable sensation in years ago. Not when luck was on his side, and not with Kelly's mouth so close to his.

But for Kelly's sake...

"You want to go home?"

Kelly: He was, now that Kelly thought about it. So much so that he was starting to associate the cold with the mage in his arms.

“I’m good to stay for a while longer. You just tell me when you’re ready for that bath and cider.”

Rune: "My feet could use a soak in boiling water." His smile was almost private, if not heard in his tone.

He was snuggling without notice.

Kelly: Kelly noticed. Kelly heard.

“Then let’s go get in the tub so you can defrost.” Another kiss first though.

“Wanna wait here while I get the heater going in the truck?”

Rune: "I'll put out the fire." Not a man to sit around doing nothing - not always. This wasn't a day of reflection and recuperation after possession or exorcism. This was just... vacation.

But, just one more kiss.

"If I don't put my shoes on I'll lose my toes."

Kelly: “Go on then.” Rune got his kiss and his shoes before Kelly left him to take care of the fire. He was feeling a little chilled himself, but comfortably so.

Their little dip and the bath that would follow would be very therapeutic. If he was really lucky, he wouldn’t be too sore tomorrow.

Rune: Despite the naturally lower temperature of his body, the surrounding cold was still reaching his bones. He liked to believe he had acclimated to freezing temperatures more than a lifetime ago, but that was wishful thinking. What he could do was slip into dry socks and cover embers with dirt without a whimper of complaint.

Slipping into trousers, however, was always the worst. The one part of his body he felt the worst unforgiving chill. He breathed sharply through his nose, circled the dead ashes one last time, and started down the path to the truck.

Kelly: Kelly met him halfway. Close to it, anyway. He’d done what needed doing quickly and had fully intended on going back for Rune and carrying him to the truck if need be.

The cold was merely an excuse. He wanted to carry Rune back simply because he wanted to.

“You’re turning blue,” he said, seeking silent permission to lift the mage into his arms.

Rune: There was no protest. Not a sound nor a wince. Only goosefleshed arms around a warm and promising neck. Whichever way Kelly desired him, he would have complacently, a hidden smile upon his face he would neither affirm nor deny. But this too would eventually end. They would be back in the truck in no time.

Then he had no time to waste. Clinging selfishly as soon as Kelly settled in the driver's seat, eagerly straddling his lap.

Kelly: What could Kelly do but smile and shake his head? Heater was on and warm but they both knew that wasn’t the point of what was happening here.

Fuck it. Rune was small and Kelly could see and maneuver just fine even with him attached.

“Better hope we don’t run into any cops,” he said to the mage as he started back to the road. “Getting pulled over wouldn’t be very festive.”

Rune: "Your first thought is to drive. Mine is to ride." The mage smirked. "You're fucking up."

But he hadn't yet moved.

"I'm not worried about cops. Trust me."

Kelly: “You’re talking like fucking isn’t what we’re about to go do. You feel like an ice cube and you’re still horny over everything.”

Rune: "Have you ever fucked in a truck? Tell me about it."

Kelly: “I’ve fucked in the back of a car and in a jeep. No trucks that come to mind.”

Rune: "Were they a good lay?"

Kelly: “The ones in the jeep were better than the car one. Objectively speaking.”

Rune: "Back of the car... teenagers?"

Kelly: The wolf nodded. “Yep. Teenagers have been going at it in cars since cars have existed.”

Rune: "They made me sick."

Kelly: “Won’t you feel sick in the position you’re in now?”

Rune: "Not if you pull over and let me have my way with you."

Kelly: “Man, you really do have a one-track mind, huh? Can’t even bear to wait a few more minutes.”

Rune: "I just want to give you a memory you'll never forget."

Kelly: As if I’ll ever forget any of them, Kelly thought, finding himself pulling over a little ways before the main road.

It would seem that there weren’t any limits at all on his willingness to indulge Rune today. The casual observer might think the mage had the wolf all but wrapped around his finger.

Rune: Rune waited for rejection, confirmation, something other than silence. But this was Kelly, and what followed was action, not words, and no sooner did the truck come to a complete stop did his lips crush into his familiar warmth.

Kelly: Cutting the engine would’ve been the sensible thing to do but Kelly couldn’t bring himself to deprive Rune of the heater. The mage was still so cold against him despite his best attempts to leech all of Kelly’s body heat.

Fuck it, the parking brake would do.

Now that Kelly’s hands were free, there was nothing stopping them from roaming. They moved down Rune’s back and into his pants to squeeze his ass, then back up as high as they could go to massage Rune’s chest and tease his nipples.

Rune: Those hands were relentless, like a blind man committing his body to memory. Reminded him of their little dance in the dark.

His response was to grind. Given the cold, he didn't expect to feel anything solid between his legs. It wasn't about intercourse, as Kelly had reminded him not too long ago. The ache of his teeth still tingled his body.

You're addictive. Could he say that out loud? He would have to do more than gasp.

Kelly: It was impossible not to have a reaction to a man like Rune, although in this case, the reaction was tempered. Kelly was too focused on warming the mage up to let himself give in to the moment.

And if Kelly could make him feel good while he did it, all the better. It would take more than this though.

So Kelly grabbed Rune’s hips to pull him even closer than he already was while his lips traveled downward, seeking exposed skin to mark as his own.

Rune: The feeling in his chest was almost irritating. A resistance he'd felt before. Not love, not lust, but something adjacent. Caring. What a horrible sentimentality. He wanted to reject his exploration, his mouth, his teeth, but he couldn't. It was the way of the wolf, and he was helpless in those massive hands.

And with a fresh mark dug into his skin, he was a rutting, whimpering mess.

Kelly: They could blame instinct. If they chalked Kelly’s affectionate gestures up to his wolf instincts and nothing more, then neither of them would have to think deeper. Neither of them would have to question if they meant anything or why.  They could just feel and enjoy.

Even if they were crossing each other’s lines, even if they felt things they didn’t have the temerity to name, as long as they had something to give them an out, they wouldn’t have to think about anything at all.

A soft, purring growl answered Rune’s whimpers. Kelly was smiling against the mage’s skin, although he doubted Rune could feel it, or much of anything except his own need.

In lieu of leaving another mark, Kelly opted to lick and kiss along Rune’s neck while his hands revisited one of the marks he’d made earlier. He pressed his thumb into it just so, ready to catch whatever sounds Rune made with another kiss.

Rune: There were few moments like this in his life. The ones that made him writhe only with pleasure. The sensation of wet fire across his cold skin elicited more than a whimper, shuddering almost violently, withstood with a bitten lip and curled toes.

Those massive hands were too much. The wolf would have what he desired. A gasp sucked through his shiver, staring at his audacious lover, adoration hidden behind his heavy lids.

Kelly: The wolf looked so very pleased with himself at having elicited such a reaction. He could easily become addicted to having this man in his arms, to touching him and kissing him and making him come apart at the seams.

Maybe a part of him already was. Maybe that was the explanation for his madness.

Kelly just had to do it again. Not to the same mark, but to another elsewhere on Rune’s body within his reach.

It struck him how much harder this would all be if his legs were any shorter and the thought made him chuckle softly to himself and shake his head. Of all the things to be thinking about.

Rune: This time, Rune buried his face into Kelly's neck, nuzzling and hiding his noises against warm, inviting skin. It wasn't embarrassment that had him retreating, but the comfort of Kelly's being, knowing he was safe with the unknowns. He refused to glimpse into the future, giving himself nothing to look forward to but the next surprise.

Blindly, he reached between them, feeling for the button and zipper of Kelly's jeans. He didn't care what form he had this man, be it bouncing on his cock or the taste of him in his mouth, he needed something before he unraveled.

Kelly: Instincts. Instincts were to blame for the way Kelly let himself nuzzle Rune back and bury his nose in the mage’s hair. Just instincts and the impossible temptation of Rune’s nearness.

As enticing as the thought was, any bouncing would have to wait until they got back home. Rune would have to settle for having Kelly either in his hand or his mouth. The wolf wasn’t quite far gone enough to forsake both their comfort.

But that didn’t mean he was going to make things easy for the mage. Kelly wasn’t willing to give up the taste of Rune’s skin or his gentle torment for even one single moment. Whatever Rune did, he would have to do it while getting kissed all over.

Rune: He was doing his damnedest not to laugh while being kissed. That was a step too far. Too adolescent, too springtime. But the more Kelly did it, the more his body quivered, even as he freed his lover from his confines. They could be together, he thought. Both cocks out, pressed together as he rutted and rolled.

The only thing holding him together was his skin.

"Kelly." He didn't know why he said it.

Kelly: That wouldn’t have been so bad. It had been a long time since Kelly had allowed himself just a little of that kind of lightness. A little of that springtime. He couldn’t say he’d actively missed it but…it was nice to have, even if it was just a whisper for a moment or two.

He’d take what he was given without asking for more.

In the moment it took him to lift his head when Rune said his name, Kelly let go of that whisper and gave the mage that quietly smug, self-satisfied look that didn’t demand anything of either of them.

“Had enough, Rune from Amsterdam?”

Rune: He was quick to shake his head. Absolutely not. This was the best kind of suffering. Cocks cradled in one hand, fingers buried in Kelly's hair; all he could do was breathe and try not to embarrass himself again by uttering his lover's name.

But when breathing wasn't enough, he offered his tongue to the wolf.

Kelly: Even though he’d left the choice up to Rune and would’ve been just as pleased with the mage’s mouth on him, Kelly vastly preferred this option. He wanted to feel Rune tremble in his arms, wanted to kiss him breathless and drive him insane.

He was only vaguely aware of his own pleasure, much more interested in Rune’s. His mage wouldn’t be able to hold it together for much longer. Especially not when the wolf’s thumb found a mark and grazed it with the gentlest pressure.

Rune: Kelly wanted a mess between their bodies, wanted to make this man stupid and trembling, then he would have his wish. He would have the mage pressed to his forehead, gasping and swallowing gulps of air, thighs quivering, hips rutting. It was over too soon, but he had managed his pride, leaving Kelly's name behind his teeth.

Boneless, he could do nothing else. Face nuzzling into Kelly's neck. Breathing was still a conscious effort.

And still, he held them firm. Twitching very much against his will as he rubbed their sticky cocks.

Kelly: Kelly thought he might’ve come with Rune but he couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. Rune’s pleasure was so much more intoxicating and satisfying and mesmerizing than his own. Kelly didn’t think he’d get tired of experiencing it for as long as he lived.

He wrapped his arms around the mage and simply held him, warming his trembling body.

Rune: He had a feeling, and he'd had it for some time, that Kelly didn't care about himself. Sexually or otherwise. He didn't understand it, why Kelly allowed him these privileges if it was ungratifying. Rather than ask, he tucked his arms against the wolf's chest, feeling small and safe. Still, he couldn't help himself. His hips still rolled, giving friction to Kelly's erection. He was selfish. He wanted to hear sounds from his lover.

Kelly: From all the time they’d spent together, Kelly knew there was a limit to how much…closeness Rune would allow, but having been given silent invitation, the wolf felt confident in hugging Rune to him just a little more closely and intimately. This, too, could be excused away somehow if need be.

Kelly had gotten his wish and now the mage was getting his in the form of a soft grunt. Looked like he hadn’t come after all. Could’ve sworn that he did, but maybe it just felt like it.

Rune: There was something about the notion of Kelly's orgasm that gave him a second wind, but only long enough to delicately cradle his jaw with his fingertips, offering tired, insatiable kisses. There was plenty to say with his mouth that had nothing to do with words. He wondered if any of it was interpreted.

Kelly: Speaking without words was what they did. For all that they’d known each other only a short while—with some quantum nonsense in there for good measure—they’d quickly developed their own way of communicating that was comfortable for them both. Never mind that at times, it betrayed far, far more than it concealed.

Like now. The tiredness of their kisses just barely hid the undercurrent of tenderness. Their embrace all but a ruse under the guise of keeping warm. Even pressing on Rune’s bruises had been done with the understanding that it would feel good for him and give him what he needed.

But none of that could be spoken into the delicate air that existed between. It could only be implied through kisses and touches and the wolf’s soft moans filling the truck as the mage worked him to completion.

[chloe-caulfield94]

Pricefield in the Times of Plague

“Don’t come near me, Max!” - Chloe shouted, mustering the last bits of her strength to raise herself on her elbows above her bed of pain. Her face was red from fever and covered in blisters. Her hair was soaked in sweat. She went into a coughing fit and collapsed on the bed.

Max stood in the doorway of Chloe’s house. Just like every other house in the village, it was built using logs of wood, it had a sloping, thatched roof and the floor was covered in a layer of fresh straw. Inside, it consisted of one large chamber, with a fireplace at the centre. There was little furniture, besides two beds with mattresses filled with hay. The smaller bed was Chloe’s. The larger was Joyce’s and David’s. The larger bed was empty. Just like it had taken William five years ago, the plague now took Chloe’s mother and stepfather. Chloe cared for them when they fell ill. And when life left their eyes, she wrapped them in the best cloths she could find in her modest household and left them outside, to be taken by people collecting plague victims each morning. Chloe fell ill herself soon after that.

When Joyce and David became sick with the plague, Max’s parents forbade her from visiting Chloe. She obeyed. But when she heard the disease had gripped Chloe in its clutches, she couldn’t stay away any longer.

Now, standing at the threshold of Chloe’s house, she had to make a choice.

Chloe had already told her to leave. Now, Max heard her parents. They must’ve noticed her sneaking away in the wee hours of the morning. They stood outside the fence, ten paces from the door.

“Max, please! Don’t go in there! Come home with us!” – Ryan shouted. Vanessa sobbed.

Lying on her bed, Chloe quietly said: “Max, I know you love me. But you don’t have to do this. I won’t blame you. Nobody will. Stay away. Live”.

Everything tried to lure Max the wrong way. Her parents told her to go home. Chloe absolved her from abandoning her. Fear of the plague gripped her stomach and made her limbs heavy. Max made her choice. And she chose well.

She turned around to face Ryan and Vanessa: “Mom, dad, I love you. And I love Chloe, too. Dad, if mom was sick, would you abandon her? Mom, if dad was sick, would you abandon him? If I was sick, would either of you abandon me? I must be with her, for good or for ill”.

Vanessa cried loudly in Ryan’s embrace. Tears flowed down his bearded cheeks, too. But he nodded at Max, understanding her decision.

Max went in and closed the door behind her. She approached Chloe, sat on the bed next to her and gripped her hand. Chloe squeezed her hand too, weakly.

Max said: “I promised to always love you. To always have your back. To never abandon you. Now that you need me the most, I intend to keep that promise”.

“Max, think about your family …” – Chloe whispered faintly.

“Chloe, you are my family now. Isn’t it written in the Good Book that there comes a time for everyone when they leave their father and their mother and become one with someone they chose to love? Besides, if you’re so worried about my parents, look at it that way - I would bring shame upon my house by not keeping an oath I made”.

Chloe smiled, her spirit uplifted both by Max’s love and her sense of humour.

Max cared for her. She fed her, washed her, put cold compresses on her burning forehead. She talked with Chloe to take her mind off the death of her family and of her own death looming over her. And when Chloe was too weak to talk, Max sang her or told her stories. After three days, Chloe’s strength began to come back.

And then Max fell ill and the roles were reversed. Chloe returned all the care and love she had received. After a week, they both emerged from the house, weakened, but very much alive. They held hands. Ryan and Vanessa, who had been leaving them food and water on the doorstep, ran to hug them.

The tiny Romanesque church, the only stone building in the entire village, was full of the plague’s survivors. Almost everyone had lost someone they loved. The dwellers of Arcadia Bay were desperate for some positive development. So when the news spread that there was going to be a wedding, the villagers saw it as a good omen – that the time of plague had come to an end, and the time of healing and rebirth had commenced.

Max and Chloe stood before the altar. Max looked at her bride’s face. Max remarked that not even the pox marks covering her cheeks could hide Chloe’s beauty. Nothing ever could. True beauty is always within, where no scars can reach. Max knew her face was covered in similar marks. She saw her reflection each morning when she washed her face in a bowl of water. Not only she didn’t mind them, she was proud of her scars. She earned them in battle. Fighting for her love, which is the only thing truly worth fighting for.

Sister Kate from the local priory, who was officiating the wedding, asked each of them if they wished to be wedded in the eyes of the Lord. Of course they wished so! They exchanged wedding rings. They were simple steel circles, made by the local blacksmith. They were the best jewellery two peasant girls could afford. The rings were precious to Max and Chloe not because of the metal used to make them, but because of what they meant. Their love. How they defied cruel fate. How Max chose well.

The brides kissed. Ryan and Vanessa had tears in their eyes, but those were tears of joy and pride.