#but it’s getting fucking exhausting. i’ve been exhausted for months but like it has worn me way down i’m sick of it

[ilostyou]

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[from-the-clouds]

moonlight on the river - joel miller x reader

masterlist | song inspo

summary: Joel has been many things to you. A dealer, a mentor, a friend, a lover. Lately, it’s the latter.  Sometimes he’s none of those things, or a handful of them, or all of them at once. And it’s up to the both of you to decide in the moment which things are true. Takes place during episode one of the TV series. pairing: joel miller x f!reader words: 2.4k warnings: angst, fluff, good ol' fashioned hurt/comfort. depressive thoughts, reader sort of has a death wish, references to alcohol/drug abuse, death, loss of family members & loved ones. implied age gap, references to casual sex, heavy petting (no smut). a/n: it's been months since i posted a fic on here! some of my best work comes when it’s 2am, i’m emo and touch-deprived and i have an 8am appointment so i stay up until 5am to write. this was actually supposed to be fully a fluff piece but the angst queen had to strike.

You wish you could drown in the pile of blankets you’ve wrapped yourself in. Wish the couch would swallow you whole, like a whale, then drag you down to the deepest depths of the ocean and leave you there until you can’t hold your breath any longer, until the cold pricks the tips of your fingers and toes, until you succumb completely. 

But in some ways, you’re already existing like that, in the sea-level equivalent of the Marianas Trench. One of those sea creatures that look not of this Earth, features warped – adapting, evolving, surviving, despite your environment’s best efforts to eradicate. Your mother had once shown them to you in her old textbooks and shown you the photos of anglerfish, frilled sharks, phantom jellyfish. The memory of your mother makes you wince, and you try to think of something else.

How anyone else around you managed to put on a brave face and make their way through each day was beyond your comprehension, even though you do it, too. They probably all feel the same way about it as you do, but no one talks about the collective trauma you’re all slogging through. No one has anything new to add, and it’s foolish to believe that anyone’s insight could somehow take the pain away. Even if you have a chance to tell your story, there is always someone who has it worse. 

Get in line. 

Exhausted as you are, you don’t sleep much. Most of your nights are spent at the precipice of unconsciousness, and you can never quite make it over the edge, the helicopters, radios, sporadic gunfire always manages to rouse you first. When you do manage to sleep, you’re plagued with nightmares. You prefer perpetual fatigue. 

A knock at your door comes suddenly, and you start, sitting up quickly – but quietly – to not alert the unexpected guest that someone might be in the tiny studio you call home. It’s well after dark, which makes you doubt that whoever, or whatever is at the door, isn’t there for a friendly drop-in or a cup of tea, not that friendly drop-ins or cups of tea ever happened. 

But before you grow too panicked, your name is muttered, accompanied by another impatient rap of knuckles against the hollow wood. It’s a familiar rasp, even-toned and calm, and your shoulders sag in relief before you abandon your post on the couch. 

“Joel?” you ask softly, squinting in the dim light of the hallway through the crack in the door. He doesn’t look any different, though it’s been about a month since you’d last seen him. You’re not sure what to expect, but he’s the same as always, wearing a worn, tight denim shirt and fraying jeans. He looks tired, but you can’t recall a time when he doesn’t. Everyone looks tired all the time, it just only concerns you because it’s him. 

Not waiting for an invite, he steps through the small opening you allot for him and into your place, wordlessly.

“What the fuck, Joel, it’s past curfew are you trying to get yourself killed?” 

“I’ve done worse,” he says, dismissively, and yanks the door from your hand to close and lock it behind him. 

You don’t argue with him. You rarely do – which you think is partly why he likes you – but especially now, you don’t have the energy. And when you do, he’s too stubborn to listen. 

Joel has been many things to you. A dealer, a mentor, a friend, a lover. Lately, it’s the latter.  Sometimes he’s none of those things, or a handful of them, or all of them at once. And it’s up to the both of you to decide in the moment which things are true.

So when he steps forward, crowding you backwards until your rear hits your kitchen countertop and you have nowhere to go, you don’t ask questions. 

His hand cradles your chin, tilting it back to look into his sad eyes, and he kisses you. For a split second, it’s chaste, and you’re almost confused, until it’s suddenly not, and his grip on your jaw tightens, his lips parting. Joel stakes his claim, his free hand winding into your hair and pulling. You sigh, closing your eyes. 

He moves both his hands to cup your ass through the flimsy athletic shorts you’re wearing, lifting your hips up and against him, making to carry you to the bed, or maybe even take you on the countertop – it could be one of those days. Everything he’s doing would normally light you on fire, and there’s a primal instinct that’s telling you you like it, but for some reason, you hesitate.

Joel senses it right away. You’re not sure how. And you don’t want him to. You’re prepared to submit, even though you feel numb everywhere, because you hope for the chance to feel something, anything other than what you’ve felt the last few days. He pauses, too, pulls back. 

You expect to meet his eyes when you look up at him, but they are fixed on something else. Tugging on the collar of his shirt, you try to kiss him again, but he doesn’t budge, until you follow his eyes. An empty bottle of liquor sits on the bar behind you. Fuck.

“You’re drinking again.�� It’s not a question.

“That was actually from yesterday,” you say, like it would make any difference. The remnants of a hangover have been tweaking your temples all day, biting the back of your eyes. It was half empty when I got it. It was just one night. I can have a couple drinks without getting out of control. Your brain cycles through several more excuses before you decide not to waste your breath. 

“What did I tell you about this?” He reached behind you and lifted the bottle, holding it in front of your face like you hadn’t been able to see it clearly enough before. 

“You should talk,” you don’t like being cruel, but you’re already desperate to end the discussion. He’s probably drunk or high right now, but it’s none of your business, and you’d given up trying to save him a long time ago. 

You shift your weight to lower yourself off the counter and move away from him and the once-inviting warmth of his embrace. Joel doesn’t let you make it far, reaching out to grip your upper arm and tugging you back to face him with little-to-no effort on his part. His strength always startled you, even though it shouldn’t, considering his size. It also should’ve scared you, but the manhandling mostly just turned you on. Not enough that you were going to keep letting him lecture you.

“It’s different. You’re still so young.”

“What does that matter?”

He doesn’t have an answer. 

You lift your chin, squaring up to him. “That’s what I thought.”

He puts his hand on hip and studies you carefully. Despite your attitude, you’ve never liked disappointing him. He’s the closest thing you have to a father, which you can recognize is an awfully fucked up way to feel about someone you regularly have sex with, but you lived in an awfully fucked up world.

There’s a wistfulness to Joel’s expression you’ve never seen before. He chooses to change the subject, and you’re thankful until what he says registers. 

“I’m leaving town tomorrow night. You might not see me again.”

It takes a moment to process, but it hits you like a blow to the gut. So hard, you’re surprised you don’t stagger backwards with the force of it. Even when it settles, you know it hasn’t even sunk in all the way.

“Well…” you take a long, thoughtful pause, and offer the only thing that your brain can come up with, “....stay safe out there, then.”

“Yeah,” he runs his tongue over his teeth and squints at you. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” 

Snorting, you know it’s important to remain as blase as possible so you don’t cry. Although, you don’t really cry anymore. Even when you want to, the tears never come. At some point, after watching every person you’ve ever cared for die in uniquely devastating ways, you must’ve reached your lifetime limit. 

“I know you. Something’s up.”

No, you don’t! You want to scream, but that would be a lie. It’s been three years since you met, maybe one since your….arrangement, or whatever you’d call it, had begun. 

How the two of you had become so close was a mystery even to you. It’s not like you were charming or charismatic, or willing to put up the innocent act. You didn’t try to inflate his ego, which most men loved. At first, you didn’t even really like him at all. That changed with time. Somewhere along the way, things just clicked.

“It’s nothing that no one has ever felt before,” you shrug. Joel has his fair….or rather unfair share of demons, and is the last person you want to complain to. Most of the time, he’s unflinchingly guarded, but he’s shared enough – secrets whispered in your ear while tangled in damp sheets, your hand on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart – to make you wonder if you have it so bad. Focusing on a fixed point, a crack in the tiled floor, you avoid his eyes.

“Hey,” his voice pulls you back. “Don’t do that.” 

“I’ll be okay,” you say. “I’m just having a d-a week.” A month, a year, a life. Reluctantly, you meet his gaze.

His face softens, his hand reaching to clasp with your own, thumb grazing across your palm. “Come here,” he murmurs. He pulls you against him tightly, tucking your head under his chin, his fingers weaving into your hair. 

“You’re going to be alright. You’re a strong girl.” He’s too smart to believe that, you think. But it doesn’t stop you from pressing your lips against his sternum. His broad chest is sturdy, firm, and you close down your eyes. 

Neither of you speak, and one of his hands begins to stroke your back in soothing circles. You stay wrapped in his arms for a long time. Long enough to think about how you might never get to do this again, and you suddenly want him in all the ways you never had him, and all the ways you had. Just one last time. 

He presses a kiss to your temple. “I can tell you’re exhausted, baby. Let’s get you to bed.”

There’s no reason to protest, he’s right, so you let him lead you to the bed. You’re already in your pajamas, and he draws back the covers and tucks you underneath them carefully. 

“You’re staying,” you say. It’s meant to be a question, but it comes out like command, and although you can’t stand the idea of pleading for it, would if you had to. You’re that desperate. 

You hear the clunk of his boots landing on the floor, feel the dip of his weight on the opposite side of the bed. 

“Of course,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper as he slides underneath the covers. 

Joel’s arm snakes around your waist, and you’re being pulled back against his chest. You wriggle to be closer, even though it’s not possible, his nose resting on the crown of your head, stroking your hair softly. He’s being so tender, so sweet, it makes you feel sick.

“What if I don’t want you to leave?” you turn your head slightly, so you can see him out of the corner of your eye. You want to be able to remember his face, in case you never see him again. He was handsome, you’d always thought that, even despite the years between you. 

“It’s my brother. I don’t have much of a choice, baby.”

Joel had told you all about Tommy. You wished you could be resentful at his leaving to find his brother, but you knew you’d risk pretty much anything for the chance to see anyone in your family again. 

You shake your head. “This…sucks.” 

He offers a rare chuckle, one that vibrates through his chest and straight to the ache in your stomach that started when he told you he’d be leaving. “It does. I’m sorry.”

Joel sighs, his breath on the nape of your neck, and you shiver. “I’ll miss you.” It’s a simple truth you can hear in his voice without even needing to look in his eyes.

“I’ll miss you.” You reach for his hand. 

You roll over to face him, his head propped on his opposite hand, looking down at you. 

“You remember everything I taught you?” he asks. “Be smart, keep yourself safe.”

Joel had proven to be a pretty valuable resource when it came to survival skills. He’d taught you how to shoot a gun, to load and reload it, how to take it apart, clean it, and put it back together. You recalled the feeling of him leaning over your shoulder, adjusting your grip to shoot at a target. And even if most of his lessons in hand-to-hand combat resulted in him having his way with you on the kitchen floor – you didn’t mind it at all – you knew enough to defend yourself. 

“I do,” you answer. “And I will.”

You think of all the time you’ve spent with him the past few years. How it has made things bearable. It’s likely the last time you’ll ever see him, and you know what you’re supposed to say. But for the life of you, you just can’t say it.

Instead, you lean in to kiss him, lazy and lingering, both your hands on the side of his face, palms pressed against the scruff of his beard. You pull away after awhile.

“Tell me about what it was like. Before all this.” When the outbreak began, you were just a child. It felt like a dream, your memory so fuzzy it was hard to recall anything except the worst parts.

Joel does, and you listen, captivated, though it’s not the first time you’ve heard it. For such a gruff man, he paints a pretty picture.

It’s easy to imagine what your life might be like if none of this had ever happened. It would have been better, infinitely better, for yourself, for Joel, for everyone. It would be better, but if it hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t have met him. For some reason, something about that doesn’t feel right.

[gretavanlace]

Anathema (part 1)

Jake kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, language, angst, violence, dark themes, horror themes, illusions to oral sex, digital penetration, etc

Born of this incredible ask…please keep those off the rails requests coming!! I’ve taken some creative liberties as always

It’s plagued you for months, this incessant, rhythmic, thump thump thumping.

The first night, it had dragged you out of a fitful slumber. Nudged it’s way right into a strange, unsettling dream you were wandering through. The sound became the backdrop, keeping time as you stumbled through an unfamiliar room with no doors until you clawed your way conscious and embarked on a sleep deprived, desperate, search for the source.

The second time you were lying prone on your stomach, nursing the sting of a sunburn. Worn down and exhausted from a day at the lake with too much sun and beer, and not enough sunblock. The sheets felt scratchy beneath you, dragging over your UV beaten skin like fingernails dug in just a little too deep. Annoyed and drained, you hadn’t been able to muster the energy needed for the hunt, and instead, had willed yourself to ignore it until it shuffled over into white noise territory.

The third happening had pissed you off, for lack of a more elegant description.

‘What the fuck is that?’ Had been your frustrated hiss into a dark apartment with no one to answer your query but yourself. Again, you had searched, leaning in close to appliances, pressing your ear up against wall after wall. Again it had proven fruitless. Was the noise coming from inside your own head, you began to wonder. It seemed plausible. Hell, it was beginning to seem likely.

To prove your sanity, you asked neighbors about it, receiving only blank, confused stares in reply. When it got to the point it was happening each and every night, you’d implored a friend to stay over and help you get to the bottom of it.

Clear as a bell it had reverberated through your apartment - wet, organic pulses of sound that made you think of a heartbeat, but not quite.

She had heard nothing, and simply suggested you run a fan at night with a shrug.

A good idea?

Perhaps.

In theory.

However, and you know this sounds crazy, every attempt has been carried out in vain.

Fans? Each one stricken with a smoking motor the moment day ticks over into night. The radio, drifting classic rock softly into the darkened space? Staticky signal that inevitably fades into silence. Noise machines? Broken straight out of the box. Television? Fell off the wall though securely attached. Ear plugs? Missing - pair after pair.

It is as if the sound wants to be heard.

There is an old water stain that occupies the space above your head when you lie awake in bed at night, and if you stare at it long enough, your eyes begin to blur and it looks as though it’s floating. Undulating into languid, shifting, shapes. A faded, brown cloud painted across dingy white paint to keep you company when sleep evades you.

Tonight finds you like most nights do; lost in that disgusting stain, aching to block out a sound you can’t be sure is really even there. Does it exist if you are the only one capable of hearing it? It seems as waste - something occupying space in the universe, real and extant, solely for you.

It seems closer, and something about that makes an unease prickle up your spine. Real or imagined, it is far too near. You’d like to climb out of bed to escape the muted pounding, but it will only follow.

There is a change taking place, though you can’t decide how you have come to understand that truth. This night is pivotal. A shift of great importance is materializing. Salient and inescapable. Grave and arousing in your desire to understand it.

Still, you can’t shake it, no matter how badly you want an answer to your torment - the horror that lies beneath. Whatever is becoming of this night, it isn’t pretty, and it isn’t good. It is dark. It is malicious. It is shadowy malevolence incarnate slithering into the room, dank and feral, like a diseased organ rotting in the corner.

There is something else there, too. A familiarity. A comradery. It too was adored and held in high esteem once, only to be cast aside. Forgotten. Abolished. A favorite child replaced by a soft, pink, newborn babe.

Oh, the ugliness that can be born of love so beautiful.

“I was never beautiful.” The voice comes like a backwards echo. Falling into the space around you strangely, a chilling embrace you burn to scramble out of.

You want to listen to it all your life and to never have heard it at all, all at once. It is horrific, like nails raking back and forth along a dusty chalkboard…and yet, it is alluring. The most alluring. Gorgeous and wrong, like a curse word in a language you don’t speak.

You’ve darted up into a tiny crouch against your headboard, frightened and thrumming like a rabbit hunted and cornered with nothing but a blanket clutched in your shaking fists to protect you from….

…from what?

“You aren’t beautiful, either.” The voice sounds out once more, treacherous and lovely. “Angelic package, all smooth skin, and pink, wet places to cradle a cock, but you’re ruined on the inside. Fucking ruined.”

Cold sweat - you’d always chalked it up to lazy descriptive prose. A way to convey fear without thinking too hard about what fear really is…how it feels, how it takes up shop in one’s body.

How wrong you were…and how awful it truly is. You feel akin to an unwelcome houseguest in your own flesh. Cold. Clammy. Sticky with sick, terrible chills.

Go away. You think silently. But take me with you.

“Fool.” The voice disapproves, mockingly. “Take me with you. Shut up, you’re all alike. One taste of something that is bigger than your small existences and you’re falling all over yourselves to come along for the ride. Fucking leeches.”

Tiny orbs, black and offensive to the eye, are gathering in the corner of your bed, materializing like a fluid swarm from underneath, until you feel like your heart will actually rip apart inside your chest.

The fear is crippling, and also, the only real and true thing you’ve ever felt.

Slowly, like a nearly dormant hive of wasps, a shape begins to form. It’s strangely sharp around the edges - that’s the only way to describe it, though it makes no sense. It’s like tiny needles sinking into your retinas, except, it hurts so badly it almost feels euphoric.

You want more, and more, and more, of that unnerving pleasure-ache, so you watch…drinking it in, even as you quake in terror.

A hum, cousin to a whispered wail, like demons screaming along the strings of a warped violin, sounds out. “Ah, so she likes the grotesque sinew better than the pretty muscle. I’ve a glutton for the underbelly before me. My favorite.”

Do his eyes take shape first, or do they simply steal the show? You know nothing but their flashing, reptilian stare. Icy in their chocolate warmth in a manner that shouldn’t be, shifting with each rapid blink. Pupils so blown the black eclipses all else one moment, then slivered and whittled down like a feral cat’s the next. Blurred over white with a translucent, protective lid and then suddenly clear as crystal, and just as stunning.

His flesh draws focus next. Shape shifting in texture with each minuscule twitch of muscle. It is without blemish and tempting, you find yourself longing to reach for it; but it is hideous as well, flashing and rippling with something that brings scales to mind below the tan expanse. Something lies beneath and you know without doubt that you’d likely not enjoy seeing it.

But which is the facade? The beauty? Or the unholy creature it shrouds? And does it even matter?

Discs of silver are draped around his elegant neck; clasps obscured by mahogany waves that sway against his shoulders. Doubloons pilfered from the abyss of Davy Jones’ locker. Plucked from the pockets of those lost to fickle, frigid waters, and fashioned into strange jewelry. Though you have no knowledge that this is their origin, only that they are mesmerizing, just as everything about him seems to be.

He steps closer, shoving the bed aside with a bored flick of his wrist, rather than moving around the wooden post at the foot.

It’s then that you notice his hands. Wide, menacing palms, delicately agile fingers that move through the air like he is conducting the orchestra of all things.

Rings carved out of metals you can’t identify are adorned with ancient gems you don’t recognize. Shimmering stones of indigo and cerulean, bioluminescent and alive in their glow, winking and glittering under your stare, soothing you with their wicked loveliness.

One - and you’ve already decided it is your favorite - curls up around his thumb like a spiraling root, green as seaweed. Connected, is a thin thread of iridescent aquamarine blue, that leads to a cuff of silver around his wrist etched deeply with hieroglyphs. It disappears beneath a sheer cloak of still blue that flutters as though caught in a soft breeze.

Upon the opposite wrist, a woven wrap of ivory rope - primitive and time worn. He follows your inquisitive gaze and softens slightly at your curiosity. “It tethers me to the sea, little fish.”

Flashes of majestic, gentle whales floating in navy waters as they sing, spark through your mind. He seems to see, and it perks an oil slick smile curling at his lips. “Further back. Before there were hands clutching quills, scribbling to record time, the salt waters were choked with slippery, filthy, things. Monsters. That, is the sea I am bound to. It still exists somewhere that isn’t here. So save your pretty notions, if you would, as I am so tired of them.”

You choose not to think about it any further, lest he grow angry with exasperation…what if he were to leave? But, shouldn’t you want him to go?

Those hands, worthy to rival history’s greatest artistic creations, end in razored, terrifying claws, and he catches you watching them, fear wild in your eyes, as he saunters closer.

“Do I frighten you?” There is a hiss tucked away behind a sensual rasp…the serpent sidewinding through the grass, eager to taste your sin upon its forked tongue. “Do these frighten you?” he drags a claw along your thigh, slitting it open so cleanly you could glimpse bone if only you bring yourself to look. There is an absence of pain, but you cry out anyway.

“Hold your tongue or I’ll slice it from your pretty mouth.” He sighs, bored already with your all too human antics. “Speak quietly, and I will listen. Scream, and perhaps I might enjoy it enough to give you reason to carry on so.”

He flicks through the blood trickling down your leg, speckling it against your chest. “I asked if these frighten you,” he clicks his claws together and the sound doesn’t match the action…they bring to mind bells made of glass.

You find yourself shaking your head, and even more strangely, you find that it’s true. You’re no longer afraid of them. Intrigued seems a more apt description now.

“No?” His tongue sweeps across his plush bottom lip. You shudder to find that it is, in fact, forked. “I’ve just split you open so deeply I could bend and suck the marrow from your bones and you look upon them with devotion. Are you stupid, or simply gluttonous for agony?”

Sensing neither answer will bode well for you, you choose trembling silence.

“They can be anything I’d like them to be,” he’s strolling around now, pacing like fire licking along a back and forth trail of gasoline, idly tapping at you, toying in the blood that still seeps from your painless wound.

“Givers of unimaginable pain. Lenders of mercy. Silver like our dear friend, the moon. Dripping red as though I’ve buried them into your heart to wrench it from your chest.”

You’re hanging on every word…he is a sinful prophet and you would bow and wash his feet with your tangled hair, even if they were cloven hooves.

“I can drift them through you, a sacred thread through the eye of a needle. Tear you to ribbons without so much as a wince of pain, as you well know,” he nods at his handiwork, where you remain splayed open and spilling blood, albeit slower now. “Or, I could rip holes through you, dull and jagged, until you were suffering in unthinkable torment. Pain of which you cannot fathom. Pleasure greater still.”

You’ve settled down into a gentle writhe you can’t seem to quiet. He arches an eyebrow with what seems to be festering fondness that somehow borders on distaste.

He exhales and the room suddenly smells of something unfamiliar. Something that makes you picture sinking down into cold, silent, depths. Black ocean floors, alien creatures. Solitude. Death. End.

Your chest tightens with slow panic, you’re drawing oxygen deep into your lungs, but could you still be drowning?

“How long?”

“How long?” You borrow his phrasing, confused. It is the first time you’ve truly spoken to him and words you’ve known all your life taste foreign on your tongue.

Those seductively predatory eyes blink alive like diamonds tumbling under golden light. Is it the sound of your voice that has affected him so? The fact that you have calmed enough to squeak out a question? Or something else entirely?

A shuffling noise sounds out, like the swollen tail of a fat and famished crocodile lumbering along the edges of a vile swamp. He is moving closer, but there is nothing dragging the floor behind him. He’s fabricated the sound, you realize. He is building a world. He wants your fear.

Fine. You decide, spine straightening almost imperceptibly, he may want all he likes, but he won’t have it.

“Mind your thoughts, little fish.” He warns, “I can hear each one clearer than if you’d spoken them aloud and I’ve a nasty temper. If it is your fear that I want, it is your fear that I will have. If it is the useless cunt between your legs that I fancy, I’ll have that, too. Now, answer me. How. Long?”

He takes pity and plants the seed of understanding in your muddled mind. How many nights have you spent alone, he’s pondering. How long since hands have charted maps along your body?

The thought of hands touching you draw your attention back to his, and you’d like to say never. You’d like to be his, completely his, never spoiled by one who came before. Looking at them makes you ache. The way you believe he would touch you makes your stomach roil with revolt. You are both repulsed by and desperate for it.

“Strange, aren’t you?” His chin cocks and the blue light of the moon catches his face. He’s breathtaking, but still, there is what lies haunting and hidden, to contend with. It waits just below that pretty, deceiving surface, a riptide sent to drag you down. You won’t fight it.

“I hide away in your room, night after night,” he bends down and snakes his cool tongue along the frantic pounding of your jugular. The fork catches your earlobe and makes you cringe, but you refuse to cower away. “Drive you just shy of completely mad…” he licks at you again. “And still, I can smell it - how your lovely cunt weeps for whatever I might see fit to slip inside.”

Your body shakes violently, but out of fright or want, you can’t decide.

“She’d gladly open up for whatever I offered, would she not? The blades that tip my fingers? The entire fist of my claw? This tongue you seem so disgusted by, my cock - even if it landed, heavy and cruel, upon the floor, cracking the very foundation beneath your feet. You’d take it, would you not? You’d welcome the pain of my pulling you apart, destroying this pretty package from the inside out, and that is not a question. I’m a spy, little fish, and I know.”

Suddenly, you hear it. Has it been there all along? No. No, certainly not…but there it is - thump thump thump. It’s closer than it has ever seemed no matter how avidly you chased it. He watches the feverish fury come alive in your gaze and he seems beyond entertained by it.

“You…” it hisses, low and accusatory, out of you. A verbal pointed finger of rage.

A smile that doesn’t meet his eyes bares his teeth. They are perfectly straight and white as driven snow, but there is something odd about them, too. “Oh, how I’ve enjoyed watching you descend into madness every night, driven slowly insane by the sound of my cock pounding for you.”

Realization wraps itself around you - a clingy lover you can’t spurn. The sound had danced with a hint of familiarity all along, like a heartbeat, but not quite.

“You’ve been hiding here? Watching me?” You latch your grip around the reins of your voice, fighting for control of it. Still, it quivers. “All this time?”

“My business is none of your own.” He’s grown bored with your questioning, though you’ve only just begun. “I have watched you, and I will watch you still, if I so choose. What leads you to believe that you have a choice in the matter?”

Sickeningly, you relish it - his disregard for your opinion. You’re not sure what that says about you, and you’re not sure that you care.

“Why?” The words hushed out of you, small and weak though you so badly wish for strength. “Is it love that keeps you coming back?” You wish for love more than strength.

“Love?” A laugh barks out of him, halting and nasally. “I love the way you twist and turn in your sheets when you touch yourself because you think there’s no one to see. I love the way you sound when you cum. The way you flush with shame when you realize you’ve made a mess and the neighbors might have heard. I love the way you smell when you’re afraid…like an apple perched upon a stick and candied in terror. I love the way you think you’re looking for a sound that drives you to distraction in the dark, when in reality you are simply refusing to see.”

He knows you and has seen you engaged in the most intimate of acts. You hate it. You love it.

“Close your mouth before I fill it.” The admonition shakes the rafters of your soul, and he looks exquisitely pleased with himself. “Would you enjoy that? Do you like sucking cock, or is it an obligatory act? A means to an end to be spat out and rinsed from your tongue?’

“I—“

He shuts your mouth with a sharp glare, “I don’t ask questions because I care to hear your answers. I ask them because I enjoy watching you squirm. You’re delectable when you’re uncomfortable.”

“Besides,” his knee is sinking into the bed now, crawling closer like a spider readying to wrap you in wet silk spun from his body. “If I want to know if you enjoy a cock in your mouth, I’ll shove mine down your throat.”

He waits until you seem to shrink in on yourself. “Good. Now, find your silence and perhaps I’ll tell you how I came to be this thing. Would you like to know what found me before I found your bed?”

A slow nod gains strength, encouraging this unburdening that seems to be gaining momentum. It’s true that a current of thought has been rushing steadily behind all others in the back of your mind…the wonder of what he is, how he came to be, if he plans to hurt you, or turn you - whatever that might mean.

“Little fish wants a grim bedtime story? A horrendous tail to quench all that obscene, voyeuristic need that lives hidden inside you?” He reaches down, mouth hovering so close to yours you can taste the salt and clove on his breath, and heals the wound he inflicted…simply sealing it up with an upward drag of the same steely claw that inflicted it.

The creation of the gash hadn’t hurt, but the healing of it brings to life an indescribable pleasure inside you. The serotonin floods your brain, thick and heady. You’ll chase this feeling for the rest of your days, you just don’t know it yet.

“My name was Jacob,” he begins. “He who supplants or follows after. I did not live up to my moniker. My father was a great man. Long gone in a war time doesn’t remember. I was meant to carry a legacy of nobility, strength, pride. I did no such thing.”

His tongue, now pink and soft, wet and delicious, laps over the sweet spot he has sussed out along your collarbone. Fork mended in order to soothe your unease.

“I enjoyed the chase of indulgence, instead. Catered to my own desires and no one else’s. My mother wept for her lost child with his selfish soul. My brother, born but a few moments before me, tried to drag me back into the fold, but I wanted none of it.” His hand is on your stomach now, tickling those frosty, shining blades ever so gently over the fluttering muscles there.

“No,” the bridge of his nose sweeps along your jaw as he inhales his next meal of carnal indulgence. “I wanted none of it. I opted instead to chase the sweet embrace of a brand new cunt to kiss my cock night after night…”

The admission squeezes an aching, ravenous, moan from your chest. You’re disturbed and terror-stricken, but it’s a feeling like none you have ever experienced before and you want more and more and more. More, more, more, worse and worse, uglier and uglier.

“I spotted her along the shores of Iteru. Her skin caught the light as she sunbathed, like the tiger’s eye I wore on a length of twine around my neck. Her hair, black as pitch, her eyes darker still. She seemed to be watching me, calling to me, and I went to her.”

Jealousy has reared her hideous head at the thought of him wanting her, but he drives it right out of your thoughts by slipping two fingers inside you, curling them and calling forth a cry of wanton bliss. If the claws are still there, let them leave you torn and bleeding, for you never want this to end.

“Having nearly drowned in that very river as a boy while fishing for perch, I never ventured near. My brothers fished those waters, but I hunted gazelle to make my contribution to the family table at night. But she was a blue flame, and I, the ignorant moth who wanted to flutter my wings between her legs.”

Deeper his touch sinks, searching out a place you hadn’t even known to exist. “Jacob…” the name claws at your throat as it escapes but he merely tilts his head, watching you with fascination as something ripples beneath his cheeks. It reminds you of snakes breaching soft seas, shaking your shoulders with a shudder of disgust.

“That was my name.” He corrects, fucking you into a cloudy, desperate haze with only his hand. “Don’t use it again, and do not ask what I am called now. It matters not.”

As though turning the page of a deranged picture book, he carries on. His voice raking with an underlying vibration you can’t place.

“I was terrified of water, and I should have been terrified of her. But I went to her, and without a word, she spread her thighs and I fed her my cock until she was spent and nearly asleep on the muddy shore. Her father heard her cries. Had I covered her mouth, perhaps I would’ve rotted to dust in a tomb long ago, as I was meant to.”

You have reached for him, and he has allowed it, and now you’re clutching at his cloak, threatening to rip holes into its silken waves.

“Her father was a tyrant. Evil and cruelly protective of his beautiful, only daughter, who enjoyed the hands of men more than she worried about snaring one to wed. He carried magic in his veins, but no honor.”

You’re close, far too close for his liking, and his hand retreats to play in circles over your quaking inner thighs as you whine and plead with him to make you cum. He quiets you sternly and carries on.

“He sentenced me to eternity in inky, prehistoric waters. Doomed to swim them as a horrific, sickening thing…one that would never again turn the head of a pretty girl lying in the sun. But she held magic in her blood as her father did, weaker than his, but there all the same. She gifted me the shell you look upon now, so that I might still indulge, from time to time, in what I love so well.”

Your voice comes strong and sure, more confident than you have ever known it to be. “Indulge, then.”

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightjaketastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @gretasmokerising @spicedandicedtea @calumspretty @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @thelvnternskeeper @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @jordie-gvf-admin @sunfl0wer-power @sad1lynn @starcatcher-jake @gvfpal @gretavangroupie @hugorobinson

[mvnvgedmischief]

unremarkable days: Sirius black is trying to be a good man, a good brother, a good person. Sirius has a steady job designing book covers for a publishing house, a flat he never leaves, and a traumatized brother who was just removed from the custody of his parents. All in all, it's wildly unremarkable.

archive tags: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Regulus Black, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Modern Marauders (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), ok so this is mostly just sirius trying to take care of a traumatized regulus, Modern AU, Sirius trying to be a father figure, to his brother who was just removed from his home, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Artist Sirius Black, Writer Remus Lupin, Young Regulus Black, Past Child Abuse, Trauma, everyone is sad, Custody Battle, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Past Domestic Violence, Child Abuse, Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Domestic Violence

words: 103,104 chapters: 27/?

this is kind of my baby in terms of fics i’ve written, i love it so much. it will probably end up around 30 chapters, but lord knows. artist!sirius x writer!remus in a modern take on a high society young adult recovering from his fall from grace while trying to hide his sexuality, take care of his brother, and fall in love. will his secret self destruction be the only thing that stands between him and the future he wants?

read it on ao3 here!

It was stressful to figure out what he needed, in the way of treatment. He had finally gotten things sorted today after several hours of meeting with Vincent Square and then following up with Orri. He would be spending the next weeks in the Orri PHP program, while he was working through supervised visitation with his parents, as well as the holidays. If, during that process, he needed a higher level of care, he had to take a bed at Vincent Square. If they decided, upon the completion of the holidays and the scheduled return to his life, January 15th, that he needed a higher level of care, he needed to take a bed at Vincent Square. None of this was binding or anything, but it was something he agreed to, so it wasn’t like he would be comfortable backing out. He wished he would, somewhere in the back of his mind, because he was just so much more comfortable at home, making the same disordered decisions he was making right now. He wanted to keep avoiding meals, expelling his demons with his purges, and destroying himself. But he couldn’t. No, if he wanted to continue to be Reggie’s guardian. 

It was a long fucking year.

Sirius had crashed on the couch. If he was honest, he crashed on the couch more often than he slept in his bed. He was sure that it was overwhelming to Reggie upon his arrival here, but they were coming up on a milestone soon. Almost a year of the two of them living together, almost a year of his parents trying to ruin him. He almost wondered when they would start trying to laud him with money, considering nothing else had worked in strong-arming Sirius into giving them what they wanted. The worst part, if you asked Sirius, was that he would consider it. He would be a liar if he said that the amount of money he could surely get out of his parents could really change his life. He could buy his flat, and instead of worrying about rent each month, he could take the time off he needed to make sure that he got his head on straight, he could finally maybe stop feeling like he was a ghost haunting his own life. That would be nice. 

Going through the motions was becoming exhausting for the artist. He was struggling desperately to be an active participant in his life, too bogged down by the static in his brain. His tether to reality had been fraying for a long time, and it had become dangerously worn. How easy things would be if he could give up. Sure, Reggie would be left in the lurch, which was why he didn’t. But giving up had a level of appeal to him that nothing else could. An end to his exhaustion, to his fear, was so far out of his reach. The only way out he could see from where he was right now was his end. As of now, he was staring down what felt like an unending torment of visits with his parents, meetings in court, stacks of work, appointments with therapists, and answering to Severus somewhere in the middle he would have to find time for maintaining his relationship with James, even though he was still resentful, trying to be supportive to Pete in the absence of his father, hopefully building a relationship with Remus– fuck he was overwhelmed. To die felt so much easier, but so completely unattainable. 

The loud buzzing of his phone vibrating on the hardwood floor pulled him out of his restless sleep, and he answered without taking a moment to check the caller ID. He would regret that he was sure. 

“Why did you answer, it’s four am?” No greeting. Typical Severus. 

“Most people start with something like alright, mate? Greetings are a part of a civilized society.” 

“Are you not sleeping again?” 

“I cannot imagine you called me at four am to confirm I wasn’t sleeping, Sev. And for your information, I was sleeping.” 

“And you’ve never heard of the do not disturb function?” 

“What do you want, Sev?” 

“I wanted to leave a voicemail.” 

“Why can’t you just tell me?” 

A pregnant pause met Sirius from the other side of the phone call. Sirius didn’t want to think about what it meant that Sev wasn’t answering the question. He wanted to let his brain keep blurring out of his understanding. He wanted to go back to living in his isolated, foggy brain. He didn’t want any of the struggle of actual interaction. “Please don’t make me humiliate myself by actually telling you to your face.” 

“This is a phone call.” 

“Close enough.” 

“Why are you calling me, Severus?” Sirius was sure that the other man could hear the way his silver eyes were rolling back in his head. He wanted to go back to sleep. It felt as though Sirius was constantly in sleep debt, even when he had hours of sleep. Any number of hours greater than one felt like a win to Sirius. He was so exhausted, his eyes permanently half-lidded and glassy with his deprivation. 

“Please,” Severus responded, and Sirius felt like he could taste the other man’s desperation. Maybe that was why the universe never let him sleep. Maybe his vigilance was some kind of superpower he unlocked when he didn’t sleep. He found his mind wandering back to the past, whirring on his time believing in something. He was never one for faith, never a true believer in god. He remembered the way his family forced him into itchy, uncomfortable dress clothes to sit on a pew that was far too uncomfortable. He remembered being eight, and the way that it would hurt to sit on that pew. He remembered the way he would shift, and be smacked by his mother for moving too often. 

“Would you prefer I hang up and let you call back?” Sirius responded, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I somehow find that would be more humiliating.” 

“Whatever,” Severus mumbled, and it was then that Sirius tasted the saltiness that was the tightness in the other man’s voice. 

“Shit,” Sirius mumbled, sitting up on the couch. He was sure Severus could hear the crinkling of the couch around him. If he wasn’t full of a toxic mixture of existential dread and sleep deprivation, he would be confronted with how awful it felt to make such a noise. God, it was so stupid when he thought about it all honestly. How pathetic, to know that the way a couch moved would be enough to send him reeling. “ Areyoualright ?” The words stumbled out of his mouth all as one, for fear of leaving too much space in between them for the acrid taste of even more emotions. If he were on the other end of the phone, he may have heard it the way Severus did. He would’ve heard the way his voice was heightened and the way anxiety seeped into his voice. But he couldn’t hear that, it was drowned out by the ringing in his ears, and the way his blood was rushing up to flood his vision with stars. If he were like Remus, if he were a poet, he would say that the stars couldn’t wait to meet him, and he couldn’t wait to meet them. That all of his issues were an outward expression of his soul’s desire to take his rightful place amongst Canis Major. If he were a scientist, like Severus, he would say that he was starving his body of necessary nutrients and that these were the standard consequences of that. But he wasn’t a poet, and he wasn’t a scientist. He wasn’t even sure he was an artist anymore. Artist implied some level of care, compassion, and vision. He didn’t have any of that anymore. All he had was a hollowed-out gnawing in his stomach, a desire to be swallowed up by the earth, and the pathetic rocking back and forth of his anxiety. 

Whatever Severus said in response fell on deaf ears because Sirius couldn’t anything over the loud sounds of his stars falling all around him. It felt like they were careening into the leather around him, burning up on entry to his atmosphere and crashing to the tune of his heart hammering in his ears. 

“– about you. I care about you a lot alright? I know I’m not Remus and I know you love him, but I just–” 

“Severus?” Sirius interrupted, “You called me about this at four in the morning?”

“Couldn’t stomach the idea of you dying without knowing....” Severus mumbled in response, “Couldn’t stomach the idea of you dying at all.” 

“I’m not going to die, Sev,” Sirius sighed, as shaky footfalls carried him out to the fire safety window. 

“Could’ve fooled me, Siri,” Severus sighed, voice tight on the other end of the line, “are you seriously going out for a smoke right now?” 

“You have a problem with smokers now?” 

“Christ,” He mumbled, “I hate you.” 

“Oi,” Sirius chuckled, “I thought you were calling because you didn’t want me to die thinking you didn’t care about me.” 

“Fuck off.” 

 This was off-limits, and they both knew it. The easy banter between them wasn’t something they could have, and they both knew it. It was too much history, too complicated, and involved far too much of their shared trauma. Even if Sirius had wanted it, which he didn’t, it required sacrifices Severus could never make. He was too close to his mother to distance himself, and Sirius was too far from him to reintegrate. Severus had a tight, bitter, and stiff relationship with the Black family. Sirius couldn’t remember anymore how, but he was sure Severus’s mother knew his mother somehow. He knew that the Snapes were also very close with the Rosiers, and if he thought back on it enough, Sirius had fuzzy memories of Eileen, sitting in on the book club, or whatever it was, that his mother ran on Sundays after church. 

“Sev,” Sirius mumbled, “Do you ever wonder....” 

“What if?” Severus responded, his voice tight with desperation and disappointment, “What if it was all different? What if we met at school instead of at your mum’s house?” 

“What if they didn’t hurt us?” 

“Maybe, in that world, we would’ve ended up together.” Came Severus’s watery whisper, like he was afraid to even say it out loud. It wasn’t like Sirius never thought about it. Of course, he thought about it. He had thought about it when he was younger, more naive, trapped in both the literal and figurative closet with Severus. He had even thought about it before he met Remus when he first gained custody of Reggie because maybe it could’ve made everything make sense. But he never took it seriously, especially because back then, they were still hate fucking, as far as Sirius was concerned. He knew, sure, that Severus was all over him, and would get jealous about him, but he thought that they both viewed each other as a prize to be won, a conquest to be made, a dance they did before they fell into a familiar pattern. It was easier for Sirius that way. Finding a new partner, someone who he viewed as more than a sexual conquest, was something had long since given up on until he met Remus. Love had gone out the window a long time ago, and new sexual conquests had been abandoned since he welcomed Regulus into his home. It made everything easier, especially when he thought about the idea of someone new seeing his body under the soft, warm lighting of his bedroom, or the harsh overhead lighting of someone else’s. The thought of someone new seeing the twists and turns, hills and valleys of his body had made Sirius feel physically ill, and it was only when Remus came careening into his life that he considered welcoming someone new in.

“Don’t cry, Sev.” Sirius replied, his own voice sounding tight, “Maybe someday, it won’t hurt to think about it anymore.” He mumbled, “You’ll find someone who can love you the way you deserve. I could never do that for you, no matter how much I wanted to in the past.” 

“I know, I see your family too often,” Severus mumbled back, with a tight chuckle. Sirius felt a tension in the pause between them before Severus’s voice came through the phone again. “You’ve wanted to?” The question hurt in a way he wished it didn’t. He had wanted to when they were younger. He wanted to, but he wasn’t brave enough to ask. He wanted to ask Sev to put distance between himself and Sirius’s family, he wanted to stop the game they played of irritating each other in front of their respective friends so they could storm off and meet in a broom closet, but Sirius was so insecure. He had been so scared of asking for something he couldn’t have, so he settled into their routine and never said anything. Eventually, he grieved what he knew he couldn’t have, and found his way into his life now.

“Sixth form...” Sirius mumbled in response, feeling his chest bloom with shame and his cheeks break into a blush. 

“You never said...”

“Of course not. You hated me.” Sirius chuckled, his own eyes welling up with tears at the thought of their youth, a youth that was so broken and marred with problems. “Even if you didn’t really, I couldn’t fathom that.” 

“But you should’ve –” Severus began before Sirius was quick to cut him off. 

“Oi, I’m pretty sure you didn’t say anything until three months ago. Glass houses and all that.” 

“I don’t know, Siri. Thinkin’ it’s probably time for me to give up on love.” 

“Sev, we’re way too young for that,” Sirius responded, taking a long pull of his cigarette. “I think it’s probably time you give up on me.”  That pulled a broken sob out of Severus, which the former aristocrat hadn’t anticipated. 

Why was Sev crying? He couldn’t understand that, even if an outsider would have to be blind to miss it. There was so much subtext in that kind of statement. Everyone knew that Sirius wanted them to give up on him, to let him starve himself off and die in peace. You’d have to be an idiot to miss that the statement twisted the knife in Severus’s chest, making him yearn just that much more for the world where he could have exactly what he wanted. Too bad Sirius was an idiot, and he couldn’t read his own subtext, let alone someone else’s. 

“Why do you insist on saying that?” Severus snapped. Once again, Severus was beyond his understanding. “Why do you insist that everyone should just let you destroy yourself?” His voice was tight with his tears, but his tone was harsh. “The people in your life care about you, you fucking dickhead. I love you for fucks sake, and I keep tearing myself apart to be here for you even though you’re an arsehole, and your brother because you’re losing your shit. I let your tosser of a best mate run around saying I’m into his girlfriend, just so that nobody asks you a godforsaken question you don’t want to answer. Why do you have to beg me to give up on you all the time? Don’t you know how that feels?” A broken sob ripped out of Severus amid his rant, and Sirius couldn’t help the way he felt guilty. 

“Severus, hey–” He tried to interrupt, but it was fruitless. Severus was going to keep saying his piece until he got everything off of his chest, and it seemed like he really needed to get the rant out, despite however much it hurt Sirius to hear. “Sev, it’s okay...” Sirius whispered into the phone, “I’m okay. ‘S not what I meant, mate.” He would be a liar if he said that none of that was new information. He knew Severus was into him, and always had been decently intro him enough to sleep with him, but he had been under the impression that Severus was in love with Lily, as was the widely held belief in his friend group. It never occurred to him that Severus would be trying to protect him. It never occurred to him that everything he said sounded like a veiled plea for everyone to just let him go. 

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, Siri,” Sev whispered. Sirius could practically feel the earnestness in his bones, the whole conversation had grown bitter and sad. 

“I wish you could see you deserve more than endless pining,” Sirius responded in kind, prompting them to sit silently. It was an unfair response because even though they both meant exactly what they said, they were subtle digs at each other. Severus knew Sirius couldn’t fathom anything but his own bitter hatred for himself, just like Sirius knew his endless chaos kept Severus’s wrapt attention.

He heard his door buzzing inside, which was his cue to wrap this up. “Thanks for calling, mate. I’ve gotta jump somebody’s buzzing and I dunno who could possibly be here at this ungodly hour.” 

“Cheers, mate” Sev responded, although Sirius could tell he wasn’t happy about it. Granted, Sirius wasn’t exactly shocked by that. 

He collected himself and made his way back into his home. It wasn’t the most comfortable for his tired joints, but he ignored their loud protests and climbed back into his living room, taking notice of the clock on the wall, when had it become 5 AM? 

“Oi, do you know what time it is?” Sirius mumbled into the buzzer’s microphone.

“Can I come up?” Remus’s voice garbled through the speaker, and immediately Sirius was buzzing in the other man. God, he was glad Remus was here. He didn’t remember asking Remus to come over, but if Remus was here then he was sure he must have. Either way, he was glad Remus was here. He wanted to be held, to be loved, to be touched. He just wanted to feel okay again, even if he knew he wouldn’t any time soon. He unlocked his front door in preparation for Remus arriving at his flat. Sirius was overtired and he knew it, he was practically buzzing, and as he looked around his home, it struck him that his living room made him look like a slob. There were cups everywhere, his couch cushions were all kinds of fucked up, and his blanket was crumpled up in a ball. Bleary, wide eyes remained unfocused as he collected the dishes around the room, hoping to make his home look slightly less like a pigsty and more like a legitimate home. 

Remus walked into Sirius’s home, his rambling steps ringing loudly in his ears, and the man felt ashamed. His voice cut through the white noise in Sirius’s mind, and he felt himself sinking deeper into himself. 

“Shit, Siri,” Remus mumbled, “You alright, love?” 

“Yeah,” Sirius mumbled, silver eyes cast down on his hands. God, he should’ve cleaned up more. He should’ve kept his home nicer, he should’ve kept himself together, he needed to be better. The subtext in his mind was always that better was thinner.   “I’m fine,” He shrugged, “just tired.” It took him a moment, to step outside of his own selfish mind and notice what was going on. Remus’s eyes were rimmed with red, his skin had adopted a pallor, and his frail body was shivering. 

“Re–” Sirius said, eyes trained on the other man. God, he wished this was easy, He desperately wished he could keep himself from spiraling or getting too worried. “Are you alright?” 

“‘M fine,” Remus responds, grey eyes trained on the tile.

“I’m fine...” Sirius trails off, his eyes blown wide with a desire for the floor to swallow him up

The two of them were both sitting there, across from each other, trying to distract the other from just how out of it, and how fucked they felt. Neither was going to be able to shake this discomfort or fear. Sirius didn’t realize that Remus didn’t ask again, his mind too busy elsewhere. 

Maybe he was distracted by his fears, his stress, or the ever-looming holidays. Maybe it was everything, maybe it was nothing. Either way, in an instant Remus was clamoring into his lap, pressing a hungry kiss to his lips. Sirius responded in kind, scabbed and angry fingers tangling in Remus’s golden hair. If he was just a bit more with it, just a little bit more aware of the world around him, maybe he would have noticed the way Remus’s hands shook as they tangled into the hair behind his neck or the fact that he only had a jumper on and it was freezing outside. It took Remus’s cold hands on the back of his neck to snap him back into the dark reality of the moment. “Moony, you’re freezing.” And my heat was off was a silent understanding between them.

“Then warm me up,” Remus responded, pulling on Sirius’s hoodie to bring them closer together. He was daring Sirius not to take exactly what he wanted, and god, was it hard. But Sirius could taste some kind of desperate fear in his overtired hypervigilant state, and he cared too much for Remus to wholly ignore it. “How did you get here?” He whispered, before pressing his lips to the hollow beneath Remus’s ear. In between leaving hickies in his wake, maybe he could get some information out of the smaller man. 

“Ran,” Remus responded, a small gasp escaping him as he leaned into Sirius’s attention. However, the response prompted Sirius to pull away and stare blankly at the other man. “You ran over here? In this weather? With no jacket? From your flat?” He asked, voice blown with shock, “Fuck, do you need a cup of tea or something, love?”  

“No,” Remus responded, his voice still dripping with a desperation that was starting to feel like one Sirius didn’t recognize. The fear that he could previously taste at the back of his throat was starting to creep further and further to his awareness, and he was starting to pay more attention to what was happening around him. Remus’s cold hands met the waistband of Sirius’s boxers, where it stuck out from his pajama pants, and whined, “I want to blow you.” 

“Re–” Sirius mumbled, trying not to let his resolve to figure out what was going on crumble because of his desire for the older man. “Why didn’t you ask me to come get you?” He asked, steely eyes looking over the smaller man.  

“What’s with the twenty questions, Sirius? Don’t you want me?” His voice was sharp with his insecurity. Sirius felt like he was watching in slow motion as Remus’s golden brown eyes welled with tears, and he whispered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” This time it was for once Sirius’s turn to hush him and press a gentle kiss to his forehead like Remus had for Sirius so many times before. 

“What happened, love?” 

“Nothing.”

“Moony, something must have happened...” He replied, his arms wrapping tighter around Remus. 

“It’s fine, Siri...” He responded, “Just leave it.” Once again, he was closing the distance between them with a crushing speed. He let his hands wander down to Sirius’s waistband once again and pulled Sirius’s lower lip between his teeth. 

Sirius pulled away, which elicited a high-pitched whine from Remus. “I’m serious, Moony. Something’s wrong.” It tasted like metal.

“If I wanted to talk about it I wouldn’t have run over here unannounced.” Remus snapped back, “I don’t want to talk.” He mumbled, “Did you get bored of me?” He whispered, golden brown eyes cash down and brimming once again with tears. 

“No,” Sirius replied, a sad chuckle pulling from somewhere deep within him. “No, Moonshine, I’m not bored of you. I just want to know what made you so upset you ran several miles in freezing weather with no jacket.” 

“I can’t have just wanted to see you?” Remus replied, pulling a smug smile. 

“Not without a jacket, you can’t,” Sirius replied, “Let me get you a cup of tea, love.” He replied, scooping up the smaller man and carrying him to the kitchen. He knew he was pushing it with his body. He knew that this was a bad choice for him, as far as risking passing out again, but Remus was so cold he could feel it radiating off of him. He sat Remus down on the counter walked over to the thermostat and turned the heat on. When he returned to the counter, Remus pulled Sirius into another kiss. “Turning on the heat for me? How romantic,” Remus chuckles. 

“Of course,” Sirius responded, leaning into Remus once more, “Moons, please talk to me.” 

“Fen called me,” Remus replied, his eyes drifting off behind Sirius. He couldn’t look the other man in the eyes while he talked about this. Those three words made Sirius’s heart drop into his stomach. He immediately pulled the smaller man into his arms.  “I didn’t know it was gonna be him. It was a Bangor number.” Remus mumbled, burying his face in Sirius’s chest and tightening his arms around Sirius’s waist. 

Sirius wished he wasn’t reminded of how awful he felt about himself, about his insecurities about his body. He didn’t have time to dwell on his thoughts, about what was going on. So instead he focused on pressing kisses to the crown of Remus’s head and whispering sweet affirmations. “You’re safe. He can’t hurt you here. He can’t find you here.” 

“I just feel so awful.” Remus whimpered, “and weak.” 

“You’re one of the most resilient people I’ve ever met,” Sirius responded.

“I’m so scared, Siri.” Remus replied, “What if he finds my flat?”

“Why don’t you stay with me until you go up north?” 

“What about the PI?” 

“They called off the PI when they won visitation. Now it’s up to if Reggie wants to keep seeing them and how Social Services feels.” 

“O-okay...” Remus whimpered in response, “I don’t wanna put you out... I just– he knows Lily and I moved in together. I know he knows.” 

“Baby, you should stay here.” Sirius responded, “I’ll keep you safe.”

It felt like the conversation was stretching on in a way that Remus hated. Sirius saw him bristle every time he asked a question, and every statement sounded like a whimper from a beaten dog. He knew that in Remus’s position, he wouldn’t want to talk about it anymore. He would want to talk about anything else. But he and Remus were different. While Sirius would run in this position, Remus had always been touch-motivated. Maybe that was something that happened before Fenrir, maybe it happened in the touch-starved years since, but Sirius noticed the way his brain stopped whirring at spiraling out of control when Sirius’s hands met the smooth expanses of his pale skin. Sirius put a finger under Remus’s chin, lifting it to pull him into a kiss. He didn’t mind that Remus’s eyes were rimmed red, or the tear tracks staining his cheeks. He found an overwhelming love for the other man, and all he wanted was to fix things. 

“Let me take care of you,” Sirius mumbled, met with a hungry and desperate response from Remus. “Please, Siri. Please .”

It was explosive and beautiful and wild, and when the sun rose on that late December day when Remus’s thighs were covered in hickeys and his mind was fuzzy from pleasure, Sirius felt like things were finally unremarkable.

[yeehawbvby]

Falling Away With You | Ch. 46

Sebastian x F!Reader and M. Rasmodius x F!Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: Y/n is sick, so there's a lot of napping here. As usual, there are shenanigans, too.

Author’s Note: Ok so my aim rn is to post at least once a month :'D Let's hope I can actually follow through...

Hope y'all enjoy, take care! x

Table of Contents + Work Summary

Check it out on ao3!

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Although we left the tower from the main floor, Magnus brought us back through the teleportation hall. I’ve only ever been over here a few times, and it’s just as beautiful and dramatic as you’d expect a hall of cubbies with portals in them to look. 

Spotlights shine over each glowing floor crest. Dense ivy is climbing nearly every wall, because of course Magnus’ arborie extends down here too. Some worn-out, brassy plaques that once stated the location that each portal led to are fastened to the stone in-between each red velvet curtain, which are held up by golden rods. Some of them conceal the portals that they're intended to hide, and others are haphazardly bunched open.

As Magnus and I silently near the end of the hall, we both turn to each other. Something feels… weird.

“Do you hear that?” he asks into my head.

I furrow my brows, then shut my eyes, really trying to focus my senses. I hear… oh for fuck’s sake, is that— “Camilla?” I finish my thought back to the wizard. 

He sighs. His eyelids close. Takes a deeper breath, nodding. Mentally preparing for the confrontation, I assume. 

I wince, remembering how my other encounters with that witch have gone. I haven’t seen her much — just the day I met her, and one other surprise visit. None of it was terrible, I guess, but they weren’t the coziest experiences I’ve had to endure either.

My eyes widen as my thoughts jump to their next subject. Seb.

I whisper, “Fuck, she’s probably torturing the poor guy.”

Another sigh emits from my partner. Matching my volume, he submits. “Well, let’s get this over with…” 

I have to hide a grin. Is it sadistic of me to find his resentment towards Camilla kind of amusing? I mean, he’s typically so laid back, y’know?

While we quietly pad through the bookshelves and back to the room where we began today's activities, I try to focus on Camilla. Channeling my energy, and whatever… aaand…

Damn. Still can’t mind-read. I thought maybe the tension would, like, encourage it out of me or something…? I dunno. 

Maybe some other time.

Probably not.

Fuck.

Whatever.

A few more steps and I’m able to make out her words. She sounds just as unnecessarily sultry as I remember her. “Anyway, how have you been faring, tiger?” Tiger?! I stifle a laugh. “I never thought I’d see you around here again.”

“She must not have gotten here too long ago,” I observe into Magnus’ head, peering up at him as we slow to a halt just a few paces from the room our visitor is occupying. He nods in agreement. 

“If you’d like, you can wait upstairs. I won’t subject you to her if you feel uneasy.”

“Too late. Ripping the bandaid off!” 

Before Magnus can register what I‘ve “said,” I turn the corner. Camilla, probably having been fully aware of our presence for a hot minute or two, turns to me as if in cue. 

“Hey, sweetie~” God, does she have to say it so... seductively? I feel a light tingle in my cheeks and avert all eye contact as I offer a meek “Hi.” I see the witch peer behind me from the edge of my vision, and her grin turns more devilish as I brave her face again. “Razzy!!”

“Spirits protect me,” he murmurs aloud. “Camilla.” He pairs her name with a curt nod. 

She looks tickled. Camilla totally knows he hates her. She has to, I mean, look at them! The lady just knows how to make the best of it. I respect that, honestly. 

I look towards Seb, who looks absolutely exhausted. I wonder if he managed to get even a wink of sleep. As Camilla struts towards Magnus and I, with her focus plastered on the older wizard — thank god — I maneuver towards the couch and plop myself next to Sebastian. 

I can’t resist.

“Hey there, tiger~”

Seb deadpans me. “I will end you.”

I snort. “Sorry, jeez! You alright, love?” I whisper as he leans his head on my left shoulder. My corresponding hand instinctively draws upward, promptly running my fingers through his fluffy, pitch black hair.

He simply groans.

A soft chuckle escapes me, and I pat a kiss onto his forehead before dropping his fringe and leaning my temple against his scalp. I fidget with the shoulder of his shirt and shut my weary eyes, just enjoying the contact with Seb after today. There’s still plenty of daylight left, but I think the excitement combined with the wine has me feeling a little drained. I’m choosing to ignore the potential illness I might experience from skinnydipping in cold water and cold weather like a dumbass, good lord Magnus I would be so mad at you if I had it in me—

“You sleep at all?” I cut my thoughts off.

“Barely…” Seb grumbles, “By the time my body decided to cooperate with me, I had about 10 minutes before she appeared.��

“Hm…” I look up to the other spellcasters in the room, who have relocated from the doorway. Camilla still has her back to us.  “We can try and sneak up to Magnus’ bed for a nap while she’s distracted if you want,” I suggest. “Not sure how focused she is on listening to us right now, y’know?”

Seb sighs. Then, he nods.

“I’m sorry,” I invade Magnus as we stand up and tip-toe to the doorway. “Good luck down here. We’ll be in your room.”

I look over at Magnus, who peers towards us while Camilla focuses her attention to the long, glowy, fancy scroll in her hands. His face stays stoic, but his eyes light up at the sound of my voice; and as he nods his response, he offers a wink.

What does that wink mean? Was it just cheeky? Or does he think we’re leaving to, like, fuck or something?

“Don’t have too much fun without me, dear.” 

Oooh, he thinks we’re fucking. 

I’m pretty sure neither of us have any intention to engage in that — I’d envisioned more of a cozy nap together, perhaps — yet I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if the tables were turned from this morning, with Magnus walking in on Seb and I rather than it being the opposite. 

Phew. I need to think of literally anything else before I short circuit and walk into a wall.

I take Seb’s hand in mine as we wordlessly trek up the basement stairs and through the main floor. Feeling the new piece of jewelry adorning my hand, Seb raises it to his face as we walk up the next set of stairs.

“What’s this?”

“Magnus finally asked me out. Made me a fancy magic ring to go with it.”

“It’s about time,” Seb grins lazily, lightly teasing the absent wizard. “Looks pretty.” He presses a kiss to the knuckle just above my ring, lightly tugging me through the doorway to Magnus’ room. 

“You look pretty,” I quip back.

“I look like shit, actually.” He lets go of my hand and collapses onto the unmade bed, belly-first.

I wrap around to the other side — there’s more than enough room for both of us to sprawl — as I respond, “Still pretty.”

Laying down much more gently, I curl up on my side and away from Seb. “By the way, I might have a cold coming on, in case you wanna keep your distance. I don’t want to get you sick with how busy your work has been lately.”

The bed shifts slightly, and I feel fingers running through my still damp tresses. Mmmm this is nice.

“You two get caught in the rain or something?”

“No,” I sigh. “We went swimming…”

I head a light snort behind me. “Where the hell did he take you where it was warm enough to swim?”

“Bold of you to assume it was warm enough,” I respond, closing my eyes. Melting into the light scratches of Seb’s nails on my scalp, the feathery tugs to release the knots from my hair, the warmth of his fingers... “Same weather as here, basically,” I mention quietly, trying to break out of this comfy stupor. I sniffle and clear my throat before continuing, “It was a magical little forest clearing with a lake and waterfalls and stuff. Looked like it was ripped from Skyrim or some shit.” 

“Any creatures?”

“Only fish.” I hear a soft tut behind me and smile. He was probably hoping for some fancy new frogs. “They were cute, but I was secretly hoping a junimo or two would pop out of the woods to say ‘hi.’”

“I was banking on you meeting some fancy new frogs or something.” Called it! “That still sounds nice though. I’m glad you two had fun out there.”

I nod, scooching back towards Seb. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, tapping a kiss to my head. I hum contentedly. Use my feet and lower legs to shimmy the blankets onto me. Manage to get them up to my knees before reaching down to pull them high enough to cover the lower part of my face. God, they smell so nice. Like Magnus, but with whatever detergent he uses mixed in. Some cottony type of smell. 

I feel some shifting behind me, and then my back feels a little warmer. Seb must’ve tucked himself in too. 

“Comfy?” I murmur, already feeling myself drifting off. 

He hums an affirmation, and it’s the last thing I can register before sleep takes me.

_______________

I wake to a baritone sigh from somewhere across the room. I keep my eyes shut. Sniffle. Notice how crunchy my throat feels, how my spit is almost too thick to swallow. God damnit I’m totally sick. It happened so quickly, too… maybe something about the magic? Who knows.

My gentle alarm clock pads over towards the bed, and I hear another noise – more of a huff, maybe of amusement? – this time. More footsteps. The bed dips in front of me. I feel the warmth of something hover over my cheek, as if hesitating, before it softly rests there. Then, it relocates to my forehead.

“Hm…” I hum, enjoying the feeling. This is so nice. One partner on either side of me. I feel so pampered.

“Are you awake, dearest?” Magnus whispers. His hand drifts back to my cheek, his thumb soothingly stroking it.

“Mhm.” That sounded so gross. I clear my throat and try again. Comes out smoother this time.

He observes, “You feel warm.”

Still too groggy to speak, I respond with another hum. Maybe that was more of a grunt. I dunno.

“Are you feeling alright?”

I shrug. “Probably just a cold,” I answer. My head hurts and this is only making it throb more, but it feels easier to do this than to speak for now. “No big deal.” 

He curses to himself. “I’m sorry, dear. My kind has somewhat of an immunity to most mundane illnesses. I didn’t think twice before encouraging you to join me for a swim.”

“Worth it.” Now that I know I probably can’t get Magnus sick, I remove my hand from under the covers, reaching blindly in his direction. When I feel his shirt in my grasp, I tug it, and with a quiet chuckle he nudges closer to me.

Probably not wanting to disturb Seb, he responds back into my head. “It was not worth it,” he lightly scolds. “I never want you to feel unwell for my sake.”

“It’s worth it to meee.” 

A voiceless chuckle escapes through his noise. “You’re silly.”

“I know. Now shut up and nap with is.”

“So demanding.”

I’m unsure if he’s watching me, but I raise a finger to my lips anyway. “Shhh.”

“Alright, alright.” A beat passes. “Actually...”

The bed shifts again as I feel the body in front of me vanish. I gather the strength to open my eyes, furrowing my brows as I glare up at him between two narrow slits. “That’s not napping,” I pout. 

Another chuckle under his breath. “I’m going to make some soup.” 

“Hmm.” I sigh, shutting my eyes again and scooting back a little more. Seb’s unconscious form tightens its hold around me. ��Fine… thank you, love.”

“Of course, my heart. Please keep resting – I will come get you two when it’s done.”

I nod, hoping he’s still looking. His light steps grow quieter, and the door shuts again. Seb exhales behind me. 

His voice groggy from sleep, he murmurs, “Oh my god dude, his face was so close to mine.”

I chuckle. “Sorry if we woke you up.” I answer verbally, then decide that it’s easier to keep at it telepathically. I feel so… eugh.

“Sorry if you can feel my heartbeat right now,” the emo responds.

“He had you that frazzled, huh?” I feel Seb nod, then continue, “Sounds like your feelings have evolved beyond just crushing territory.”

“You’re telling me…” His arm moves, his hand resting on my forehead. “Hm. You are warm.”

I repeat back to Seb what I’d told Magnus, “Probably just a cold.” 

“You’re awfully toasty for just a cold.” Seb’s arm lowers again, wrapping back around me. “Why don’t I stay at the farm for a few days? I can help out while you get better.”

I can’t help the smile that curves my lips, but shake my head. “No! You have your own work to worry about.”

“I’m sure Magnus wouldn’t mind splitting farming duties with me. We both know he’s good with plants, after all.”

“He has his own work too.” My eyes are still shut, and I’m still facing away from Seb, but my brows furrow. “Besides, I dunno how cozy I am with you both doting on me so much. Feels weird.”

“Yoba forbid we love you, or something,” he chuckles. I join him, but not without lightly nudging him with my elbow. “You don’t wanna miss meeting Krobus coming to Spirit’s Eve because you didn’t take care of yourself, do you?”

I groan. “...Fuck you. I don’t like it when you’re right about things.”

“Too bad.” He kisses the crown of my head, then sighs. “Want me to go grab you some tea?”

I shake my head. Scoot back a little more, then tuck my top leg between both of his. Reinforcing that I don’t want him to leave. Deciding my head is pounding too much to keep talking to him telepathically, I clear my throat, then tell him, “Magnus is making soup.”

There’s a pause before he asks, “…Where?” 

I think for a moment. I’ve only eaten an actual meal here, like, once, and that was when Magnus disguised his home for Abby’s potential visit. Y’know, when he conjured a whole-ass kitchen into the main room. Other than that, we usually order in or have little treats if we’re hungry.

“Huh.” I think harder. He’s gotta eat more than just takeout, no? “Maybe he keeps a hot plate or two in his cabinets, or… wait, no, the outlets are all taken by his string lights, and he’d never turn those off…” I pause, lightly coughing and clearing my throat before I wonder, “Where the fuck does he make food?”

Sounding more confused now, Seb asks, “Where the fuck is his fridge?” “Does Magnus… does he eat when we’re not here? Do elementals need food?” 

I turn my head back slightly, and see that Sebby’s expression is just as concerned as mine.

Without a word, we both get out of bed – well, I kinda roll out more than anything – and head downstairs. As if to sneak up on Magnus – observe him in his natural habitat, if you will – we tip-toe down to the main room…

Aaand he’s not there.

I turn around and jog up a few steps to see the hallway. 

Eyeing the spiral staircase – which I assumed led to a room that was full of artifacts and shit based on the fact that I’ve never been up there, and because why wouldn’t it be cluttered with various arcane wonders? – I think out loud, “Does he have a kitchen up there?”

Seb follows me. I look up at him as he reaches the step I’m on. Unsure of himself, he squints and tilts his head to the side a little. “Maaaybe?” 

He looks down at me. Filled with determination, we nod at each other and continue our adventure through this absurdly stereotypical wizard tower, which we’ve spent plenty of time in without knowing what is actually up there.

How the fuck have neither of us thought to look or ask?

Whatever.

I sniffle as we mosey over, and get onto the first step to try and peer up. Sniffle again, big style. Sounds gnarly.

“Gross,” Sebastian teases. 

I nudge him. “You’re gross.”

Without a response, Seb steps up to join me. The top is dark. Can’t see shit from here. 

“Should we check?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t want to go anywhere he doesn’t want us to, but—“ Seb is already ascending. “Oh.” 

I follow him up, hastily catching up to his longer strides. For some reason my heart is pounding, as if something bad is gonna happen. Haven’t had any premonitions yet, so that’s promising, at least. 

We get to the top, Seb whips out he flashlight on his phone, and—

“It’s just a normal attic.”

“Oh.” That was anticlimactic. “Well…” 

Head lowered, I take a walk of shame back down the stairs. I was so convinced something cool and/or mysterious would be going on up there. 

When we get to the bottom, now in the small corridor outside of Magnus’ room again, Seb takes a turn into the bathroom. He closes the door, but talks anyway as he pees. 

There’s something heartwarmingly domestic about this. 

“You think he got caught up in some business with Camilla again?” he suggests.

“Maybe. I hope everything is alri—“ I stop my words short as I hear the front door open. “Someone just walked in,” I mutter against the wood. 

I can’t hear Seb’s response over the sound of the toilet flushing, and tip-toe a few feet over where I can see the culprit. My eyes widen, watching as the wizard transfers takeaway containers of soup into some bowls he had stored near his workstation. I’ve been hoodwinked! 

“Magnus Rasmodius,” I announce, ignoring the surprised little jump he does as he turns towards me, “What the frick is that?!”

The wizard’s eyes widen and pinken, his cheeks flushing to match. “Erm…”

Seb steps out of the bathroom and peers over my head. “Oh, you dirty, dirty man.”

I cross my arms and lean back against Seb, cheekily glaring down at the wizard. A short silence passes. 

“…I cannot cook.”

My brows furrow. I slowly make my way down the steps with Seb in tow. “What, like, you don’t have anything to cook with, or..?”

He shakes his head, eyes still pink as he confesses, “I don’t bother to keep much kitchenware handy. My cooking and baking skills are abysmal.” 

All the tea, ramen, and other things that can be made by simply boiling water are beginning to make sense.

“Do you just buy takeout every day then?” Seb asks. 

With his brows lowered and his bottom lip being thoroughly chewed, Magnus diverts his eyes. 

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?!” I frown. “I wouldn’t mind cooking for you. Or with you, I mean, I could teach you a little.” 

“Is it not an utter embarrassment, though? To meet someone who can’t cook, despite having been on this earth for centuries?” 

“No!” Seb and I both answer. He sounds just as passionately full of worry as I am. “I’m not surprised, to be honest,” Seb tacks on. “With how much of your life you spend working, there’s not much time to learn how.”

I nod in agreement. I shuffle over to Magnus. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I look up at him, my chin resting just below his chest. “Let’s try cooking together when you have time, ‘kay?”

Hugging me back, Magnus peers down in surprise. “Yes,” his shock turns into a warm grin, “That would be lovely.”

Seb walks past us, grabbing a bowl from the counter. “Oh hell yeah, is this pumpkin?”

“Butternut squash.” 

“Damn.”

“They’re both squashes, technically,” I point out to Seb. “You get this from Gus?” I ask Magnus, punctuating my question with a sniffle. He, more maroon-eyed again, reacts by placing a soothing palm against my cheek. I practically melt into it.

“Indeed. It is always intimidating to go there, but he is a pleasant man.”

Seb, nodding along as he swallows a sip, chimes in. “Gus fucks.”

I snort out a little laugh. Magnus tilts his head, obviously confused. He doesn’t question it though. Probably had too much slang for one day. 

“How does it work with, uh...” I vaguely gesture in Magnus’ direction, implying that I’m referring to his appearance.

He snorts, reassuring me, “He and Emily are some of the very few who know the truth of my existence.”

“What about the other people in there?”

“I teleport directly to the kitchen.”

My brows raise and my jaw goes slack. I huff out a laugh, turning my head and lifting my elbow to my face as it morphs into a cough.

Before I can pry further, Seb asks, “Does that not scare the shit outta them?!”

“They’re quite used to my presence at this point.” He grins, his eyes turning pink as he adds, “I’d like to think we have a fond acquaintanceship by now.” 

Aw. I hope they do. He deserves friends besides cryptids and gremlins and basement dwellers! And if there’s anyone here who I think would be accepting of Magnus based strictly on looks and vibes, it would totally be Emily.

Changing the subject, Magnus places his other hand on my free cheek, bending down to kiss my forehead. I tippy toe to help him out. “Now eat,” he orders, his irises burgundy again, “before it gets cold. You need this.” 

I nod, situating myself next to Seb as I grab the two unattended bowls, handing one over to Magnus. I hop onto the counter and happily sip straight from the vessel. Gus does fuck, god damn this is good. It’s sweet and salty and creamy as hell, with the exception of some toasted seeds floating within it.

The rest of the day after this is spent taking it easy. After finishing my soup, I nap some more – Magnus lets me borrow a shirt to sleep in, so I don’t need to keep getting all tangled up in my skirt and sweater – and I opt to head home when I wake back up. Magnus insists on teleporting me there, but I walk, wanting to get some fresh air.

I changed back into my own clothes for the walk, but brought the borrowed top with me, insisting I’d wash it for him. That was only a half-lie. No shit I’ll wash it, but as soon as I got home, I tossed Magnus’ tee back on. Too comfy to pass on.

Seb and Magnus continued their training as I made my trek back to the farm and into my bed, and about an hour or two after I situated myself, my partners were already forcing themselves into my house to check up on me. 

Fucking dorks. I love them so much.

After ensuring to them that I don’t need anything extra, and begging them to stop fussing over me, the two of them clamor into my bed with Cannoli and I.

It’s a tight fit, and not as comfy as cuddling in Magnus’ bed, but this fucks too.

[pinkspiraling]

vent bc i’m at my limit fr

i am having a little cry because i just feel so run down and exhausted. like i’ve been barely sleeping for weeks and my stomach has hurt so much and i know that it’s my own fault a lot of the time but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt. like i can only handle so much self destruction and maybe i’ve officially reached my limit because i’m just tired of it all i’m tired of drinking and sh-ing and binging and feeling like shit all the fucking time. i want comfort and not fake comfort that only hurts in the end, i want real comfort i want someone to hold me and tell me i’m not bad and they don’t blame me. even tho i do think i am to be blamed. i should be blamed but i just want to feel safe. i’m so fucking tired idk what i can do but once again i’m thinking about quitting lmao. i feel so worn down and empty and just like i can’t go on like this. id kind of like to eat some vegetables (i literally never eat food that isn’t fast food…) and take a walk and sleep and sleep and sleep and try to relax and look at the sky and stop drinking!!!!! and lay my head in my best friends lap while i tell her how bad it’s been and how i was going to attempt but now i want to live and idk if i actually want to live but id like to get there because dying is pretty painful and when it’s slow it’s even worse and it does really feel like i’m slowly dying or something but i’m being dramatic asf but also i have drank so much in the past 8 months i know my body is struggling (not to mention restricting and fucked up sleep and never drinking water and taking diff meds). idk if it’s just a few hours before work so i want to quit lol or if i really feel this way but …i mean i guess i do really feel this way. i just don’t feel like i’m allowed to do anything about it

[kylejsugarman]

I’ve been thinking a lot about the Boxcutter Denny’s scene and I have some rambling for you. Sorry if it’s incoherent I just have a lot of feelings.

So Jesse’s week? started with learning his girlfriend’s child brother is the one who killed Combo. He then deduces that the drugs the kid is peddling are the ones he is making. Horrified at the fact that children are being used in this crime ring he’s part of, and I’m sure the guilt and anger is getting under his skin.

So then in order to right some of the wrong he has done in he tries to kill the guys who have inducted and manipulated Tomas. He gets stopped by Gus’s guys, confronts Gus (who pretty much tells him to his face if it was up to him, he’d kill him) and successfully rolls persuasion to convince him to stop using kids…in the most genie’s wish way possible. So Tomas is then killed and this adds on to the rage and guilt. He didn’t want ANY kids to die, that was his whole point! And now things are so much worse. He uses for the first time in months and steels himself to kill those men and avenge Tomas. Then Walt beats him to it and kills the men in front of him. He then goes into hiding because his life is on the line…

THEN, he is extremely reluctantly kills a man after Walt adamantly urges (commands) him to do so to save Walt’s life…he’s already emotionally hallowed out like the Jack o’Lanterns on the shirts he’s worn, and then he witnesses a man be brutally killed in front of him by Gus to teach him a lesson and keep him in line (and he has to help dispose of the body that so easily could have been him….)

So it feels like he’s somewhere between too traumatized function properly, numb, emotionally and physically exhausted, and desperately trying to act normal in front of Walt and not actively break down in front of him because…Walt doesn’t break down like this, right? Walt does what needs to be done no matter the cost. Does he feel this empty too? There’s no way, something must be wrong with Jesse, yeah that’s what it is, he just has to keep it together. And then he spends the first half of the season of autopilot, numbing himself with drugs and company and loud music. If he stays busy then he doesn’t have to think about what he did, about what he is now…a word he couldn’t even bring himself to say…how did it get like this? And how can he get out? So for now he is holding it together and resigned himself to his role as a hollowed out pumpkin, a walking dead man…but at least right now he gets to eat pancakes and drink orange soda (and politely ask the waitress for more)

the fact that this all takes place over the course of literal days.....im punching holes in my fucking walls, im kicking down my own fucking door. jesus when u put it all like that, it makes that scene in "boxcutter" make that much more sense in context like. most of the time when he's seen some life-altering shit or done something awful, jesse is like visibly, obviously emotional and upset about it but like the fucking one-two-three-four-five punch of all this awful shit happening in such quick succession has to have knocked something loose inside him as we see in the rest of the season. and there at the denny's with walt, he's a little rattled by his own numbness but he knows that walt is unfazed and can pick up the pieces and he DID this for walt and he OWES walt his life, right? so he's not going to break right now or be a little bitch about it, he's going to pretend to shrug it off and let everything shatter later. also orange soda victory, fuck u vince

[dahliawolfe]

Benefits

SPN fanfic. Not completely cannon. Smutty McSmut Smutt

“Fuck, just like that, Babygirl,” Dean moaned, guiding her hips.

“I…I’m close, De,” Ridley Lark sighed. She had been riding Dean for nearly 30 minutes, and despite being in great shape, she was becoming exhausted.

Ridley and Dean had known each other all of her life. At 21, she was 5 years younger than the other hunter. For the last 6 months or so, they had had a friends with benefits situation, and had snuck behind John’s back anytime they got the chance. Which was often. That man was never around for more than a few days at a time.

Dean doubled his efforts, rolling his hips up to meet her downward thrusts, and in a few more brutal thrusts, she was coming apart at the seams, screaming his name. Dean came close behind her. Ridley laid on his sweaty chest panting. The air in the Impala was thick and sticky, and the windows were fogged up. Dean softly stroked down her back while reaching for his phone and checking the screen. He sighed and threw it in the front seat.

“Still no word from John?” She asked, looking up at him.

“No. And I’m starting to get worried.” Ridley had been with the Winchesters since she was 5. Her parents were killed on the job, and John had taken her in. He wasn’t exactly a father figure to her, but he kept a roof over her head and clothes on her back. Well, more correctly, Dean did those things. She was a few months younger than Sam, and the three of them had grown up together.

“I’m sure he’ll call soon. He always does.” She sat up and snagged her jeans and panties from the floor rolling them over her hips before tossing her well worn Journey tank over her head. Dean did the same before crawling over the seat and getting behind the wheel.

“Hungry?” he questioned.

“Hell yeah. You know I always want Taco Bell after an orgasm.” Dean shook his head fondly and put the car in drive.

…

“Dean, are you sure you want to bring Sam into this? You know why he went to Stanford.”

“Rid, something’s wrong. I can feel it.” Ridley had learned a lot in the last 16 years of living with Dean Winchester, and one of the most important of those things was to listen to his gut. It had never steered them wrong before.

… … …

Sam reluctantly followed his brother outside. And that’s when he saw her. The girl he had been in love with for as long as he could remember. She was leaning against the Impala, caramel-coffee hair in a messy bun, arms crossed, giving him that crooked smile. And holy shit, he was going to come in his pants like a teenager.

“Sam?” Jessica spoke. Fuck, Jess!

Sam turned and gave his girlfriend a smile. “Yeah?”

“You’ll be back by Monday, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.” She gave him a bright smile before leaning up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“Be safe. It was nice to meet you, Dean!” she chirped, ever cheerful. “Oh, and…” she sputtered seeing Ridley outside of the car.

"Ridley. Ridley Lark. Friend of the family,” Ridley replied, coming to shake the other girl’s hand. Jessica studied her for a minute before her eyes softened and she smiled.

“Nice to meet you, Ridley. I’m Jessica, Sam’s girlfriend.” Ridley nodded with that same smile that never failed to stop Sam’s heart cold.

… … …

“Any leads on Dad at all?” Sam questioned.

“No. I’ve called everybody. Followed his tracks. Everything.”

“He didn’t just drop off the face of the earth, Dean,” Sam retorted.

“Stranger shit has happened, Sammy,” Ridley replied, going back to reading a journal of some kind. Sam rolled his eyes. He had left 4 years ago and never looked back. And that included Ridley. He knew that she was the love of his life, but he also knew that she was a hunter, through and through. And he didn’t want that. So, he left without ever addressing his feelings for her. And then he met Jess, and he hoped that the feelings would just diminish, and for the most part, they had. Until tonight. Seeing her again sent a pang through his heart almost as bad as the day he left.

…

“Fuck, Sam! Out that window! Go!” Ridley ordered, seeing the sheriff’s deputies at the door. Dean was biting the bullet for them all, and Ridley knew that meant she had to get Sam out of there. Because Dean Winchester had one rule: Protect Sammy.

… … …

“You dead bitch! I’ll send your ass to hell, motherfucker!” Ridley swore as Constance held her by her throat against the seat. Sam gave her a warning look, and Ridley’s eyes widened. “Samuel Fucking Winchester, don’t you do it!” she ordered, but Sam had already set his plan in motion. He threw his arm across Ridley and plowed through that house. Ridley was pretty sure she yelped at some point, but she honestly couldn’t tell you. Her head banged against the window painfully, and the taste of copper blossomed over her tongue. But the problem righted itself when the children showed up, and those sights, well, Ridley will definitely be seeing those in her nightmares later.

… … …

“We have to be quiet, Baby,” Dean whispered in the darkness of the hotel room. The trio had gotten back together and gotten a room for the night. And seeing Ridley injured had done things to him. This thing they had going was, on paper, no strings, but they both knew that there wasn’t anyone else. And dammit, that was his girl. And he was too fucking close to not having her in his arms tonight. And Ridley needed him too. He knew it. She didn’t have to say it, he could see it in her eyes. “Can you do that for me? Hmm? Can you be quiet for Daddy?” He stroked her hair off of her cut forehead and behind her ear. She nodded solemnly and turned onto her back. Dean knew that doing anything with Sam in the room was risky, but he had to. Had to be certain that she was ok. That she had come back to him in one piece. And the little gasp she gave him when he slid home told him all he needed to know.

… … … …

Sam was almost asleep when he heard his brother speak quietly. “We have to be quiet, Baby. Can you do that for me? Hmm? Can you be quiet for Daddy?” What the fuck?! He didn’t hear Ridley’s response, but her gasp a few seconds later was answer enough. Holy shit. Now he had to listen to the love of his life be fucked by his brother while he lays in bed across the room? Wonderful. He was more than ready to be back at Stanford.

… … …

“It was good seeing you, Sammy. Take care, ok?” Ridley said as they parked in front of his apartment. She went in for a hug, and Sam stiffened. “Oh, ummm, sorry.” She spoke, seeing his hesitation. She stepped back without ever touching him, thinking that he was upset at her for dragging him out that weekend. He had been cold for the last few days. She ducked back into the Impala and waited for Dean.

… … … …

“Sam!” Ridley yelped, diving into the burning room without a second thought. She caught the other hunter’s hand and drug him away from the sight, thrusting him towards Dean. She turned, hoping beyond hope that she could do something to save Jessica, the love of Sam’s life, but it was clear that there was no hope in that.

“Ridley!” Dean commanded from the doorway of the living area. She ran towards him, coughing dryly into her elbow.

… … … …

Sam looked on, numb, as the firefighters tried to put the fire out. His hand was clasped firmly into Ridley’s. She was still wheezing, and her cheeks were still tinted pink. She had gone back for Jess. Ridley, the love of his life, had gone back to save a girl that she didn’t even know, after also getting Sam, himself, out of the flames. Sam was in more grief than he thought possible, but as he looked to his side and saw the whiskey eyes of his best friend peering at him, he was also falling deeper in love.

[hismercytomyjustice]

I spent 95% of the day today writing. I’ve finally hit 35k, but the last 3k were a STRUGGLE. I think they turned out okay, but my god I had several moments of “fuck this.”

I think the issue was this was a way more research heavy chapter and I didn’t feel as confident about writing some of the side characters. They don’t have much screen time in the game, which made it all the more stressful.

I desperately want to finish this fic. I don’t want to have made it this far only to give up. I s2g the Cardcaptors fic that I wrote that was almost twice as long as this didn’t give me NEARLY this much trouble. Maybe because I was more familiar with the source material?

I did get a really sweet comment on it recently though that I still need to reply to. I’m always baffled and pleased when folks take the time to read my older stuff.

I want to say I’m around 75-80% done with this fic now, though I still have no idea how the hell I’m going to end it.

…especially since I still haven’t finished the game…

I’m like 250+ hours in, but I still need to kill Orin and Gortash, save Lae’zel, get the Wyrm, fight Raphael, find Minsc… I’m sure I’m forgetting something. I know I could just power through to the end but I’ve been enjoying thoroughly exploring everything. I’ve also kind of worn myself out in the process though. There is just SO MUCH in Act III, it’s overwhelming.

Work has been hella busy again the past week or two too, which doesn’t help. I’m kind of dreading tomorrow because I have so much I need to do. I am getting desperate for a break and our next holiday isn’t until Memorial Day at the end of May. I’m probably going to have to take some PTO or at least a mental health day at the rate I’m going. The burnout is hitting HARD.

I love my job as much as one can love a job, but my god it is exhausting and demanding. Thankfully it isn’t like this all the time, but the periods where it is SUCK. Things will quiet down in another month or so, at least for a good chunk of the summer. I hope.

I think when I’m done writing this fic (please god in the next few weeks or so), I’m going to post it a chapter at a time like I did with my Cardcaptors one. Maybe a week apart to give myself time to edit each chapter. Pretty sure that’s the only way I’ll be able to trick myself into editing.

It’s just been so nice to have something I’m excited to write about again. This is the longest thing I’ve written in literal years. I feel like I’ve grown a lot, or at least I hope I have.

I’m also hoping that by writing more fanfic, I’ll be able to strengthen my writing for original stuff too. Right now I’m just trying to be happy with whatever I put out, so long as I’m writing something. Even if I don’t finish it.

I spent so many years struggling to get a word on the page because I spent so much time learning about writing through cons, books, podcasts, etc that I was hypercritical of everything I did. I stopped enjoying the process and I felt like a failure. I knew enough now that I knew what I did wrong or where I had skill gaps, but I had no idea how to fix any of it, so I just stopped creating. I forgot why I loved writing so much in the first place.

A book that’s really helped me view writing in a much healthier way is The Actor’s Life: A Survival Guide by Jenna Fischer. Yes, it’s geared toward acting, but the advice she gives is just as relevant to other creative fields.

She talks a lot about giving yourself permission to do the thing, about not having to be at the same level as your idols to pursue your dream, and about how important it is just to create.

It’s so important to enjoy the process because, otherwise, what’s the point? So long as I’m having fun, it’s worth doing. Even if I never reach a wide audience with original stuff I do in the future, I have to remember I’m doing this first and foremost for myself. I’ve found I enjoy that type of content more too, where the creator takes risks and unashamedly throws their passion into their project.

Yes, this is just a fanfic I’m working on, but I’m honing my skills through it. It’s a lot less terrifying to play in someone else’s sandbox and it’s so much easier for me to get out of my own way while I do it.

But at the same time DAMN I AM SO READY TO BE DONE haha.

Fingers crossed I will be soon!!!

[scorpius-rising]

I know it’s not helpful to think like this in the long term but I’m so close to the end of this saga the grief is hitting me. I started my degree 10 fucking years ago, and assuming all goes well enough in the next week in a fortnight I’ll have finally finished it, 7 years later than expected. A lot has happened since then, and I know that we all have different timelines and journeys etc etc but...fuck, man. I feel so behind. I’m turning 28 in five months and all I’ve got is $2000 in savings, $20,000+ in student loans, a learner’s drivers license, and the contents of my room. The longest uninterrupted period I’ve lived way from home was a school trip to Japan when I was 16 that lasted 17 days. Despite my best efforts, most of my friends have drifted away. I’m always the one reaching out, not being reached out to, and that has worn me down like nothing else. My academic studies, even post ADHD diagnosis, have pushed me into burnout so many times, and I have knowingly continued with this cruelty to myself because I know the only way I’ll be able to get a foot in the door for any of the jobs/areas that won’t make me want to kill myself is by being able to put the letters BA at the top of my CV. I’m just so tired. I’m so sick of torturing myself with shame because that’s the only way I’ve been able get myself to produce enough work within the circumstances given to me. And I’m already angry that I won’t be able to take a real break from the exhaustion of self vigilance, even if it will lessen. That people who make me feel like I’m safe and not an unfair burden won’t just come in to my life and give me a blessed reprieve. 

[x0filthymartini0x]

rainchecks

Hi! This is my first fanfic ever. I’m starting with a slow burn I think, as I’m trying to get comfortable writing out scenarios and not taking myself too seriously or being too hard on myself. I’ve only really seen Eddie Munson fanfic so I wanted to write one about a female reader x Joseph. This is more of an intro to a series I’d like to continue with, so if you have any suggestions or constructive criticism please feel free to share it. Thanks! :)

You and Joseph have been friends since childhood, but feelings have been building up over time. He comes to your apartment to catch up for a few before your date night, but plans fall out and the two of you are left with some free time.

Contains: Very slow buildup to sensual themes, use of cuss words.

“Fuck.” You let out a big sigh as the text flashes across your phone screen that reads, “Hey, I won’t be able to make it tonight, I wish you the best though.” After countless nights throughout the summer having empty conversations with strangers on restaurant patios, you’ve come to the conclusion that you’ll be taking a much needed break from attempting to find your soulmate until further notice. You toss your phone down on your bed and head to the kitchen to grab a glass of wine.

It’s four o’clock on the dot, the sun peering in through your pale yellow curtains that Joseph has just barely closed so he can still see his laptop screen without a glare blocking his view. He’s slumped over at your kitchen high-top, the table just big enough for two.

He has his head down, but shifts his eyes up to glance at you rummaging through the cabinets for two glasses. 

“You alright?” he asks.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, staring at the array of glasses in front of you. “Yeah, totally fine. You want a glass of wine before you head out?” There they are! Your favorite wine glasses are hiding in the very back of the middle shelf of the cabinet, roomy enough to hold a full bottle of wine each. Perfect for the night alone you’re about to have while you rethink all the men you’ve had the displeasure of interacting with the past two months. You reach up to grab your glass and pour the entire bottle of a cheap Pinot Noir you snagged from the market.

“Y/N, do you play me for a fool?” Joseph giggles. Nothing ever gets past him. “I know that tone. What’s wrong, love?”

You whip your body around to see Joseph staring at you with his deep, coffee-colored doe eyes, his lips curling up into a cheeky grin. He’s worn the same smile since you two were kids, and though he has remained your best friend throughout his career endeavors, the last few years your feelings have taken a shift into a bit of a crush. How could they not? He’s flourished into such a charming man. Your mom always joked about the two of you growing up and falling in love, but you barely see him anymore. And you’re certain he’s never had such feelings to reciprocate with all the beautiful women he’s in the presence of on a daily basis, being a fucking heartthrob or whatever the magazines call him. 

“Right,” you mutter. “Sorry, I’m just so exhausted of the same old ‘hey, I’m not really feeling this but you’re great, sorry to waste your time’ bullshit excuses from these lousy guys. I’ve lost count of how many dates I’ve gone on in the past few months. I’m raising my glass to loneliness tonight.”

Joseph’s eyes light up, but he leans back in his chair, crosses his arms and pulls his lips into a taunting pout. “Ah, so this means I have to deal with you all by myself this evening?”

You roll your eyes as you walk over to the high-top and climb yourself up into the excruciatingly tall chair, carefully placing your glass of wine down on the middle of the table. “I thought you had a meeting tonight?” You try to avoid making eye contact but you glance over and lock your eyes with his. He’s sporting his usual attire for a Tuesday afternoon with you when he’s in town. A crisp white linen button-down, the top three buttons undone so you can just barely see his tanned chest he acquired over the summer with two dainty gold chains dangling from his neck. His tan skinny jeans look a bit worn in as he’s been traveling all day before he settled in at your apartment. He’s got on his favorite pair of beaten up converse in crimson red, and you notice he’s let his curls grow out a bit. They fall loosely around his ears, one single lock falling over his right eyebrow. God, he’s beautiful. 

“I think I can skip a meeting here and there for my best friend. I haven’t seen you in nearly a year, I miss hearing about the unfortunate male drama you tend to attract.”

“That’s so endearing, Joe.” He hates when you call him that. 

He lets out a hearty laugh and reaches out his hand, palm facing up. “Let me see your phone.”

“Absolutely not!” you exclaim. “I don’t have it on me, anyway. It’s on my bed, and I’m not leaving this table until I finish this glass of wine.” The last time you let Joseph have your phone to mock the boys in your Instagram messages, he came across a text of you telling your friend about the night the two of you went out for drinks for the first time. Your text read, “Went out to grab drinks with Joe tonight, I’ve never heard someone utter the words filthy and martini the way he did. I wanted to open my legs right then and there. I see why the girls obsess over him lol.” You were absolutely mortified when he looked up from your phone, grinning while handing it back to you with the message wide open. You could only mutter out, “Oh, god. I met this guy named Joe and I think I’m just swooning over anyone that offers to buy me a drink, I’m so desperate.” All he could reply with was, “Oh, of course. I’m sure it was a fun night, huh?” He was typically naive to the flirtation that came from other women, and never paid much attention to the fans that constantly followed him and threw themselves at his feet, but this conversation was so painfully obvious that it was about him that he looked a little disappointed when you tried to cover up your own admiration for him. Ever since then, he loved teasing you about it when he had the opportunity to.

“What? Something in there you don’t want me to read, Y/N?”

“Shut up.” You’re too easy to get worked up, and he’s good at getting you there. He’s always known how to completely and utterly annoy you to your core. 

You catch your face flushing and quickly look down at the wine glass. After you nearly chug a fourth of your glass in a few seconds, you put the glass back down and look back up at Joseph. He’s still got his arms folded over his chest, eyes locked on yours as if to make a point of something.

“Isn’t that your special glass? The one that holds an entire bottle of wine?” 

“Yeah, why?”

“You asked me if I wanted a glass and didn’t think to share with me?”

“You didn’t answer me!” you giggle. “You’re more than welcome to share since apparently you don’t have anywhere to be now.”

Joseph reaches for the glass. “Thank you for your permission, that’s so kind of you to offer.” He grins and looks down at wine, swirls it around a little bit and takes a sip. “This is absolutely dreadful, where did you find this?”

You roll your eyes at him and snatch the glass from his hand. “Some of us enjoy cheap wine, you twat.” You take another sip, feeling the warmth of the wine going down your throat, tingling on your tongue as you swallow. “You’re right though, it’s actually not that good. But it gets the job done, you know?” 

“Well,” he uncrosses his arms and props his elbows on the table, his face sitting in his hands about a foot away from yours, “it’s no filthy martini. But it’ll do for the hour.” 

Your heart stops for a second, still staring into his soft eyes. He knows what he’s doing, and he confirms it by parting his lips just a little bit, biting the lower left of his pout while he flashes you a flirty wink. You can hear him chuckle under his breath, almost as if he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s fully aware he’s making you fidget in your seat.

“Go get dressed.” He demands, his soft look turning a bit sly.

“Get dressed?”

“Yes, you heard me.”

“I am dressed.” You’ve got on a pair of black jeans that cuff at the ankles, a plain olive colored v-neck neatly french-tucked into the front waistline that accentuates your cleavage perfectly with the push-up bra you put on for your original date plans, and a pair of black strappy heels that you wear with every date night outfit. If he has suddenly come up with something for the two of you to do, this should be fine to wear out.

Joseph hops out of his chair and moves his eyes from yours, slowly down to your shoes. “I want you to go put on that dress I like.”

Immediately you feel your stomach drop into your knees. That dress. The one he complimented you on two years ago when you got dolled up for your birthday, he had come over to give you a bouquet of lilies, a bottle of champagne and a raincheck that read, “Redeemable the next time I’m in town for more than a day or two. Happy birthday Y/N, looking forward to celebrating you.” He wasn’t sure at the time when he’d be able to make it up to you, but before he dipped out of your birthday gathering to hop on a flight he told you this was his favorite outfit on you. He made you do a little turn, giving you a delicate slow clap before whispering in your ear, “This dress looks amazing on you, love. I’m sure the lucky guy will love it.” A little black dress that clung to your every curve and made you feel fucking hot. Except that night there was no lucky guy, just a night out spent dancing with your friends to ring in the next trip around the sun. 

You snap from the memory and come back to the present moment. 

“Oh?” You were left speechless, your palms glistening with sweat.

“Don’t tell me you got rid of it?” he asks, his face falling into a sulky, sultry look.

“No, no, actually. It’s still hanging up in my closet.”

“Perfect. You want me to find it for you?”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, have fun in there, it’s a mess.”

“It’s just like you!” he laughs. He walks a couple steps towards you, grabs your hand and leads you through the hallway to get to your bedroom.

What is he doing? It doesn’t matter. Don’t overthink this. You’ve waited to feel this sickening tension reciprocated for years, it’s nearly laughable. 

Joseph walks you up to your closet, releases your hand and opens the closet door. “Jesus Christ, Y/N. You weren’t kidding.”

You weren’t. Your closet is an absolute wreck. The dress is in here somewhere, but you’re not even focused on finding the damn thing anymore.

You stand at the door way, looking out into your walk-in closet. Suddenly you feel his hand graze your lower back, his curly hair brushing against your ear. His lips lightly touch your earlobe as he mutters, “I want to see you put it on for me.” He raises his hand from your lower back up onto your shoulder, brushing the hair away from your face. “I’ve waited long enough, haven’t I?”

His voice is dripping with sensuality. You can feel yourself getting aroused, the butterflies in your stomach traveling down to your thighs.

This is what you’ve been waiting for.

[wizkiddx]

hiii!!! omg please please pleasee do a part two of 3 hearts broken cus it fucking slaps miss girl

part 2 to 3 broken hearts!!! ive been so 🥺 at all the lovely comments+interest pt 1 had so thanku all !

summary: serious serious angst again will tom somehow get it back (unlike looking cos boy is a fool)

warnings: again lots of swearing (im British sorry not sorry) / wayyyy too much tea / slating Dom abit (obvs fictional but idk if I like the guy sorry his opinions are :/) / commitment issues

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

read part 1 here!!!!

That was three days ago now. Three days since you'd spoken to your boyfrien- well, Tom. It wasn't evident what the situation was.

The typical British weather brought with it the most ironic pathetic fallacy you could ever see. The clouds were dark and glooming, firing angry pellets of rain out as hard as they could. When you had pulled up on the roadside, it had just been a light drizzle but synchronised with your anxiety levels rising - so did the rain. When you finally opened up the car door, you threw your hoodie open with a sigh before running up the pathway to the front door.

It was the same burgundy red that you knew so well, but this time instead of just letting yourself in - you stood in the rain used the brass knocker thing twice. To be honest, you were hoping that no one was home - but in that house, it was pretty unlikely. After 30 seconds of getting drenched in the downpour, you were about to let yourself in with the spare key before the door swung open.

"Oh! Er Y/n?"

"Yeh um hi." You had to shout a bit over the sound of what must now be classified as a storm.

"Toms not-"

"I know. Can I come in?" As awkward and stunted as this conversation was, if you didn't get out of the rain asap you would literally end up drowned.

“Oh er yeh-yeh yeh come in.”

Harry stammered as he held the door open, gesturing for you to enter into the tiled hallway. Gratefully, you followed, throwing your sopping wet hood back down and wiping your feet on the floor.

"Sorry for just showing up, but I left some scripts here. My management are on my arse to read them and-"

"And you waited till Tom left for mum and dads?" The fluffy-haired boy has caught you red-handed; there was no defence, so you didn't even try.

Because yes, you knew on a Friday afternoon when Tom was home he would always, like clockwork, go to his parents just to kick back and watch gogglebox with both of them. It was only natural then that you chose Friday afternoon to come and pick up your stuff.

"I've been waiting in my car for half an hour till I saw him leave." Harry half laughed at that, still the two of you standing opposite each other in the hallway. "Um, do you… do you hate me Harry?"

Clearly, he hadn't quite been expecting your question going by the way his eyes almost bugged out his head.

"No, I-I, of course, I don't… look, I'm home alone so you fancy a cuppa?" Not being able to help the small chuckle, you nodded appreciatively, following Harry through the house.

"Your answer to everything is tea."

Harry had prepared the two mugs in silence as you sat at the table waiting patiently - if nervously too. You didn't miss how Harry had still used your favourite mug, having had to dig through the cupboard to find the weird square-shaped thing. Once done, he rounded the kitchen island and placed it in front of you, which you instantly cradled in two hands - for the hope of warming you up.

"You cold?" Obviously, it was pretty evident that sitting in your rain-soaked hoodie was not cosy at all. "Hang on a sec."

The boy sprung up again, returning moments later with a hoodie in hand, one he offered out to you with a little smile. The issue was that him and Tom shared clothes, so the hoodie he was kindly offering to you also had been worn by Tom before. Which made it hurt a little bit to wear. It was better than sitting soaked through though.

"How have you been then?"

"Not the best, to be honest, but uh… how about you?"

"Being with Tom while he's fighting with you? Oh, it's a barrel of laughs. You might've escaped it, but I haven't." He was trying to lighten the mood, and you appreciated it, offering him a half-smile that didn't really meet your eyes.

"Yeh sorry about that."

"Don't apologise; it doesn't sound like it's your fault Y/n."

That surprised you. Tom, especially when he was in moods like he was when you argued, wasn't one to admit when he was wrong. It was usually how the world was against him and how he was so hard done by. Accepting responsibility was something he hadn't said to you yet - but at least, small steps.

"He say that?"

"Pretty much… doesn't seem like he's angry at you, but-but he's still angry."

"At the world?" You rolled your eyes; this seemed to be the same old Tom through and through. Still immature. Still not with the right mindset.

"At himself." Harry countered, slightly entertained, when he saw the flash of surprise in your face as he sipped his drink. "And me… if I dare to so much as breathe this week."

This time you properly laughed, and Harry joined in too before the room fell back to silence - except the noise of the rain hitting the garden patio slats. You swirled the tea round in your mug, feeling the brunette's eyes on you. He'd always been your fake little brother too, since you'd met the Hollands way back 3 and a half years ago. Tom and yourself were barely adults, which meant the twins were still proper children. Harry had always been the one that understood you. Hollands, by nature, loved humans - loved to talk, to chat, to gossip. But sometimes, doing all that socialising got too much for you, as it did for Harry. He was the only one that seemed to understand social exhaustion. So when those moments had hit, you'd kept each other company in silence.

He got you, sometimes in ways your own boyfriend didn't.

"You know why he got so worked up, right?" You shook your head, looking up curiously. "Dad got under his skin on his birthday zoom thing."

Ah, now that did seem to coincide with the start of Tom's more petulant phase. To be fair, Tom had been asking to move in together for near enough a year now - but it was only in the past month it seemed to be the only thing you'd talk about and obviously only three days since the flight back. Dom's birthday barely a week ago, whilst you and Tom were both filming - except Tom had managed to get a day off where you hadn't. So you hadn't heard this conversation.

"What'd he say?"

"Was talking about how he and mum were settling down at Toms age, joked about how you rejected him, said maybe you were holding out for something better."

"Something better?" Harry sighed, leaning forward onto his elbows.

"He'd seen an article just off a trashy tabloid… it named you Hollywood's golden girl or something, said you could have the pick of any person on the planet…"

Of all the people in the world, why is Tom affected by shit journalism? He knows how much bullshit people write. He knows how it's all made up, exaggerated nonsense. And what he should know, completely and totally, is how much you love him. And if he didn't, was that your fault? Had you done something wrong, something to make him doubt you?

Harry seemed to notice the internal dialogue going on in your head, adding to the point. "It wasn't the article though, it was the fact dad said it."

Hmmm.

You and Dom got on; it wasn't like you hated the possible future father in law or whatever. Just…. you had very different outlooks. As much as Tom prided himself on how' grounded his family keeps him' -to you at least, they aren't entirely at sea level either. They'd never really had any particular struggles in life. They were the definition of middle class, and that's about it. They lived in a posh suburb of London, had all their family still around. It was the perfect family.

And whilst you were in no illusions about how privileged your life was now. It hadn't always been. You'd never had the 'nuclear' family. Instead, only your dad and a string of dodgy and fleeting stepmothers while struggling to make ends meet. So you were just always wary of Dom, of his opinions that so often his boys took for gospel. They always seemed pretty sheltered and close-minded.

And yet, Tom was a grown man.

"I get that, I just… Tom should know that we know more about our relationship than his dad. I mean,… have I done something wrong? Made him think I'm not in this for the long haul?"

"No nonono Y/n he's just… well he's an idiot, isn't he? I don't think he properly understands why you're cautious about moving and everything. He's just an idio- "

Harry was cut off for lightly insulting his brother by the sound of the front door opening, both of your heads swivelling towards the source. You then met Harry's eyes in a panic, to which he replied relatively simply.

"Just talk to each other. For my sake." You would've argued if it weren't for the fact you were so focused on Tom's shuffling around in the entrance hallway - back early from his parents.

"Baz? Where you at? I thought I saw Y/n's car and-"

"Kitchen!!!" Before Tom could say anything else, possibly landing himself in more trouble, Harry interrupted as his chair screeched while standing up. And then Tom was just there. Standing in the doorway, his arms dropping limply to his side as he noticed you. Everything about that moment seemed to freeze, when you locked eyes with him for the first time in three days. It didn't go unnoticed, the way his Adams apple bobbed, the way his eyes widen. The boy looked plain and simply terrified.

It was Harry who broke the silence, after giving you a stern look that said 'stay'. The younger Holland boy walked up to Tom and spoke.

"Try actually talking and actually listening about your problems with each other." And then he was gone, down the hallway and up the stairs.

For a few moments, Tom stayed absolutely stationary, now staring at where Harry had been when speaking to the both of you (but mainly Tom). Long enough to put your sense of unease at an all-time high, ready to make a break for it.

"If you don't want to talk, then I can leav-"

"NO!" Apparently snapping out of it, Tom exclaimed loud enough to make you flinch from your seat. "Sorry! I-I just… I wasn't expecting to… you know, to see you."

"Yeh I just uh- just came to pick up some scripts… Harry cornered me with a tea, though; otherwise, I'd be…."

"Baz thinks the whole world could be fixed with tea."

"that's what I said!" You instinctively responded, forgetting the fact you're supposed to be mad at him, and just for a second falling back into your normal flow.

Tom didn't even try to hide his grin in response, until you quickly corrected your face- then he did too. Turning around to put the kettle on for himself. Because right now, he needed to fix his whole world, and he needed all the help he could get. For a period, the only noise was the sound of the kettle boiling, then the teaspoon clinking against the mug as he stirred - until he padded over, taking the seat across from you.

"So."

"So."

"It's been a while," Tom stated the bloody obvious.

"You never called."

"Didn't think you'd want me to."

You thought that the early signs weren't all that auspicious. His ability to read a situation once again failing.

"I wanted you to say something."

"Say what?"

"What do you think Tom?" He replied to the sarcastic tone by sucking in a sharp breath, holding it for a second, before slowly exhaling. As if trying to compose himself, take time to think of a response - a mature move for him.

"Well, I think you want me to say sorry? For being so moody and not waiting for you and for upsetting those kids. And thanks too, for covering for me?"

You just hummed. Waiting for him to continue. Because yes, you did deserve all those things. But you also deserved more. An apology for, oh I don't know, saying he didn't think you loved him? It was a wait that never ended, he had nothing more to add.

"Going by your face, I take it I missed something?"

The bloody cheek of it.

"Theres nothing else? Nothing else at all? …" You gave him that chance, the opportunity but all he could respond with was a shake of his head. "You thought I was fine about you saying that I don't love you?" You hadn't intended on raising your voice, but really you hadn't realised you did till after the fact. To blinded by rage at his ignorance.

"You want to talk about this now?"

"When else Tom?" You sighed, realising he perhaps wasn't ready for this conversation. Maybe he needed more time to think things through, have sense talked into him by various wiser family members. Or maybe, he never would be. That was the worst-case scenario. But also… you're most likely prediction.

He shuffled in his seat, clearing his voice but not saying anything. Not a peep.

"I have spent three years of my life with you. I've had countless nights of too little sleep because that was the only time you could facetime. I've exposed my relationship to the world and people's opinions because you didn't want to hide. All I've done is love you. How could you even say that?" There might've been tears in your eyes, yet you were determined to keep them at bay. You needed to have this out, one way or another, to be clear and cohesive and logical. No time to cry.

"Y/n I know that, I…" He sighed, instinctively reaching for your hand, but you were quicker to pull it away. There was hurt in his eyes, but so there should be. "It just sometimes feels like that's it for you. That yeh you love me but you just want to standstill. That this is as much as it'll ever be."

Your emotions were suddenly uncontainable. Your voice croaked as you whispered, "Have I done something wrong?"

"No love, nonono if that's how you feel then that's okay. But it's something I'm not… shit this is hard." He took a pause to take a sip of his drink, your glazed eyes never leaving his. "I don't think I can stand still anymore. And yeh I was pissy and childish the other day because my dad got under my skin about the whole moving in thing… But these past few days, it just has got me thinking. Because I love you, so much."

This time when he reached out to grab your hand, you actually leaned into it yourself. Not because you were giving in, but because this hurt. This hurt so fucking much that you needed something to ground you, or else god knows. Because the way he was speaking, it sounded so finite.

"I love you too."

"I do know, which is…is why this is so hard." At the very least, Tom had conceded that.

The conversation ceased to silence yet again. The room felt so cold; even Tom/Harry's hoodie was doing nothing to keep you from the endless empty cold that seemed to be coming from within.

"When I re-registered my health card last month, and I made you my emergency contact on it. I-I made you my next of kin on everything actually. I didn't think about it twice. And-and this-"You pulled your phone out of your back pocket, immediately pulling up the app onto the open page. "This is my Pinterest board for our baby's nursery theme. I know-" You paused, to quickly wipe your cheeks clear of the tear tracks that may or may not have been there. "I know it's probably a long way away, but I just love the Scandinavian theme." You laughed at yourself, suddenly embarrassed at your blabbering and quickly pulled up a different app. "And this… this was from the other week when I was helping Y/bf/n start her vows." Hands trembling as you turned the phone around for Tom to see again. "She was finding it really tricky so she said, what would you say to Tom on your wedding, so-so I made this list." You only dared to look at him when you were sure he'd be reading through that note.

It was bizarre because he looked… well, he looked happy. Here you were feeling traumatised, showing things that you'd barely even deeped how committed they were - and he was pleased? Feeling the fire burn once again inside of your chest, you quickly swiped the phone away and back into your pocket. Only then did he look up, eyes widening - presumably at quite how psychotic you looked.

"So don't you dare say that I don't want a future with you."

You said it with such force, there was a pause. Tom letting those words sink deep into his brain. The way his expression flickered minutely gave you hope. You thought he got it. You thought he really understood now.

"But why don't you want to move in then?"

There it was again. He knew why. But he didn't get it. And, probably, he never would.

You were about to crash completely. So you ran. As fast as your legs could carry you, not even aware of your chair crashing to the floor in your wake. You ran out of that house and away from him. Away from who you had thought was the love of your life.

?give tom a final chance w one last part?

feedback is always v v appreciated <3

tom taglist : @lovehollandy12 @hollandlover19 @thefernandasantana @hunnybunimdun @hallecarey1@cedricdiggorysimpp @msmimimerton @hollandfanficlove @pandaxnienke @crossyourpeter @thegirlwiththeimpala @tom-softie @sunwardsss @spiitfiiires @radcloudenthusiast @ladykxxx08

people i think might be interestd in this (sorry if not just let me know and i'll remove the tag!!!): @obiwanownsmyass @wildxwidow @parkersvogue @coffeewithoutcaffeine @tomhollandlol @thefallenbibliophilequote @clumsymandu @hiraethenthusiast @mannien @abrielleholland @evermorehabit @niallberry @greatpizzascissorstaco @runawayolives @annathesillyfriend @letsgotothemoonlight @lovelybarnes

[neon-junkie]

in my hUmble opinion i think,, hear me out,, a sex pollen with the bad batch smut,,, amd ,,, reader is the only gal,,, thoughts? or maybe ur headcanons on how the bad batch react to being dommed

from ur fave mutual💗😁

I've started writing a fic for the Batch being sex pollen, so in the meantime, pls enjoy these headcanons on what the Batch is like when you're in charge.

Gender-neutral reader<3

Hunter

He's more than happy for you to take the lead. If anything, he encourages it.

Hunter is always in charge, seeing as he's the Sergeant and all. That mindset often follows through to the bedroom, but when you wag your finger and instruct him that you're in charge tonight, he instantly submits.

In some ways, this is Hunter's time off, a moment to breathe and relax, even if you're turning him into a whimpering mess.

He's a laid back guy who enjoys most sexual acts; guidelines and safe words are always spoken about before you two begin, and the second it begins, he instantly snaps into a submissive mindset.

Hunter feeds on praise, gentle touches, stimulation - anything giving. You can deprive and tease him every so often, but don't make a habit of it. The poor man needs somebody to care for him, not somebody to punish him.

Thanks to his heightened senses, he's incredibly sensitive, and it's going to take a while to find that perfect balance. You can always use this to your advantage though...

Hunter will lose his mind if you tie him up, sit opposite him, and get yourself off whilst declining his pleads to touch you. He can feel how fast your heart is beating in your chest, the lingering scent of your heat, even the faint taste of you dancing on his tongue. He needs you so badly, but you're in control, so it's up to you how long you drag this out for.

Orgasm denial is a 50/50 topic for him. You're allowed to deny him here and there, but don't go overboard. He needs his release; he's always pent-up, and this moments alone with you are rare. He wants to enjoy them!

Despite being submissive, Hunter still has a dominant glow to him. He'll go down on you, mouth occupied with the task at hand, but he has that look in his eyes as he locks his focus onto you. It's in his natural persona to at least have one hand on the reigns, even if it's subconscious and not intentional.

Please spoil him during after care. Give him a massage, clean him up, run your fingers through his hair as you praise him over and over. He needs it.

Wrecker

The goodest boy to ever grace this earth.

Despite his large and intimidating size, Wrecker is a switch, and he enjoys a 50/50 balance throughout his sex life.

He knows damn well how to play both parts, and always make a show of it.

Wrecker is far from bratty - he would never dream of being bratty! He wants to be your good boy, and he's going to be the most obedient, submissive, goodest boy to ever grace the galaxy.

Wrecker has few limits, but for the more extreme things, he needs a heads-up. This can be anything from casually letting him know what you'd like to do later, to making a game of it and riling him up throughout the day.

Pull him into a quiet corner, look him dead in the eyes as you place your hands on his chest, and maintain eye contact as you begin going into detail on what you want to do later.

The others know you two are discussing certain things, all thanks to Wrecker's gasps and whimpers. He attempts to keep the noise down, but you're making it so hard for him!

He's the king of praise, and needs to be gifted compliments every few minutes. Tell him over and over about how good his tongue feels, how much his cock stretches you, how perfect he's fucking you, and so forth.

Wrecker has no problem begging, he has no snooty attitude that gets in the way. If he's desperate for something, then he'll beg over and over, practically nagging your ear off!

It's impossible for Wrecker to be quiet, even if he's gagged, so most of your intense sexual acts take place in hotels. Even then, you've had noise complaints, but hotels were designed for this kinda stuff - right?

After care is one of his favourite moments, and he snaps out of his submissive stage the second the sex is over. He wants after care to be a mutual thing, even if you've really worn him out. He's going to clean you up, just as you're cleaning him up, and he won't take your protests for an answer!

Echo

Echo's always been a switch, both before and after Skako Minor.

Before, he was always extremely down to be submissive, sometimes more than he is dominant. But after Skako Minor, he almost always needs to be dominant.

He's lost a lot, both mentally and physically, and sex is one of the few times when he can truly be in control.

However, there are days when Echo is so exhausted, needy, overwhelmed, desperate, etc. Those are the days when he's more than happy to submit to you, because he needs someone to take the ropes, someone to remind him how fantastic and beautiful he is, someone to praise him over and over until he's practically in tears.

If you haven't already guessed it, Echo needs a gentle, kind, and considerate dom. He enjoys being 'whatever you need' when the roles are reversed, but when it's his time to be on his knees, he needs nothing but pure love and affection.

Edging is an act that Echo really enjoys; it's one of the few things that truly makes him feel alive, having his body feel oh-so-desperate for release. He doesn't care if he becomes a sobbing, whimpering mess - if anything, that's all the better!

But during his edging journey, you need to be reminding him often on what a good job he's doing, how he's your good boy, how strong and resilient he is, how he's perfect in every single way.

And the second you allow him to cum, he's thanking you, over and over until you silence him with a kiss. He's not just thanking you for allowing him to climax, but for everything - for being there for him, for making him feel alive, for your support, kindness, consideration. Literally everything.

After care is just as intense, and Echo is exhausted when the sex is over. He always softly protests, telling you that you don't need to clean him up, that he can do it himself, but he makes no physical effort to get away from your gentle touches.

Honestly, he loves having somebody caring for him, but the voice in the back of his head scolds him for it. Continue cleaning him up, pull him into your arms, let his head rest against your chest, and plant kisses on him as he drifts off to sleep.

That's all he needs. That's all Echo's ever needed - somebody to care for him.

Tech

Are you really surprised that Tech has a locked-away, deep and endless knowledge of sexual activities? He has minor experience with sex in general, but he's dived deep into the adult side of the holonet, both out of curiosity, and arousal.

So, when you inform Tech that you want to take the lead, he begins questioning everything that you have planned for him.

Tech needs an in-depth discussion before you two begin. He wants to know your limits, favourites, pros and cons. He wants to ensure that boundaries are set, and safe words are agreed on. Even if you're not doing anything too extreme, Tech wants to ensure that both of you are safe.

Don't be surprised if Tech pulls out a list of sexual activities that he'd like to try, marked from highest to lowest priority. His living space may be a mess, but his holopad is laid out flawlessly.

It takes a couple of sessions to 'break him in.' He often snaps out of character, wanting to ask questions, suggest future ideas, and so forth. He can't help it, his mind is always in overdrive!

At first, you need to follow his lead and reassure him when needed. But when he's still blabbering on after a few sessions, that's when you pull the ball gag out and inform him that he needs to keep his mouth under control, or else he won't be allowed to cum later.

Tech's submissive mindset finally sets in, and oh boy, he is the whiniest, loudest, most sensitive man you'll ever meet. The slightest touch has his mind spinning, and if you think that's bad, just you wait until you begin denying and edging him.

Tech will try almost anything once, and he'll know almost instantly if he's enjoying it or not. But out of everything, he adores being gagged and tied up, edged and denied over and over, all whilst you're telling him about what a good, smart boy he is.

Seriously, rile him up by going into depth about how much you adore his exceptional mind. He'll lose it. That's his weakness!

After care is a mutual activity. You'll be telling him about how good he was, and he'll be thanking you for treating him so well. Tech almost always ends up falling asleep in your arms after, and he'll fall asleep even quicker if you play with his hair.

Crosshair

Oh boy.

You're going to need to be extremely patient, firm, and dominant when it comes to having Crosshair submit to you. He's the brattiest brat you'll ever meet, but it's worth the time and effort when you finally 'break him in.'

He needs to be close to you in order to truly submit, really close. Crosshair's truly submissive side reveals that he's a whiny mess of a man, and he's not comfortable with just anybody seeing that side of him.

At first, Crosshair is full of back chat, petty comments, follows your orders wrong, or refuses to do them overall. He has made it his mission to rile you up, so you need to make it your mission to train him.

If you want him to stop being smug, then pull him over your knee, and give him a spanking. Seriously. He'll understand that you mean business after the first slap, and the more you spank him, the more his walls begin to break down.

You'll spend months getting through to him, but each session breaks his walls down ever so slightly, and you'll know when they're truly broken down.

Crosshair will never openly admit to this, or at least, not at first, but he loves being your personal fuck toy. He wants you to fuck him however you want whilst degrading him, maybe humiliating him every so often.

Mock him for how pathetic he looks as he's bound and gagged for you, desperate for his first release. It's been hours, and you're still riding him, chasing yet another orgasm, and you've lost count of how many you've already had. He's so desperate for one, just one, but you've trained him not to speak unless spoken to, so until you give him the all clear, he won't beg, he'll just take it.

There are few things that he's not okay with. Feel free to choke him, slap him about, use him however you want. However, you need to make up for everything when he is finally allowed to cum.

Crosshair is going to have tears pouring down his cheeks when he releases. Soothe him, praise him, remind him over and over about how wonderful and perfect he is, how proud you are of him, how much he means to you.

He's so exhausted that he allows you to clean him up and tuck him into bed. Seriously, you two have been going at it for hours, of course he's tired! Please pull him against your chest, run your fingers through his hair, and snuggle him tightly throughout the night.

[kenmascatears]

Yours

You haven’t seen Shinso in a year, with him moving away for his job. So when you visit him, harboring secret feelings, you don’t know what to expect.

Genre: an actual plot, smut at the end, fluff

Warnings: alcohol usage, dubcon(sex under the influence of alcohol), public sex (bathroom), squirting, creampie, possessive themes during sex, multiple orgasms, slight dumbification (reader gets fucked out)

a/n: let me know if i forgot any warnings or if you want me to tag anything!

Word count - 3.8k

“______!” You heard a voice call out to you. You had been weaving through hordes of people at the arrival gate for the past 10 minutes, lugging your suitcase behind you, looking for Shinso, who had promised to pick you up. 

You twisted your head around to try and locate the tall purple-haired man, but couldn’t spot him. Suddenly, you felt a tap on your back. Whirling around you turned to face the smiling man.

“Hitoshi!” You exclaimed, wrapping your arms around his frame and burying your face in his chest. 

Shinso laughed, and warmly returned the hug. The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the feeling of seeing one another again. 

He hadn’t changed since you had last seen him, the muscular arms encircling your back were the same ones that had hugged you when you had last seen each other. His cologne was still the same, you noted, the woody scent that invaded your nostrils was the same that he had worn for the past 5 years, ever since high school when he claimed it made him smell “manly.”

The two of you finally let go of one another and as you pulled away you noticed a flush covering his cheeks, You didn’t have time to dwell on it, however, as he took your suitcase into one hand, and yours in the other and began pulling you towards the exit.

“Shit your suitcase is heavy ______, did you bring your whole closet or something?” He asked, laughingly.

“Fuck off Toshi, I packed less this time and you know it.”

It was true, Shinso did know how much you had packed. The day before your flight you had called him in disarray, asking what kind of clothing you should bring and what activities the two of you would be doing. It had taken the purple-haired boy half an hour to convince you to bring what made you comfortable. 

It was always like that between the two of you. Shinso always grounded you, always took care of you. 

As the two of you shot jabs at one another on the way to the car, you began to slip back into the familiarity of his physical presence, having been limited to video calls and texts since he moved away for work.

Your conversation had calmed down and shifted to your plans for the week, by the time you got into the car, where you wanted to go and what you wanted to do. You hadn’t visited Shinso yet, nor had you been to the city and you were eager to explore everything.

Throughout the car ride, your energy had begun depleting, and as you arrived at Shinso’s apartment, you wanted nothing more than to eat a meal and pass out. However, as Shinso opened the door, the person in the kitchen was presenting a challenge. 

As the door clicked shut behind you, the figure turned your way, the expression on their face going from bewildered to excited.

As you and Shinso took off your shoes and removed your coats, the person rose from their spot at the table and spoke. 

“Shinso you didn’t tell me ______ was arriving this early! If I had known, I would have attempted to clean the apartment” His voice held no trace of malice, and you found yourself smiling at his words.

“Shove off Kaminari, you wouldn’t clean the apartment for the life of you. And I told you ______ was coming, your dumbass just forgot.”

You smoothed down the front of your outfit, suddenly self-conscious of your appearance. You knew Shinso had a roommate, he often spoke of the energetic blonde and you had seen him briefly on video calls, but you wanted to make a good first impression. Shinso noticed your hesitation and placed a hand on the small of your back, prodding you further into the room. 

Stepping forward to formally introduce yourself to Denki, you reached out your hand. To your surprise, he avoided your handshake and pulled you into a hug. 

You squeaked in surprise but quickly returned the favor, wrapping your arms around his lean frame. 

As he let go of you, stepping back, he spoke.

“It’s really great to meet you ____, Hitoshi has said so much about you over the past year. In fact, he won’t shut up about you.” He exclaimed, throwing a cheeky grin at Shinso.

You glanced inquisitively at Shinso who was suddenly staring intently at the carpet beneath his feet, pretending like he didn’t hear the statement. 

You turned back to Denki and smiled, “All good things I hope” you replied cheerily. 

“Nothing bad, just all about how you’re his best friend and your job and how much he depends on you, sometimes he acts like a schoolboy with a cr-“

“Kaminari,” Shinso cut him off, a blush spreading across his cheeks as he glared at the blond-haired boy, “you don’t need to repeat to her everything that I say.”

Your stomach flipped upside down as you processed Denki’s comment. You had been harboring feelings for Shinso for about half a year but hadn’t felt like he had felt the same way. 

Countless nights had been spent pondering your emotions, wondering if you should confess your feelings or keep them to yourself. And here Denki was, hinting towards Shinso liking you. You knew he hadn’t had a girlfriend in the past year, his excuse being that he wanted to focus on his career, but before that, he had gone through a slew of them. You never thought that he could like you, after all, you were simply friends.

Shinso touched your arm, breaking you out of your train of thought. “You good? You zoned out there for a second.”

You turned to look up at him and mustered a smile. “Yeah I just need some sleep and food in me, I’ve been up for almost 24 hours.” 

Shinso nodded in understanding, hand reaching up to ruffle his purple hair. “I’m about to heat up some leftovers for myself. I’ll make some for you as well. ”

You smiled at him in relief. “That would be great Hitoshi, thank you.”

“20 minutes?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna take a shower and get the airplane smell off of me if that's okay.”

“Yeah, of course, the bathroom is down the hall, first door on the right.”

After your much-needed shower, where you spent more time thinking about Shinso’s reaction to Denki’s comment than you should have, you were seated at the table with the two of them, downing some leftovers. 

In between the flurry of questions that Denki was sending your way, you realized something.

“Where am I gonna sleep?” You asked around a mouthful of noodles. You knew that the apartment Shinso and Denki lived in only had two bedrooms and not much room for guests. 

“You’re sleeping in my room and I’m taking the sofa.” Shinso replied decisively, twirling his fork around the noodles on his plate.

“Are you sure?” you asked worriedly. You knew Shinso didn’t sleep well and that sleeping on the sofa was going to cause him to get even less sleep.

“Yeah, I’m sure ______. You’re the guest here and if my mom caught wind of me having you sleep on the sofa I would never hear the end of it.”

After finishing up your meal, the three of you kept talking, sharing stories, and discussing what to do tomorrow. To Shinso’s dismay, you and Denki had bonded over a shared love of goading him, an act that continued throughout the evening. Eventually, you realized how tired you really were. Glancing at the clock, you stifled a yawn.

You stood up and began clearing your plate, stating that you were tired and it was best for you to go to bed. 

“I cleared my stuff from my room and there are spare blankets on the chair in there” Shinso replied, “Goodnight ______ and let me know if you need anything.”

“Yeah, goodnight _____” Denki chimed in.

“Goodnight guys.” You replied back, before heading down the hall to Shinso’s room. 

As you laid in bed that night, you played back your time knowing Shinso. He had always seemed more receptive and warm to you than the rest of his friends, but he’d told you during a drunken night a few months ago that he wasn’t looking for anyone at the moment. 

Exhaustion taking over, you drifted off to sleep.

****

The next few days went by quickly. Denki and Shinso took you around the city, visiting museums and monuments, or simply just walking around. At nights you guys hung out, watching movies, or going to explore the nightlife. 

The city fascinated you. Musutafu was a big city, but where Shinso lived now was even bigger. With bustling streets, buildings so tall they disappeared into the clouds, and more attractions than you could count, you loved it. 

You had grown closer to Denki over the course of the week, with him asking all about your life, and him telling you all about his. The blonde was a nice contrast to Shinso, who was usually reserved, the calm to the storm that Denki was. You hadn’t ignored the way he looked at you and Shinso when you interacted, however, staring at the two of you like you were a couple. You were only glad he hadn’t asked if you had feelings for Shinso. You didn’t think you could confess that to anyone yet.

You had realized a long time ago that you and Shinso were closer than the average friends, but for the longest time you had chalked it up to being lifelong best friends. 

You sighed, clutching the glass of water you held with both hands and lifting it to your lips. You supposed it wasn’t normal, the dynamic the two of you had, but you wanted to convince yourself otherwise. No use getting your hopes up for him to end up not having feelings for you. 

You were in a restaurant with Shinso and Denki, a few train stops away from their apartment. It was your second to last night with the two of them. For today's activity you had gone to an exhibit at a museum you wanted to see, and as the evening was coming to an end, so was your energy. 

Throughout the meal, you had been opting to sit and listen, or rather overthink in your head, instead of contributing to the conversation Shinso and Denki were holding, and Shinso, inquisitive as ever, noticed that. As Denki got up to use the washroom, he leaned towards you.

“______ Are you okay? You seem distant?” He inquired with a concerned look in his eyes.

You turned to face him, smiling gently at his expression. He was so adorable when worried, you mused, with his eyes crinkling softly and a small pout adorning his face. His hair was down today you noticed, the soft strands framing his face beautifully. He had once let you make little braids in it, and you reveled in the memory of his silky hair between your fingers. 

“Yeah I’m fine,” You finally replied, “I didn't know walking around a museum was so tiring. I might have to take a nap when we get back.”

Shinso laughed at your reply, “I didn’t know the girl who pulled all-nighters to study for final exams in high school couldn’t handle a little museum.”

You scoffed at his reply and punched his arm, “You’re the one who’s been taking naps at every opportunity. Have you not been sleeping enough?

Shinso gently shoved you back, ignoring your question and the momentum sent you into his body. You leaned against his arm, relishing the familiarity of him. You were going to miss that when you left.

Shinso’s arm moved, draping itself over your shoulders so you were now leaning against the side of his chest. You stayed like that for a few more seconds, the both of you basking in the softness and peace of the moment until Denki came back. 

As the three of you paid for your meals and left, the moment the two of you shared was still in your mind. The way you fit so perfectly next to him, almost as if it was meant to be.

The thought consumed you for the rest of the evening. It was at the forefront of your mind while you watched a movie, hyper-aware of Shinso’s body next to yours, knee bumping into yours every so often. It consumed you as you took a shower, as you bid the two boys goodnight, and it consumed your mind as you drifted off to sleep.

You woke up abruptly to a voice. Disoriented, you turned to the door to see Shinso standing there. 

“Are you okay?” You blearily inquired, checking the time which stood at 3:27. 

“The sofa is really uncomfortable and I can’t take it anymore” he whispered, “The spring keeps digging into my back and I was wondering if I could sleep with y-I mean not with you but like in the b-”

You cut off his rambling with a simple “Sure, I put the spare blanket on the chair if you want it.”

He thanked you and began to move towards you as you scooted towards the side of the bed to give him more space. 

Your heart was pounding. Even though you guys were best friends, you had never slept in the same bed before, and with your feelings toward him, you were getting anxious.

After Shinso had settled in, tucking the blanket around him, you bade him a good night, which he said back sleepily. 

You laid awake, not daring to move in fear of disturbing him. The bed was big enough for the both of you, you mused, and you could feel his warmth from where he was, could smell the remnants of his cologne. It seemed just right. This is how you had wanted it to be for so long, the two of you together,  

You woke up the next morning stiflingly hot and with a weight on top of you. In the course of the night, you and Shinso had found your way to the middle of the bed, covers puddled by your intertwined legs, while his arm was draped over your side, keeping you close to him. 

This is how it could be, you thought, lazy mornings curled up with Shinso in bed if you told him how you felt and if he reciprocated those feelings.

Shinso was still dead to the world, soft snores leaving his mouth. You watched him for a bit, not wanting to leave his side, nor the warmth he was providing you. When Shinso was asleep he looked at peace, almost childlike, in contrast to his usual blasé face. Smoothing your free hand over his forehead, you brushed some strands of hair away from his face. 

At the soft touch, Shinso stirred, dark purple eyes meeting yours. You smiled softly, uttering a “good morning” to him. He hummed in reply, raising his arm away from you to stretch. 

“ ‘m sorry about the contact,” he finally stated, voice scratchy, “I hope you didn’t mind it”

“No, it was fine,” you quickly replied, heat rising through your face, “You were warm anyways.”

He smiled, a slow, sleepy smile that made your heart melt. 

“Thanks for letting me sleep here,” he said, “I slept so much better than on the sofa.”

“You’re welcome Toshi,” you replied, “It was no big deal.”

Pulling away, you got out of bed, shivering at the loss of warmth that Shinso had provided. 

“I’m gonna get ready for the day, okay?”

****

That evening found you in a club a few blocks away from Shinso and Denki’s apartment. Denki had found someone and left a few hours ago, leaving you and Shinso alone. The two of you had been downing drink after drink, and they were starting to kick in, making your head all fuzzy and your actions unpredictable. 

Shinso, when drunk, wasn’t as serious and collected as he normally was. So when you asked him to dance, he accepted.

That found the two of you on the dance floor, Shinso opting to stand and sway to the music, while you danced to your heart's content around him. 

You always felt more carefree around him, felt safe and protected, and with the alcohol flowing freely through you, you had no qualms about sidling up to Shinso when a particularly suggestive song came on, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body against his.

Shinso’s hand dropped to your hips, holding on to them as you moved. 

As you danced, chest to chest, you stared at his face in wonderment. 

The strobe lights made his face glow, the colors distorting his features. However through all the colors, through the haze, you could see one feature clearly, fierce, dark purple eyes, violently staring at you, almost as if he was trying to figure you out.

It was the alcohol that made you pull Shinso’s face level to yours.

It was the alcohol that asked him oh so boldly, “what’re you thinking about Toshi?” with your mouth pressed against his ear.

And it was the alcohol in Shinso that made him reply.

“I’m thinking about if I should kiss you.”

And it was the alcohol that pressed your lips to his, bodies flush against one another, in the middle of the dancing bodies.

That found you in the bathroom 10 minutes later, sitting on the sink, dress shoved up around your waist and underwear pushed to the side.

“Fuck Toshi,” you moaned out, dick dragging along your folds.

“You’re dripping,” Shinso said in amazement, staring at where the two of you connected. “So wet and all for me.”

He was enthralled, at how your little pussy was all stretched out for him. You were gripping him so tightly, pussy fluttering and creaming around his dick. 

The second he had slid his dick inside, you had come almost instantly, moaning and clinging onto him. At that moment, he knew you were made for him. Only he wanted to please you, to satisfy you. And he was determined to do just that. He wanted you drunk on his cock by the end of the evening. To send you home with the reminder of him. To make you unable to be satisfied by anyone by him. And most of all, he wanted to make you his.

“‘s so big Toshi” you moaned out, enraptured from the feeling of him so deep inside you, filling you up. Enraptured with the feeling of the alcohol that was flowing through your veins. 

His cock was filling you up so nicely, pressing against your gummy walls as you clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist. That was consuming your every thought, Toshi, Toshi, Toshi.  

You didn’t realize you were crying out his name until he gripped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“What do you want princess,” he asked lowly, eyes burning with desire.

“You Toshi, please, want your cock, wanna cum.”

With that, he began moving, hands gripping your hips tight enough to leave marks.

“Good girl,” he groaned out, “you’re taking me so well.”

And you were. With each thrust, he could see the translucent ring of slick you were leaving at the base of his cock, your juices dampening the neatly trimmed hair. 

You moaned out without regard to those outside the bathroom. Right now, there was no one but the two of you. All that mattered was right now was you and Shinso.

Wrapping your arms even tighter around his neck and arching your back to meet his thrusts, the new angle made him hit that little sweet spot inside of you, and you keened at the sensation. 

Your orgasm was building up fast, the knot in your stomach building up and Shinsou could tell.

“Hitoshi ‘m so close,” you cried out, head foggy.

Thumbing at your clit, he began thrusting faster, feeling you tighten up under his ministrations.  

It didn’t take much, and you were soon sent headfirst into an orgasm, the pleasure rippling through you. 

Shinso was convinced that the alcohol enhanced your orgasm, as you trembled and cried out, nails digging into his biceps. 

Continuing his ministrations, you were sent straight from your second orgasm, into your third. Maybe you hadn’t even come down from your second. 

Suddenly, your juices squirted from your cunt, coating your cock and his thighs, as you trembled and shrieked.

That was the most filthy and erotic thing Shinso had ever seen. You were completely fucked out, twitching underneath him, the only thing coming out of your mouth were broken moans and his name, over and over again.

The feeling of your walls gripping him, along with that visual sent Shinso towards his orgasm.

Shinso stilled, head falling into the crook of your neck, moaning, as he shot his load into you, your cunt milking him for all he was worth. 

As the two of you came down from your highs, he slowly pulled out, putting your panties in place to ensure that his cum wouldn’t leak out.

Even when drunk, Shinso was attentive.

"You okay ______?" He asked you softly.

You could only groan in reply, eyes fluttering. 

He had tired you out, and along with the alcohol, you had reached your limits.

"'m fine Toshi" you managed to get out, "just wanna go home with you."

Adjusting your dress, he scooped you up, in his arms and took you home.

****

The next morning, you woke up with an ache between your legs, a pounding in your head, and a warmth next to you.

Groaning, you turned to the source of heat.

"Good morning," Shinso said, leaning over to grab some painkillers and a glass of water before handing it to you. "Do you remember last night?"

You downed the pill and water, before turning to face Shinso. "Yeah, I remember the club and bathroom."

Shinso hesitated before speaking, his voice quiet, "D-Did you regret it? Did I push you too far? We were both drunk and I know that might have impacted your judg-"

"Toshi, I wanted what happened last night. I like you Toshi, and I always have. And I hope you like me too. And if you don't, we can forget all about last night." 

As you spoke those words, it felt like a weight had been lifted off of your shoulders. After all those years, you had finally confessed to Shinso how you felt, and it felt calming, to know it was in the open now.

Shinso blinked, and a slow smile grew across his face. Pulling you closer towards him, he cupped your face, planting a soft kiss on your lips. 

"I like you too ______," he said against your lips, "and I want you to be mine."

You kissed him back eagerly, arms wrapping around his neck. 

As you pulled away, with the sun filtering in through the curtains, creating a halo around you, you spoke.

"I would love to be yours Hitoshi."

[scrawnytreedemon]

Victor Frankenstein and Frustration: a Not-Essay, because I can’t structure for shit.

Alright, I’ll try to keep it as clean and concise as I can, but at the end of the day this is a sorta-heat-in-the-moment thing I’m writing while all the ideas and motivation are in me yet. I will be jumping around alot of topics, as this covers alot of ground, but I can’t say I’ll do it with grace: for this, I apologise.

I’ve noticed a trend in online lit fandom, not just on Tumblr, to condense Victor’s character to something roughly following “arrogant, ineffectual and selfish weenie who failed horribly at parenting, who ought not to be taken seriously in any significant way, largely in-due to his constant whining“ --In other words, a right twat.

And here’s the thing: largely, I agree.

However, what I take issue with, I suppose, is largely how this is all framed.

See, fandom has a tendency to sort characters into boxes, and then pick favourites or bête noires from that selection; this is helpful for the largely memetic(as in, shareable,) nature of online spaces; but where I think this thinking falls short is that it tends to divide casts into More Good or More Evil, with little room for nuance.

I think you can see where I’m going with this.

Victor Frankenstein, by all accounts, is an incredibly frustrating character to witness; he gets way in over his head, isolates himself from his loved ones, leaving them worried, deems those ambitions failed, hides from them, then when shit starts hitting the fan, he takes initial actions to try and mitigate the consequence, hits a roadblock, either stops their or chooses an even worse option, someone else gets hurt, he whines, rinse and repeat until the final act of the book, as the stakes get higher and higher and his mental state deteriorates more, and more, and more. If you look at this entirely from an outsiders’ perspective, as you, the audience, being subjected to his moaning time and time again, it can wear on you and your sympathies-- Needless to say, I Get It™.

I think, however, it needs be remarked that Victor is also just some guy. 

What I feel is often missed, is that even before Victor goes to university, he has just suffered the loss of his mother, with little time to recover, and that all of this is being told in hindsight, on his deathbed.

When Victor took on, all by himself, at twenty-two years old, not even letting anyone else know what he was up to, the monumental task of creating life, and then finding that life horribly botched, he did not have the perspective that what he created was equivalent to a newborn child-- For all he knew, he might have animated an actual demon. It isn’t until two years later, after the death of his little brother at the hands of said demon, the he’s even remotely made aware of this.

Victor had worn himself out over the course of several months, physically and mentally, to this one task. He was not equipped to deal witht he consequences. I do not say this to downplay the weight of his actions, or the horrible mess of events that come afterwards, but to state perspective. Victor does not have the hindsight we have at the time of this act. I cannot stress this enough. As much as I enjoy Deadbeat Dad Vick jokes, I get the feeling many people actually view the story from this lens, and hold Victor up to that standard.

Then there’s the trial of Justine: a horrible, useless, unneeded and avoidable affair that ends in even more senseless death. This is where alot of people’s sympathy for Victor runs out-- For more than understandable reasons. He failed to act accordingly, to share the information he had, deeming it to be either dismissed instantly or for himself to be put under scrutiny; it’s clear he’s passionate about Justine’s innocence, but he cannot push himself past his fear and doubt, and ultimately, it ends in her death.

It is a horrible, horrible moment, and one that cements the tone of the story from there on out.

These are two key events that largely colour this image of Victor so prevelant online; and it certainly doesn’t help, what with fandom being almost aggressively left-leaning at times, that Victor comes from a place of privilege; he is almost tailor-made to push all the buttons of fandom sensitivities.

Let me elaborate.

A key feature of Victor’s character is his complete and utter inability to ask for help; no matter how dire the situation. Victor feels, that, despite and even because of his incompetence, that it is his cross and his cross alone to bear. Any inolvement from others, such as Clerval when he heads to England, is hesitant and highly discouraged, even when he wants nothing more than to partake in the company of his loved ones, after all he’s been through. While it is also heavily coloured by the anguished sentiment that borders on self-absorption so much of the time, I think it is also worthy to examine this too.

Victor’s tendency to indulge in self-pity and self-loathing is nigh, if not entirely, all-consuming; it pervades the narrative to a painful degree, particularly as it comes from his recollections; it is often exhausting to read through, and nigh unbearable if you already hold a disdane from his previous actions; but here’s the thing I think most people miss,

Victor is depressed.

I don’t mean “ooh, he’s so sad, leave him alone 🥺,“ I mean the guy is fucking depressed, stuck in a constant cycle of attempting to make do but failing, hating himself even more, letting it consume him because he at once feels like he deserves to be consumed and it’s the only thing he can do then and there to soothe to pain as shit gets worse and worse.

Victor Frankenstein’s internal monolgue is a prime example of deep-seated, far-gone depression, and I say this because I myself have experienced and do experience this. Depression is fucking soul-sucking, man; it turns you in on yourself, makes you feel entirely undeserving of love and compassion, leaves you feeling like you must, have to, deal with this entirely by yourself because it is your cross to bear.

Depression is so often self-flagellating and pointless, leaving the subject drained and often largely unable to experience the world outside their own miserable little bubble.

Victor is so wrapped up in this soul-sucking guilt, attempting to fight his own ineffectuality and in doing so only furthering his own ineffectuality, refusing to ask for help, that he ends up putting the ones he’s trying to protect in further danger as he tries to scramble a hodge-podge solution to the problem he created and couldn’t have even begun to forsee its consequences at twenty-two years old. It is a painful, painful example of how if only he reached out, if only he told someone, was honest, all of this could have been avoided, or at least mitigated.

And I think that’s the thing with Victor.

He’s a kind of banal evil-- If such continuous stumbling can even be considered so --He is an example of every day self-isolation and refusal to let anyone else in ballooning to such a degree it ends in distaster.

People are far, far more willing to forgive Adam for his transgressions-- And I say this as someone far more sympathetic to his plight, what with the absolute abandonment he faced at the hands of humanity --Despite their far more horrific consequences; in many ways, they’re attributed to Victor’s failing; which isn’t entirely untrue,

But I have to wonder, if alot of this also comes down to the fact that Victor’s wrongdoings are so human; leaving someone in your care behind; not speaking up in cases of injustice; being self-involved; again, the constant whining. In a way, it’s the sentiment that in stories a horrible person is often far more bearable than an annoying one.

That doesn’t even begin to touch on how much of the bemoaning might largely be and often is directly post-hoc regret colouring all his previous actions. This, above all else, is a cautionary tale to a fellow idealist in the hopes that Robert Walton doesn’t Fuck Up the way he did. Victor stresses his regret and his failings and his misery time and time again because he wants to protect Robert from a similar fate; a fate that ultimately ends in his death.

Victor Frankenstein is a study in frustration; in audience frustration, self-frustration, narrative frustration; it seeps into every corner of the story.

I am not trying to defend Victor Frankenstein as a person; he is flawed; and he’s meant to be flawed. Victor, at the end of the day, is a deconstruction of the Byronic hero-- Of Great and Powerful Men on the Fronteers of History™-- And most importantly, I think, a deconstruction he himself undergoes. Victor eventually alerts someone, a Genevan magistrate, is doubted just as he feared, and then runs off to take revenge into his own hands.

It takes the death of Elizabeth Lavenza to do so.

Victor is a flawed, miserable man, but not an evil one. That doesn’t mean he deserved to have his life crumble around him.

He could have done better. Should have done better.

And he knows this.

His entire arc is about how he knows this.

Victor dies knowing this.

Him being unlikable doesn’t make him a bad character. Him being unlikable is part of the character; and in a meaningful way.

God, I don’t know how to end this. I’ll probably come back and edit this many, many times.

I guess I’m just tired of people flattening characters just because they’re not particularly endearing.

[fruitydiaz-archived]

my darkest nights

A post 5.01 sort of speculation fic

Eddie makes it back home after the shift from hell and is grateful that he escaped Buck's persistent questioning - until a nightmare wakes him up and Buck shows up at his front door anyways. Because of course he does.

2,877 words

AO3 link

Eddie’s never been more grateful to be so exhausted after a shift. He’s never found himself standing in the locker room, staring at the slope of Buck’s slumped shoulders, the weight of his head pulling him down, and feeling grateful for it. He slips out of the locker rooms and to his truck without anyone noticing—everyone worn too close to the bone to focus on anything other than stripping off their uniforms and leaving for their respective homes.

What was supposed to be a 12-hour shift had turned into a 24-hour shift that dragged on, the ransomware attack sending first responders all over the city, wild goose chase after wild goose chase after literal wild goose chase. All the while Buck’s eyes rarely left Eddie. Normally, Eddie felt comforted by Buck’s constant presence, the way his eyes never strayed too far from him, especially when he found himself retreating into his head too much on calls.

But ever since the hospital—ever since running into Dr. Salazar—Buck’s eyes on him weren’t gentle and reassuring, equal parts check in with me and I’m checking in with you. They were worried and persistent and they made the hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck stand up.

By the time the power had been restored and the team had been cut loose, even Buck was too tired to chase Eddie down.

For the most part, Eddie is grateful, as he pulls into his driveway at 9 am, walking into his house and finding it quiet and empty. He’s thankful that he decided to leave Christopher with Pepa the day before, not knowing that his half shift would turn into a full shift from hell. For a moment he considers stopping in the kitchen to clear out the fridge of all the food that was definitely spoiled during the city-wide blackout, but his body screams for his bed and he listens.

He’s grateful when he pulls the curtains shut, switches off all the lights, and slips under the covers.

He’s grateful. Until the darkness settles around him again, until the sheets wrap themselves too tight around his body, until his eyes fly open and he finds himself searching frantically through the dark for a pair of wide, equally startled blue eyes.

He’s grateful until he realizes that he’s alone.

It’s not a panic attack that wakes him up—because Eddie doesn’t panic—but it takes him 10 minutes to get his heart rate back down. This sleep pattern is becoming painfully familiar to him, like finding an old t-shirt in the back of his closet that he hasn’t worn in 5 or so years, the material tight and constricting around his shoulders and chest. It’s 11:45 in the morning and he knows that trying to fall back asleep is useless, so he takes a quick shower and decides to clean out the fridge anyways.

When there’s a knock on his front door 30 minutes later, Eddie thinks he really shouldn’t be surprised.

But he still is when he pulls open the door and finds Buck standing in front of him, curls fresh and wet against his forehead, the circles under his eyes no less prominent than they were three hours ago. The spike of annoyance is almost immediate because Eddie knows that Buck got just about as much sleep as he did—if not less—and it was Eddie’s fault.

“Buck,” He starts to say, ready to wave him off again, turn him around on his porch and shove him back towards his jeep.

“I—is Christopher here?” Buck cuts him off, eyes darting over his shoulder. Eddie presses his lips together and shakes his head gently.

“He’s with Pepa,” He starts again but this time it’s Buck’s body that cuts him off, shoving his shoulder between Eddie and the doorway, pushing his way into Eddie’s house before he’s even had the opportunity to protest.

“What the hell is going on, Eddie?” Buck’s long legs make easy work of the distance between Eddie’s doorway to his kitchen and Eddie follows right on his heels, helpless and frustrated.

“Nothing’s going on, Buck. I told you to drop it.”

“Well I can’t, Eddie,” Buck says emphatically, spinning around and leaning back against Eddie’s counter. He pauses for a moment, wide eyes searching Eddie’s face before they drop to the floor. His fingers fumble with the hem of his sweatshirt and Eddie’s struck by how small he looks, shoulders hunched, bent inward.

He knows Buck pushes because he cares. Hell, if it were the other way around and Eddie had found out Buck had been to see a cardiologist and didn’t tell him, he wouldn’t have ever let them leave the hospital without finding out why. But Buck can’t know about this—whatever it is. Because Buck won’t drop it even after he finds out and all Eddie wants to do is move forward. He doesn’t get why no one else understands that.

“It wasn’t anything serious, Buck,” He tries again, but the way Buck stares back at him makes him feel like his body’s made of glass.

“Because if it was you would tell me?”

Eddie swallows. He holds Buck’s gaze and nods, a jerky aborted movement, before averting his eyes.

“Good, because four months ago you got shot.” Eddie ignores the way his entire body tenses as Buck continues. “And then you sat in the hospital room and told me that if anything ever happened to you I would be Christopher’s legal guardian.”

He doesn’t say anything and when he looks up again Buck has taken a step closer. He hovers over Eddie slightly, eyes soft and imploring.

“If something happens to you, I need to know. I want to know.”

“It was—it wasn’t a heart attack,” Eddie says quietly.

“But you thought it was.”

“The doctor said…they think it was a panic attack.” Eddie’s stomach twists at the gentle recognition that crosses Buck’s face. He’s not surprised in the slightest. Eddie can picture him easily, back at his loft, sitting on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, searching google for an explanation as to why Eddie would think he was having a heart attack if he wasn’t.

Realistically, Buck probably knew what was up while they were still in the hospital. But if Eddie can just pretend for a little longer—

“You don’t agree with them,” Buck says eventually and Eddie feels heat crawl up the back of his neck.

“I don’t panic,” He says as a reflex, the words familiar, having taken up residency on the tip of his tongue over the last couple of days. But the moment they’re out in the air, the moment he says them to Buck, he knows he’s lost the battle.

“Everybody panics.”

“I don’t.”

“Eddie, you got shot—”

“Why does everyone want to talk about that?” Eddie can’t keep the frustration from bleeding out into his words, not even through his gritted teeth. “I lived. I lived and he...he’s dead. I’ve moved on, why can’t everyone else?”

Eddie’s eyes are wide and frantic as he looks at Buck, pleading, and for a second Buck gets a glimpse at Eddie as a child. He gets a glimpse at Eddie before he closed himself off, before he was taught to build up walls around his heart, before he learned to shove every emotion down further and further until the only thing left was his ability to move forward. Before he learned how to control.

He reaches his hand out, settling it firmly on Eddie’s shoulder, thumb skipping over the pulse point in his neck.

“Eddie, it happened. Just because you don’t talk about it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I—I watched you almost die, Eds.”

“But I didn’t,” Eddie repeats, voice small.

“And I’m really fucking glad you didn’t,” Buck agrees on an exhale. “I get that you want to move on but until you actually talk about what happened, you’re not going to be able to.”

Buck hesitates for a moment, his eyes searching Eddie’s face. Eddie stares back at him and eventually, Buck sucks in his bottom lip and drops his hand from Eddie’s shoulder. He steps back against the counter, looking down at his hands.

“Eddie, you’ve been through a lot. You’ve seen things that most people don’t even think to worry about. It all adds up, you know?”

“But I’m used to it—it’s not the first time I’ve almost died,” Eddie says and Buck does his best not to flinch, the way he always does when Eddie casually mentions his own mortality, the number of times he’s stared death in the face only to turn his back on it and fight in the opposite direction. He takes a deep breath and pushes back from the counter, turning and slowly making his way towards Eddie’s kitchen table.

“You know, I still talk to Dr. Copeland about what happened that day, sometimes,” Buck pulls out a chair and slowly sinks down into it, his joints cracking as he does. He looks up at Eddie, who feels frozen in place, struck by the realization that it’s been four months and this is the first time Buck has ever actually mentioned the shooting, the first time he’s ever talked about it as something that happened to him too.

“For weeks I couldn’t look in the mirror because I—I would remember standing in the hospital bathroom after they took you in and seeing…your blood everywhere.”

Buck’s words settle in the pit of Eddie’s stomach like a rock. He wants to say something gentle and encouraging, but his throat feels tight, like it’s closing up on itself, and all he can do is stare back at Buck.

“Some nights I still have nightmares where I wake up and I can feel your blood on my hands. Or—or sometimes I wake up and in my dream…we never made it to the hospital. Or I’m frozen and I watch you die in the street. And it takes everything in me not to call you and make sure you’re alright. That you’re still alive.”

Eddie eventually makes his way to the chair opposite Buck, sliding into it with robotic, stilted movements that feel like they’re made by someone other than himself.

“I didn’t know,” He says quietly, and Buck regards him with a face full of guilt and pain.

“I knew you didn’t want to talk about it. But…maybe I should’ve tried harder. I’m sorry,” Buck says and Eddie’s face twists.

“You don’t have to apologize for that, Buck.”

“The point is, no matter how much time has passed, I still think about that day. And I wasn’t the one who got shot.”

Eddie’s jaw works and lets his eyes fall to the table, trying to find something else to focus on, his heartbeat rattling in his chest. He traces the surface, noting all of the different dings and marks in the wood, the water stains from years of use, from years of living. He doesn’t remember the story behind each mark—some of them weren’t even made by him (or Christopher, or Buck, or anyone else they know). The table was a late-night purchase off of Facebook one of the first nights Eddie spent alone in their house. He remembers feeling a great sense of pride when he made the purchase like he was finally moving forward, achieving something for himself and for Christopher, doing the right thing. And then he remembers the deep sense of dread and loneliness that washed over him immediately after. A table was something he and Chris needed, but Eddie wasn’t used to furniture shopping alone. He couldn’t help but think about how Shannon would’ve hated the table he chose—and she told him as much when she eventually saw it.

He remembers Shannon and the way she had suddenly fallen back into his life, like a rare kind of meteor, a once in a lifetime kind of thing, crashing through the sky, fiery and fierce, ripping through the ozone layer and leaving a crater in its wake. That’s how he felt when Shannon died—torn and empty.

That’s how he felt in the months after the shooting, too. Even as he fought to get up each morning, fought to go to physical therapy, fought through his mandated counseling sessions, fought to regain mobility so he could get some sense of independence back, so that he didn’t feel so useless in his own home.

None of it cured the emptiness. Not even when he reached his hand out some nights and felt the warmth of Ana’s body next to him. Not even when she held him in her arms, ran her fingers through his hair. He doesn’t feel anything.

Or—maybe that’s not true. Maybe he does feel something, something he’s just been ignoring—an uneasiness deep in the pit of his stomach. An uneasiness that spreads, slow and quiet until suddenly it’s taken over his whole body—panic.

He does his best to ignore it but nothing soothes it—and maybe that’s what he’s been doing this whole time. Trying to soothe the ache, the fear. Reaching for the things he thought would bring him comfort, would help him move on. And acknowledging this pain and panic means that it’s not working. None of it’s working. Not this, ignore it and move on mentality, not this relationship with Ana. Because it’s all connected, isn’t it?

Three days before Eddie got shot in the street, Carla reached across the table and took his hand, and told him to be sure he was following his heart. Three days later he was bleeding out on the street, eyes locked with Buck’s, the two moments twisted and tied together in his history, a knot so tight Eddie didn’t think he could ever untie them.

Looking back up at Buck, Eddie remembers the dream he woke up from earlier. The dream itself isn’t important—it was just one in an endless sea of scenarios that have blended together into one long continuous nightmare; an empty street, a shot in the air, fire, blood, screaming, mud, water, gasping for air—but Eddie remembers what he was searching for when he woke up.

Blue eyes, equally startled.

“I don’t,” Eddie says suddenly, his voice surprising him. He pauses, looks back down at his hands. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?” Buck asks quietly. His hands slide across the table and hesitate just for a moment before they cover Eddie’s own. The relief is almost instant—not total but enough.

“Ask for help,” Eddie responds. Buck squeezes his hands and he looks back up at him. He swallows, hard, at the sight of Buck’s wide, pale blue eyes staring back at him. Eddie could get lost in them. Eddie wants to get lost in them. He thinks he could be safe there.

“You just did.”

It takes a moment for Eddie to realize he’s crying. It takes him even longer to realize this is the first time he’s ever cried in front of Buck. But after everything they’ve gone through, after this whole conversation, he can’t find it in him to feel ashamed of it. Especially not when Buck’s looking at him with nothing but sincerity and honesty in his eyes. And it hits him then that Buck loves him.

Eddie thinks maybe this is what it’s like to be loved in your entirety. He’s not sure he’s ever felt anything like it before. He doesn’t have time just yet to unpack the way it feels to have Buck look at him like that, to feel like he’s been cracked down the middle and opened up to reveal every ugly vulnerability and be met with nothing but love.

But it feels right. It feels like a step forward. A step in the right direction.

Eventually, he’ll have to go back to therapy. He’ll have to unpack the events from that day, the anger he never let himself feel, the fear that his life was about to be cut short, the regret he felt staring across the 20 feet of asphalt at Buck, covered in his blood.

He’ll have to talk to Christopher because he knows his son is too attentive for his own good, and if his trip to the hospital taught him anything (and it taught him a lot) it was that Christopher had no intention of playing along with this charade Eddie had going, and he saw right through it.

He’ll have to talk to Ana. He’ll have to confront the fact that when he searches for comfort in the middle of the night, in the midst of his panic, he doesn’t find it in the shape of her body, but in the image of Buck.

One day, he’ll have to face those feelings head-on. He’ll have to untangle this web of repression and fear, the threads of which had been spun so long before Eddie was ever aware that they’re practically embedded in his DNA.

But for now, he finds peace in his kitchen, his hands in Buck’s, blue eyes on his.

And he feels safe here. If only for the moment.