#but it’s hit or miss what sticks like real memories or dreams

[noodles-and-tea]

I think the new memories that are being made come to the future stans in their dreams

[cloudss-space]

Metal Band Guitarist Ronin x Drummer MC?? 👀👀👀

What is taken, is given

( killer chat ) ronin x reader ... band au ... given inspired

trigger warning:

character death / mention of suicide

slight gore

Drumming was your means of survival, not just music. From the moment you were old enough to hold sticks in your small, trembling hands, you felt it deep in your marrow. At five, you didn't know what rhythm was in any formal sense, but you knew how it felt. It was the wild, chaotic thudding of your own heart, the pounding of your feet as you ran barefoot across cracked pavement, the desperate, incessant hum of staying alive in a world that always felt too sharp – and you did it.

At six, you built your first drum kit. You used whatever you could find: old pots and pans, coffee cans, anything that could take the beating of your hands. The skin on your palms split sometimes, little rivers of red tracing the lines of your tiny fingerprints. You didn't care. The pain was nothing. It was just a necessary offering to summon the sound.

The drumsticks came later, as a gift from someone whose name you don't even remember. You held them in your fists like weapons, determined to beat the silence into submission. Every strike of wood against metal or plastic sent vibrations through your arms, shaking loose the tension that lived in your small body like a parasite. You hit harder and harder, chasing a release you knew was coming.

By seven, your passion had become an all-consuming obsession. You carved patterns into the walls with the tips of your sticks, tracing rhythms you had to unleash. Your parents yelled, but you were too busy listening to the pounding in your head to hear them. You were too busy listening to the ghost of a snare drum that hadn't been born yet, the phantom echo of a kick drum that lived only in your dreams.

The neighbours complained about the noise, but I told them noise was better than silence. Silence was suffocating. It was a gaping maw that swallowed you whole and left you stranded in your own thoughts. The drums were loud, messy and alive. Each hit was a defiant scream of existence, a reminder that you were still here, still fighting.

At eight, you got your first real drum kit – a battered, secondhand set someone had abandoned in a garage sale. It was a Frankenstein monster of mismatched pieces: a snare with a dented head, a kick drum missing its front skin, cymbals with cracks spidering through their edges. But to you, it was beautiful.

You bled for that kit, and you meant every drop. Your hands bled, forming blisters that popped and reformed, leaving streaks of red on the drumheads. The sight of it made you feel alive in a way you could not and would not explain. Pain was part of the process. It was the cost of creating something that felt bigger than yourself.

By nine, you knew drumming had changed you. It was more than just a hobby. It was a transformation. When you played, you were no longer the quiet, awkward kid who flinched at loud voices and harsh words. You transformed into something else, something raw and primal, someone who demanded to be acknowledged.

The drums demanded everything from you. You practised for hours until your arms ached and your muscles trembled under the strain. You kept going despite the fatigue, the sweat dripping into your eyes, the sting of salt mixing with the rawness of your skin. You played until the world narrowed to nothing but the rhythm, the sound, and the motion.

At ten, you grasped the darker side of your passion. The drums were more than just an escape; they were an outlet for everything you couldn't say and everything you couldn't feel safely. Anger, fear, despair – they all came pouring out in relentless cascades of sound. Sometimes you hit so hard that the sticks splinter in your hands, the shards cutting into your skin. You'd pick them out later, and they'd be there, tiny splinters embedded like memories you couldn't quite shake.

The kit was the target of your wrath. The skins were stretched taut like a body under stress, taking every blow without complaint. But it wasn't enough. The noise wasn't loud enough. The strikes weren't hard enough. You wanted to fly, to break free from the crushing weight of expectation that hung over you like a guillotine.

Your parents simply didn't understand. They called it a phase, but I know better. I'll grow out of it. They scolded you for making too much noise and spending too much time on something that didn't matter. The drums mattered more to you than anything. They were your voice when words failed, your lifeline when the world became too much.

The beat was relentless and unyielding. It followed you everywhere, even in your dreams. You'd wake up with your fingers twitching, mimicking the patterns you had played earlier. The rhythms lived in your body, a second pulse that kept you grounded even when everything else threatened to fall apart.

But the passion came at a cost. Your hands were a patchwork of scars, the skin rough and calloused. Your back ached from hours of leaning over the kit, and your ears rang from the constant crash of cymbals. You questioned whether you were destroying yourself, piece by piece, for the sake of the sound.

And yet, you simply couldn't stop. The drums were my addiction, my need as essential as breathing. You played through the pain, through the exhaustion, through the doubts that crept in when the world grew quiet. You did not let anything stop you. When you played, you felt invincible, untouchable, alive.

By the end of each session, the drumheads were streaked with sweat and sometimes blood, the sticks worn down to nubs. The room reeked of exertion, determination, and endurance. You sat there, breathless, staring at the kit as if it were a living thing, a beast you had tamed for a fleeting moment.

The drums defined you. They were your identity, the thing that set you apart from those who drifted through life without purpose. They were your rebellion against the silence, your refusal to fade into the background – and you made that clear. And even as they demanded more and more from you, you gave willingly, knowing that the cost was worth it.

The drums were your lifeline, not just music. In a world that often didn't make sense, they were the only thing that did. As long as you had them, you knew you could keep going, keep fighting, keep living. It hurt, but you kept going. Even if it bled.

The drumsticks felt weightless in your hands at first, like extensions of your own body. You joined the band at fourteen and it was everything for a while. The beat became your heartbeat, the rhythm your breath. It was freedom, pounding through your veins as the snare and cymbals roared beneath your touch. When you played, the world faded. The noise inside your head was drowned out by something louder, something yours.

You met him there, the boy who would change everything. He was sharp and edgy, with soft eyes that fascinated you from the start. He played the bass with an effortless ease that made you jealous. His name was Ezra, and when he smiled, the world tilted.

At first, it was just stolen glances and shared laughs between sets. But it didn't take long for something deeper to grow. He saw you in a way no one else ever had. He peeled back the layers you'd carefully constructed and touched something raw inside you. He made you feel like you were living, not just surviving.

You loved the nights. After practice, you sat on the hood of his car, legs dangling over the edge, talking about everything and nothing. He lit a cigarette, the cherry glowing like a tiny ember in the darkness, and you watched the smoke curl into the air, wishing you could be as free as it looked.

You fell in love quietly, like slipping into a warm bath. It wasn't sudden or dramatic, but it consumed you all the same. You didn't tell him right away, but you didn't have to. You were confident that he would understand. He knew. You could see it in the way he looked at you. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in a room full of people.

He kissed you for the first time behind the venue after your first gig. Your hands were shaking, not from nerves but from the adrenaline of the performance, and he grabbed them to steady you. His lips were soft and tentative, and you felt something inside you crack open, like the world was finally letting a little light in.

But light doesn't last.

You didn't see the darkness creeping into him at first. He concealed it skilfully, masking it behind his genial demeanor and keen intellect. But there were moments, brief but intense, when the mask came undone. You'd catch him staring into the distance, his eyes hollow, as if he was somewhere else entirely. When you asked, he simply shrugged it off with a smile that was too quick and too practiced.

The fights started small, with inconsequential issues that were easily overlooked. He'd snap at you over a missed note or disappear for days without explanation. You told yourself it was normal, that everyone had bad days, but you knew better.

Then came the silence. This wasn't the kind of quiet you found comforting, like the pause between drumbeats. It was stifling, laden with all the words he chose to leave unsaid. He stopped coming to practice and stopped answering your calls. The band felt empty without him. It was like a song missing its melody.

You found him one night, slumped against the wall of his room, the floor littered with empty bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and he looked at you as if he didn't even recognise you. He told you he was fine, but you knew he wasn't.

You didn't know how to save him, but you were going to find out.

You were the one who found him when it happened. That memory is seared into your mind, a wound that never stops bleeding. You can still see the crimson pooling around his wrists, the stillness of his body in the dim light of his room. The bass guitar he loved so much was leaning against the wall, untouched, as if mocking you.

Your scream was inhuman. It felt like something was ripping you apart from the inside, shredding every part of you that had ever felt whole. You fell to your knees, your hands shaking as you tried to stop the bleeding, even though you knew it was too late.

The funeral was a blur. A cacophony of muffled sobs and whispered condolences that meant nothing. You refused to look at his parents, unable to bear the weight of their grief, which mirrored your own. You sat in the back, your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms until they drew blood.

Drumming was no longer an option. The sticks felt foreign in your hands, the beats hollow and meaningless. Every time you touched the drum set, you saw his face, heard his laugh, and felt the weight of his absence like a phantom limb. The music that had once saved you now felt like a curse.

You tried to move on, but the guilt was relentless. You replayed every moment in your head, searching for the signs you'd missed and the things you could have done differently. You told yourself it was your fault. If you'd been better and stronger, he'd still be here.

The band simply couldn't go on without him. The others tried to keep it going, but it was obvious it wasn't the same. The rhythm was all wrong and the energy was gone. You drifted apart, each of you bearing your own burden of grief and scars.

Nights were the worst. The silence that once comforted you now felt like a void, engulfing you. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of memories and regrets. You reached for the drumsticks, then stopped. The weight of them was too much to bear.

You dreamed of him sometimes. In your dreams, he was alive, smiling, his hands warm against your skin. But even in the dreams, you saw the shadow behind his eyes, a stark reminder that he was gone. You wake up gasping, tears streaming down your face.

You cut music out of your life for a while because the sound was too painful. Even the sound of a snare drum in a passing car made your chest tighten. The memories flooded back in vivid, agonising detail.

People told you it would get better, that time would heal the wound. They were wrong. But it didn't. The wound wasn't healing. It was festering and infecting every part of you until you didn't recognise yourself anymore.

And yet, deep inside, you knew that you couldn't let go completely. You kept his bass guitar, even though you didn't want to play it. You kept the setlists from your gigs, the ones he'd scribbled on, his handwriting messy but unmistakable.

You carried him with you, in every note you couldn't play and every beat you couldn't hit. He's gone, but he's still there. He's a ghost haunting the spaces between the rhythms of your life.

You were unsure if you'd ever find your way back to the drums, but you knew one thing for certain: the silence was unbearable. And you know what? One day, you'll find a way to fill it again.

Graduation was coming, and you knew it was a milestone you should have been celebrating. Instead, it felt like a noose tightening around your neck. The cap and gown hung in your closet, their fabric ghosting against your fingers every time you reached for something else. People called this time of life bittersweet, but you knew it was only bitter – a cruel joke wrapped in the pretence of moving forward.

The halls of your high school were the same as they'd always been, but you could feel them emptying around you. Your past lover's absence clung to you like smoke, lingering in places where he used to stand, in the faint echoes of laughter that would never return. The band was gone, and so was he, and without them, every passing day felt more hollow than the last.

Your classmates spoke about college, careers and futures, their voices ringing out like a chorus around you. You nodded when they asked about your plans and offered vague smiles when they asked how you were doing. But inside, you knew you were spinning your wheels in the mud. What future could there possibly be without him? What future could there be without music? The guilt tightened its grip on you with every congratulatory word, their smiles blind to the storm raging behind yours.

On good days, you felt numb. On bad days, you felt like the wound your past lover left behind was bleeding all over again, staining every part of you that tried to move on. Nights were the worst – long, suffocating stretches of time where the silence grew louder than anything else. The nightmares were relentless, dragging you back to the moment you found him, to the stillness of his body, to the crimson that refused to leave your hands no matter how many times you tried to scrub it away.

There were moments when you felt his absence acutely, even in the ordinary things. An empty chair in the classroom, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke as you passed someone on the street, the strum of a bass in a song you hadn't heard in years. Each reminder cut deeper than the last. The universe itself seemed to be conspiring to keep him fresh in your mind.

You stopped telling people about the dreams. They simply didn't understand how vivid and real they felt. In them, he was alive and kicking. He was vibrant, laughing, teasing you about your drumming or sharing secrets under the stars. You'd wake up gasping, reaching for something that wasn't there, and the crushing weight of reality would settle back over you like a shroud.

The graduation rehearsals felt like another cruel reminder. The stage where you'd receive your diploma stretched out in front of you, a symbol of achievement you didn't care about. Your past lover had always joked about the future, about how he'd watch you play drums on bigger stages one day. You were stepping onto this stage without him, and you were going to own it.

The school counsellors advised you to speak to someone, but you were not prepared to do so. What could they possibly say that would make a difference? The guilt was too deeply rooted and the pain too sharp. You were walking through life with open wounds, and talking would not sew them shut.

Your parents tried to help, but they didn't understand. Graduation was a celebration and a reason to push forward for them. They failed to grasp the immense weight it carried for you. Every step towards that stage felt like a step away from the life you'd known, the life you'd lost.

You avoided the drums altogether, unable to touch them without feeling like you were desecrating something sacred. They sat in the corner of your room, gathering dust, a monument to what used to be. The silence they left behind was deafening and it seeped into every part of your life.

Your friends invited you to parties, to hangouts, to plans for after graduation, but you turned them down. The effort it took to be around people was too much, and the idea of pretending to be okay was exhausting.

The weight of it all grew heavier with each passing day, a constant pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. You knew you didn't deserve to be here, to graduate, to move forward. Your past lover was supposed to be here too, and without him, it all felt meaningless.

Some nights, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the crumpled graduation invitation on your desk. You thought about the future you once dreamed of, the one where your past lover was by your side, where the band was still together, where the music still made sense. That future was a cruel joke, a distant echo of something you could never have.

But deep down, you knew you could keep going. For him. For the dreams you shared. You knew you would play that music again, even if you couldn't bring yourself to do so.

You didn't know what graduation would bring, but you were determined to find out. You were equally determined to find out if you'd ever feel whole again. But you knew one thing for certain: your past lover would not have wanted you to stop. He wouldn't have wanted the music to die with him.

As the day drew closer, you tried. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't pretty, but you did it anyway. You found the rhythm again, picked up the pieces of yourself that had shattered when he left. And you found a way to carry him with you, not as a weight but as a reminder of the love you'd shared, the music you'd created, and the life you'd both fought so hard to live.

The desperation gnawed at you, testing the limits of your resolve until you felt raw and hollowed out by the need for something—anything—that could keep you afloat. The debts piled high, each letter in the mail like a strike to the chest, each reminder that you were sinking faster than you could swim. There was no doubt about it. The job interviews blurred together, and each rejection weighed heavily on your shoulders. By the time you met him, exhaustion had become a part of you, as natural as your heartbeat.

It was in some dimly lit corner of the city, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and smoke, a cacophony of sounds ringing in your ears. You strode purposefully to the door, your steps faltering only briefly as you pushed it open. The music inside was loud and raucous, the kind of noise that made your bones ache. That was when you saw him – Ronin.

He stood like he owned the world, the stage his throne and the guitar in his hands a weapon. Every note he played was violent, shredding through the air with a ferocity that felt almost tangible. His grin was sharp, cocky and infuriating. It was the kind of smile that made you want to punch him as much as it made you want to stare.

You stayed because you didn't know why. He played with such passion, it was as if he was bleeding onto the strings, every note a cut across his soul. He commanded the room. His presence was magnetic, pulling you in despite yourself. Or perhaps it was simply that you had nowhere else to go.

The show ended and the crowd dispersed, leaving behind the faint buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses. You stayed, lingering near the bar, and you were going to ask him anything – work, connections, a sliver of opportunity. He approached you instead, his smirk even more infuriating up close.

"You look like you've got nowhere better to be," he said, his voice a low drawl that carried over the din of the room.

You were offended but you stayed. "And you look like you enjoy hearing yourself talk."

He laughed, a sharp, biting sound, and you hated how it made something inside you twist. He introduced himself with the kind of arrogance that made you want to roll your eyes. He was Ronin, guitarist, metalhead, and self-proclaimed genius. But there was something there, something raw and jagged that mirrored the chaos inside you.

He offered you a job soon after. It wasn't a glamorous job and it wasn't something you could put on a resume, but it paid well. You'd be a roadie, a band assistant, hauling equipment and dealing with their mess. You weren't going to take it. You didn't want to be around him. His sharp tongue and sharp eyes made you feel uneasy. He seemed to see right through you. But you needed the money.

The first few weeks were hell. The band was loud, chaotic and constantly on the move. Ronin was worse. He was demanding and impossible to please. His expectations were as high as the volume of his guitar. But he was also brilliant, his talent undeniable. You couldn't help but admire him.

He pushed you, and it felt both infuriating and exhilarating. He challenged you, called you out on your bullshit, and made you feel things you hadn't felt in years. And at some point, the lines between anger and attraction got blurred.

The nights were the hardest. No doubt about it. The silence after the shows felt suffocating, the memories you tried to bury clawing their way to the surface. Your partner's ghost lingered in the quiet, his laugh echoing in the back of your mind, his absence a constant, gnawing ache in your chest. You hated how much you missed him and how much you hated yourself for moving on even a little.

Ronin noticed. He did, of course. He could see right through you and force the truth out of you, whether you wanted to share it or not. He didn't pry or push, but he was there, a constant, grounding presence that was also, infuriatingly, comforting.

He had the same effect on you as your past lover did. It wasn't about looks or actions. It was about how he made you feel. You realise you're not as broken as you thought. You knew there was still something left of you worth saving.

Ronin wasn't your past lover. You refused to let yourself forget that. He was unpolished and unyielding, a force of nature where your ex-lover had been gentle and composed. He was everything you weren't supposed to want and everything you weren't supposed to need.

And yet, you were drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. It was dangerous, and you knew it, but you couldn't stop yourself. He had a way of pulling you out of your head and making you forget how much it hurt to breathe.

The guilt gnawed at you, a constant reminder that you didn't deserve this. You knew you didn't deserve to feel anything but the pain you'd been carrying since the night you lost that lover. Ronin didn't let you wallow. He didn't let you drown.

He was your opposite: fire to your ice, chaos to your control, life to your grief. And for the first time in a long time, you knew you could survive this.

The work was hard, the days long, but you found solace in the rhythm of it. The music, the noise, the chaos – it was a different kind of drumming, one that made your blood sing in ways you hadn't felt in years. And Ronin was there, always there, proving you were never alone.

But the shadows still lingered, the ghosts still haunted you, and the scars you carried weren't so easily healed. You didn't know where this path would lead, but you were determined to find out if you could truly move on. But for the first time, you knew you didn't have to do it alone.

The stage lights blazed into your vision, intense and overwhelming, cutting through the smoky haze like a knife. Every time you sat behind the drum kit, it was like stepping into a war zone. The crowd roared like a tidal wave, their voices colliding and swirling into an unholy storm of sound that rattled your chest and shook your bones. The bass reverberated through your ribs with each beat, hammering against your skin as if it were trying to split you open. And at the centre of it all was Ronin, silhouetted in shadows, his guitar screaming like it was alive.

Playing in the band was pure chaos, an unstoppable force that burned through every part of you. The crash of the cymbals, the pound of the toms, the relentless heartbeat of the kick drum – it was all-consuming, a cacophony that drowned out the world. You hit harder than you needed to, driving the sticks into the drums with a force that seemed to try to punch through them. It was about survival, plain and simple. It was a primal release that kept the darkness at bay.

Ronin thrived in the chaos. His energy was infectious, wild, and unpredictable, and his riffs cut through the air like jagged glass. He locked eyes with you mid-song, his grin sharp enough to slice through the noise, and you hated how it made your heart race. He played with the intensity of a world-changing blaze, and you were just trying to keep up, to match his heat.

The band was a paradox: a sanctuary and a battlefield in one. The music was your armor, your shield against the grief and guilt that still lingered. It also tore you apart. Every song was an exorcism, dragging out the pain and anger you'd tried so hard to bury. You gave everything you had to the drums, every beat a scream, every rhythm a plea for something you couldn't name.

Ronin pushed you harder than anyone ever had. His demands were relentless and his standards were impossibly high. He didn't coddle you. He didn't let you falter, and he didn't let you fail. He was harsh on the critiques, rare on the praise, but when he did nod in approval, it felt like you'd conquered something insurmountable. You hated him for it, but you respected him even more for it.

The music couldn't always mask the pain. No matter how hard you tried to drown it out, the grief clawed its way to the surface on those nights. On those nights, you found yourself watching Ronin from across the room. You saw how he tuned his guitar with precise, almost obsessive care. You saw how his fingers moved over the strings like they were extensions of himself. His intensity and focus made you feel less alone, even if he never said a word.

The band's dynamic was volatile, with a constant push and pull between chaos and control. Fights erupted over nothing and everything. There were creative differences, missed cues and a lot of tension simmering beneath the surface. Ronin was often at the centre of it, and you found yourself clashing with him more often than not, because his temper was as fiery as his playing. But the fights never lasted. The music always brought you back together. It was a shared language that transcended words.

On stage, the world fell away. There was only the music, the lights, the crowd, and the feeling of being part of something larger than yourself. Ronin's guitar roared and howled, his solos cutting through the air like a blade, and you were his backbone, the steady rhythm that grounded the chaos. Together, you created something raw and alive, something that felt like it could shatter the world.

Things were messier offstage, without a doubt. The long nights, the endless miles on the road, the pressure to keep up the momentum – it all took its toll. The camaraderie you felt on stage didn't always translate to real life. There were times when the silence between you and Ronin felt heavier than the music ever could.

But there were moments of clarity, too. The walls came down, if only for a second. Ronin had a way of surprising you. His sharp edges softened when you least expected it. A shared laugh over a stupid inside joke, a quiet conversation in the back of the van, the way he handed you a water bottle after a particularly gruelling set without saying a word – those moments were proof that staying was the right choice.

The music was catharsis, but it was also a constant reminder of what you'd lost. Every time you picked up the sticks, you thought of your past lover, of the way he used to watch you play with a smile that made your heart ache. The guilt was always there, a shadow that lingered at the edge of every note, but the band gave you a way to channel it, to turn it into something tangible, something real.

Ronin never asked about your past, and he didn't need to. He saw it in the way you played, in the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking, in the way your eyes glazed over when the memories became too much. He didn't pry or push, but his presence was unwavering and anchored you. It was more than enough.

You began to notice the little things about him: the way his jaw clenched when he was concentrating, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about a new riff, the way his laugh rumbled low and deep like distant thunder. You hated how much you noticed and cared, but you couldn't ignore it.

Ronin had a magnetic pull that drew you in, no matter what you wanted. He was everything you weren't supposed to want, everything you weren't supposed to need, but you couldn't stop yourself. He made you feel alive in a way you hadn't in years, and it terrified you, but you couldn't stop yourself.

The band was a lifeline, a chance to start over, but it was also a stark reminder that you couldn't outrun your demons. The ghosts of your past still haunted you, the scars still ached, but you faced them head-on with the help of music.

Ronin was a part of that, and you couldn't get away from it. He was fire and chaos, raw and untamed. He forced you to confront parts of yourself you'd rather leave buried. He challenged you, pushed you, and made you better. You hated him for it as much as you were grateful.

Every night on stage was a battle. A fight to prove to yourself that you could still create something beautiful despite the pain. The drums became an extension of yourself. Each beat was a heartbeat, each rhythm a reminder that you were still alive. And Ronin was there, always there, his guitar screaming alongside you, a partner in your chaos.

The band took you places you hadn't been before. They kept up a relentless pace, but you were up for the challenge. For the first time in a long time, you felt like you were part of something bigger than yourself. The music was messy, chaotic and imperfect, but it was yours.

And so was Ronin. He was a part of this now, a part of you. Like it or not. He was a constant, a steady presence in the storm, and there was no way you could imagine doing this without him.

The road ahead was uncertain and the future was a blur, but you had the music, the band and Ronin, and that was all you needed. And that was enough.

The air backstage still hummed with the echoes of the performance. The thrum of the bass lingered in your bones, an electric pulse that refused to fade. The world was still reeling from the impact of the show, and your heartbeat thundered like a drumbeat, steady but intense. You wiped sweat from your brow, your fingers still slightly shaking from the adrenaline, but you were unphased. The crowd's roar was fading, but the rush was still there, and it wasn't going anywhere.

Ronin was there too, his presence unmistakable in the haze of the after-party noise. His fingers still curled around the neck of his guitar, as if the music hadn't left him. He was standing near the corner, his posture loose but guarded, looking more tired than he was willing to admit. His hair was tousled, wild from the heat of the stage, strands sticking to his face. His eyes, though, were bright and intense, burning through everything, searching, restless. You caught his gaze, and for a brief moment, the noise of the room dissolved, like a world where only the two of you existed.

He didn't smile yet, but his gaze softened just a little. You moved towards him, drawn by an invisible thread that had been there since the first chord you'd struck on the drums together. The silence between you was a low hum, an unspoken promise that the world around you had stopped for a moment.

The space between you shrank, and then your hand was at his side, boldly taking the lead, testing the waters with a tentative touch. He didn't pull away. His chest rose and fell with every breath, steady and strong, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. Your fingers grazed his arm, and you felt the heat pass through you, electric and alive. For a heartbeat, you both stood there, suspended in the moment, before he closed the distance between you.

Ronin was never one for gentleness, but there was something in the way he leaned in now, his mouth brushing against yours with a kind of quiet force, as if he had been waiting for this, too. His lips were warm and soft, urgent and insistent. The kiss was a slow unravelling, like a thread being pulled through fabric, one inch at a time, making you shiver from the intensity of it.

It was more than just passion, more than just heat. There was something deeper in the way he kissed you. It was unspoken, raw, as though both of you had been waiting to be seen in this way for so long, and now, at last, you were. The world around you blurred, dissolved completely, and it was just the two of you in the quiet of the backstage, the weight of the unspoken between your breaths.

His hands found your shoulders, fingers pressing down and pulling you closer. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he needed to be closer, needed to feel the heat of you against him. You kissed him back, slow and deliberate, savouring the moment. He responded with equal intensity, deepening the kiss and pulling you into him even more.

The sounds of the backstage, the chatter, the music still playing faintly in the distance – all of it faded, leaving only the pulse of the kiss. Your heart pounded against your chest, matching the rhythm of the music you had just played, as if it were still alive within you. Ronin's grip tightened on you, his touch possessive and powerful, igniting a deep, primal response. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, an answer to everything you had been too afraid to say out loud.

For a moment, you felt as if you were on fire. His mouth moved against yours with such intensity, such fervour, that you were consumed by the heat of it, flooded every inch of your body with sensation. You could feel the urgency in him, the way he needed you close, like he couldn't breathe unless you were there. His hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

Your hand slid around his waist, feeling the tension in his muscles and the smooth curve of his back as he pressed against you. The kiss was slow and deliberate, yet there was an undeniable intensity and a slow-burning desire that surged through both of them. His lips tasted like the night – sweat, smoke and something wild, something untamed.

The kiss went on longer than you thought it would. It went on longer than you expected it could. By the time you pulled away, you were both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other, the air thick with the weight of what had just happened. You could feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat under your hand where it rested on his chest. In that moment, you knew you were close to him and needed him.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, but his eyes never left yours. There was no awkwardness between you. You understood each other, you accepted each other. You didn't need to say anything. The silence between you said it all.

At last, you knew you were where you were meant to be. The world outside of this moment didn't matter. The band, the crowds, the wreckage of your past – none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was here, now, with Ronin. And even though the music would continue to play, even though the world would continue to turn, for just a few minutes, the only thing that was real was the quiet between the two of you, the feeling of his breath on your skin, and the shared silence that told you everything you needed to know.

The kiss was the beginning. It ignited something between you. 

Ronin's lips still tasted of you, lingering in the cool air between you both as you stood there, bodies close but not quite touching. Your heart beat strongly in your chest, a steady rhythm that pulsed beneath the heavy silence. The weight of your lost boyfriend still sat on your shoulders, heavy like a stone you had carried for far too long. But now, there was something else. Something warm, new and undeniable was there, like the dawn breaking through the darkness.

You didn't know how it had happened, but you knew when you had crossed that line from mourning to moving on. And you could feel it now. Ronin is not a replacement, he is not a shadow of what you have lost. He was his own person, a force to be reckoned with, raw and real. The love you had for your late boyfriend still lingered, like the scent of old roses. But it wasn't the same kind of love anymore.

The quietness was a stark contrast to the pain of loss, but it was not overwhelming. It wasn't suffocating you, not like it once was. You could still see your late boyfriend in the corners of your mind and hear his voice in the back of your thoughts, but now it was distant and faded. A memory you can revisit, but not live in forever. You had been carrying that grief, that love, as if it was a burden. Now, with Ronin, you could set it down gently, just for a moment, and let it breathe. Breathe.

Ronin's eyes were fixed on you, searching, as if he too had felt the shift between you. His fingers twitched, a subtle movement as if he was waiting for you to speak. But there was nothing to say, not yet. You had to get the words out, but they were still tangled in your throat, wrapped around the pain of the past and the warmth of what you felt now. No words were needed, not now. The moment between you two stretched on, infinite in its quiet understanding.

You loved him. You felt it deep in your bones: this strange new love blossoming in the wake of the past. Ronin was not just a replacement. He was not something to fill the space that had once been occupied by your late boyfriend. He was more than just a replacement. He was something entirely new, a person you could breathe with, a person you could grow into. You still loved your late boyfriend, but you were ready to move on. It was a gentler, more transient feeling, like a memory you can touch but not hold onto forever.

Ronin was someone you could love. He was chaotic and calm, contradictory and passionate. In that quiet moment, you realised you had already begun. You had already allowed him in. Slowly but surely. The space in your heart that had once been filled with grief had, over time, made room for something else. Something living. Something was here with you in this moment, not a ghost but a presence.

The kiss was the first step. It was the breaking of something, the opening of a door that had been locked for far too long. But now, it was more than just a kiss. This was the start of something new. It wasn't about erasing the past; it was about building on it. Like roots stretching into the earth, reaching for something that will nourish you and heal you.

As you stood there with Ronin, you felt the world opening up to you, full of possibilities you'd not believed in for a long time. The pain was still there, but it didn't control you. It does not define you. It was just a part of you, and you could sit with it next to the love you were beginning to feel for him, for Ronin, without it drowning you.

You didn't need to replace or force love. It wasn't something to be filled; it was a space to grow, stretch and bend. And now, with Ronin, you can let it stretch. You can let it fill you up again, but in a way that doesn't erase the past. It will make room for the future. Ronin was not a ghost. He was not a shadow. He was real. He was here.

[snowball-doie]

information: rambling about my oc's relationship with the dreamies in my dream()scape fanfic.

series masterlist

SUNJA & MARK Mark doesn't really interact with her too much. He's busy keeping the boys in line, making sure everyone's safe, and trying to find a way home. As leader and the eldest, he's got too much shit going on. However, they're kind of on bad terms towards the end since he doesn't support Sunja and Jisung and wants to send Sunja back to her world.

SUNJA & JENO They started off on the wrong foot. He thought she hated him cuz of their fight during the facility escape, so he kept his distance, which made Sunja think he hated her… Sunja was a bit mean to him because of that. It was more because she was scared of the situation rather than him, though, so they talked it out and now they're close. He's very grateful when she also tries to defend him and Jaemin, so he steps up to support her and Jisung. I don't think there's anything they wouldn't do for each other now.

SUNJA & RENJUN Sunja's big brother through and through. He's been worried about her since day one, and he's taken care of her through everything. When she lost her memories and couldn't tell what was real or a dream, he was so kind to her and made sure that everyone else took it at her pace and not the other way around. They love to cook together. Since he's kind of like mother-hen of the house, they get along a lot while doing chores. Ahhh he just loves her so much stooppppp--

SUNJA & HAECHANThey're also not that close tbh. He's also too busy helping Mark keep everyone alive that he doesn't have much time to sit with her. He does remember her from the facility. They used to sit next to each other in classes, and he could remember all the times she came in with a bloody nose after fighting Chenle or Jaemin. I think he pities Sunja a lot but doesn't know how to talk to her.

SUNJA & JAEMIN These two tussle just as much as Jaemin and Chenle do. She's the only other one who put up a real good fight against him during lessons and during the facility escape, so he thinks it's fun to sneak up on her and attack-- Jisung hates this and makes it clear; but once Sunja starts throwing punches back, there's no stopping them. It was Jaemin who convinced Mark to let them go back to rescue Sunja. Jisung and Jeno tried, but Mark wouldn't hear it until Jaemin put his foot down and said that if Mark was going to be a coward, fine, but he was getting Sunja back. He's also very grateful to her for defending him and Jeno… But in an abusive older brother way. "Hey, stupid--" throws a punch that misses. "Thanks for sticking up for us back there--" gets hit in the stomach and laughs.

SUNJA & CHENLE Bro's a lil sus of Sunja ngl. Even now, he's still sus. It was easy for the other boys to immediately accept Sunja's story and invite her to stay with them, but he's always worried that she's really with 7Dream Prod., so he keeps a close eye on her at all times. He knows that they lost their childhoods because of 7Dream…. and she was dragged into it just because they wanted to test on her and Jisung……… and he hates that….. but he can't fully trust it.

SUNJA & JISUNG Well. I think the book speaks for itself, but. Jisung is head over heels for Sunja since day one. He tried so hard to stop the tests for her, and ultimately initiated the facility escape in order to help her (and his brothers ofc, but that's a side point rn). He's confused but relieved that Sunja can so easily forgive him for everything that happened during the tests; but she's his anchor who helps him learn what's real and what's not, and also that he's not responsible for what happened. He's a shy lil baby around her. He's always so worried about her. They work together to try to fix each other and recreate the childhoods they should've had outside of the facility. Jisung will prob throw hands with Mark one day if he keeps threatening to send Sunja back to her world, though.

[faorism]

thinking about @bisexual-enby-jellyfish talking about the lack of time travel fic in the fandom, and got me thinking that since canon is satisfying, instead of fix its, we gotta have break its.

BITTERSWEET CANON COMPLIANT PONDERINGS AHEAD

canon lev:red era and pardison is out on a mission for alecs non-leverage side hustle, and they are going to a specific town which they remember distantly eliot talking about it, from years back, how that was a moment of decision for him early in his military career. it was there—eliot admitted when he was feeling especially vulnerable, with a smile that was supposed to be funny but really wasnt—it was there that put him on the path that lost his soul. that comment has a lot more weight now, after eliot saying he has lonely he has been for years (which still haunts parker), and how apparently he told sophie he cannot be redeemed (which is now haunting hardison), and because of all the hitting eliots body is starting to betray him (which scares them both). maybe before they left, they had a tense argument. eliot wanted to go with them, but pardison was like?? you legit told us this is #trauma for you, no. and eliots shrug of a response to what it would put him through sat ill with them.

the memories of eliots unhappiness gives pardison the willies but they try to move on, but something feels... off? anyway MAGIC the resonances of eliot's soul-ache draw the two in to a long abandoned military coup base and they get sent back to around 20/21ish eliot (with alec around 35, the age difference between them but reverse in of s1).

they dont meet right the second they land, but its close: eliot finds pardison in the active base, and he rescues them because he thinks hardison and parker are his retrieval targets. (parker... was under the impression eliot wasn't able to get in time to save the real target in his timeline?? hardison just grumbles uhh.... multiple universes are a headfck irl.)

eliot is on an extended mission, one of his first serious solo ones, one that is clearly testing him out for recruitment for special ops. so hardison and parker can't be whisked away and has to stick around eliot For Reasons with an assumed identity. pardison realizes that eliot's mission can be better resolved (aka little/no bloodshed) with a con, and they convince eliot to go along. they aren't there long per se, but there is a lot of thrills and suspense and tension and idk plot stuff, i hate plot stuff so imagine that's happening in the background.

throughout it all, hardison and parker treat eliot like they normally would... which is utterly familiar and intimate, which throws young eliot. and by throws i mean seduces accidentally. eliot gets all heart-eyed, which hardison and parker don't notice right away because they miss their home time, but also eliot just always kinda acts like that. eliot is falling so hard but he tries to be respectful because obviously pardison is together, but a man can dream...

hardison and parker have Talks about how important it is to not change the past, as much as their presence undoubtedly has changed something. but as much as hardison is genre aware, it's harder for him. the rawness of eliot's confession—that he doesn't think he can ever be redeemed—sits heavily on hardison. and he also is like... why are we here, why were brought back? maybe we are supposed to heal a hurt, right a wrong, maybe... parker just wants to go home.

but she is the one who breaks. eliot is shot at and hurt while protecting them, and the screams from parker and hardison are just... gut wrenching. and as hardison is patching eliot's shoulder up and parker is wiping down eliot's dirt and sweat-drenched face, eliot is like... something aint right with you two. hardison tries to deflect with a joke, but eliot is like, no. you... know me. you care about me. please—he interrupts, when hardison is about to deny harder—the truth. and hardison and parker look at each other. she nods so hardison tells him. some of it, but enough. he tells eliot that they know him from the future. they work together, but it's more than that. parker and hardison arent sure how they came back, but they know some of the why. maybe. they are gonna help eliot, and maybe they get back to their time. maybe not. but they aren't gonna abandon eliot here if they can help it.

eliot gets quiet and is like... do you... are we... and hardison furrows his brows. eliot decides to be brave, braver than he may have ever felt before (and thats saying something) and he asks, are we together? and parker is like, yeah he just told you, we are a team, have been for years, we're family and eliot is like no not... hardison and parker are like what?? and eliot just shakes his head and is like, when you say family, you mean...?

hardison pauses from his stitching to say, you two have a permanent kill switch for my computers in case i go evil mad scientist. and parker says only you and alec can look over my harnesses before i jump. i don't double check your work anymore. hardison says you... and what can he say that would make sense to this eliot? what would have the weight? you let us take care of you.

eliot's eyes go wide, hardison's observation landing just right, and here is where parker meets her limit. dont enlist, she says

and eliot, stunned, tries to make a joke to cut the tension choking him: he looks over his gear and is like, little late for that, darlin'.

and parker is like, don't join black ops. go to aimee back as soon as you can.

parker breaks because... parker sees this eliot, this softer version of himself and parker loves eliot, her eliot, but also this one. she didnt know what eliot had lost but now she knows. she knows and she has the power to do something. she can't hoard eliot away when things can. be. better. for. him. she knows what make us us, but...... us is a lonely eliot. us is an eliot that feels damned. us is an eliot who deserves so much more, everything, anything. they can promise him robot bodies, but there's something else they can give him. a life beyond what he... what he had to make with them. a life with whatever eliot calls a soul.

hardison gasps parker but doesn't disagree with her, and if eliot had doubts they were from the future or had some special knowledge about him, this was proof enough.

and what'll happen if i dont?

parker hugs herself tight: you can have a good life, el. the one you want.

what do you know what i want? and god, he sounds so much like their eliot but also so much his twenty/twenty-one years.

it's what you've told us, hardison says.

and what about what we got? parker and hardison don't say anything. i don't think its enough? i ever say that? exactly that?

parker and hardison want to say yes, but they can't. they also cant quite say no. both hurt. the lack of clarity burns.

as parker and hardison try to find the words to convince him, eliot just sighs. in your time, did i even tell you i love y'all two?

and parker... okay, look there's a lot going on and she is very very sad and she is always very very shocked. so she responds, you don't love us.

eliot gets that... that fucking martyr smile of his: the way you treat me? respect me? and... you two are gorgeous. funny. smart. there's no way i aint in love.

and parker is like. you can't know that.

eliot is like, i can because im halfway there myself. more than halfway, if im honest.

and parker and hardison are... floored. no, you can't love us, hardison repeats. he is sure of this. he has to be.

eliot: future me or now?

hardison: either. both. eliot, you can't love us. eliot can't. that... that doesn't make sense. no. god, what have they been doing for fifteen years if... no. god no. if eliot loved them, he would have said something. they would be together. no. this eliot is so green and young and unbroken and... this eliot doesn't know their eliot. he's wrong. he... has to be.

eliot frowns. so i trust you with everything i am but i aint in love, you aren't enough, and... and you want me to take a different path. away from y'all

hardison: it sounds awful when you say it like that.

eliot: it doesn't sound like a good situation, from where im sitting

parker: we just want you happy, eliot. even if it means we cant have you.

eliot sobers. nods. i won't promise you i will. but... i will consider it.

and that's what parker and hardison want but they are just… spooked. but so is eliot. he withdraws and says he has it from here. hardison and parker try to insist they need to help, but eliot gives them a stare down until they take the out.

after that... things are heavy. but the con is rolling along fine, and above all else, they are professionals. as the con is wrapping up, parker is planning out the last details about the gloat and she's like, we won't be there but you should... and they are like oh. yes. that.... that's gonna happen. that will be when they leave.

the con goes well until inevitably they hit a snag, so when they are gonna break up for separate parts of the con, the departure is on a much more sudden time frame than they expected. they three look at each other because they know they won't see each other again, not like this. maybe not ever again.

as parker and hardison try to find the words to leave eliot behind, eliot just sighs. i told you i would consider leaving the army but you gotta answer me and don't lie.

parker: anything

eliot: is there a time you are alive now because i was there? not... not any hitter. specifically me.

oh. tear well up in parker's eyes. not fair.

because parker thinks about a sunken cavern of ice. that one shouldn't even count, any other hitter would probably have just told her to leave the body from the beginning. parker does not care. eliot saved her in more ways than just convincing her to climb out of the cave in the end.

and hardison thinks of that second day, technically the first twenty-four hours.... thinks of eliot pulling hardison up before the warehouse blows up. maybe the choreography of the day would have meant hardison didn't fall, or maybe he did live but was injured, or maybe a million things. eliot steadied hardison, was his friend, his confidante, the one who held him first when hardison came up from the ground.

so the answer yes then?

parker: it's not that simple

eliot: why can't it be?

parker makes an unhappy sound. the time is running out. they need to get to position. now. but...

hardison holds eliot by the neck, as eliot once did him, and says. you once told me all i had to do was to show you the way and you would save the world for us. we want to show you the way to save your soul, whatever it takes, whatever happens to us, because... that's what love can look like, too. we just want what's best for you, whatever that looks like. just think about it. okay?

eliot looks like he wants to resist, but hardison squeezes desperately, trembling.

okay. i'll think about it.

hardison draws eliot close, into a hug. thank you.

eliot clutches him back. goddammit, he whispers, no explanation.

parker is there when hardison pulls back an inch. eliot hugs her too, and says into her ear, make sure he doesnt get into too much trouble without me, alright?

parker does not say anything at first. says, goodbye, eliot, with their cheeks squeezed together, that's how hard she's hugging him.

bye, park.

and so.

they part.

they finish the con, and parker and hardison are so incredibly anxious about what the repercussions are gonna be (they are willing to take them, for eliot) and also are already like, mourning eliots place in their lives because they love him

they finish out the con and they feel the tug and they get back to the present. its done. they did it.

parker and hardison are shaking and things seem similar enough, that means eliot had to have chosen them.... no, no, they can't get their hopes up.

......they had to have found a way without him. they had to, because that's what eliot would have wanted from them in exchange for his soul.

but just as they get their bearings, there's a sound just a little away. they stiffen; parker gets ready to fight. but it's...

oh.

eliot holds them close and he's like, god, it's been weeks i've been checking every day

you can't be here, hardison says

you promised you would consider it, parker says, distressed

and eliot... doesnt respond with confusion, i... knew it had to be around now if it really was you but i was never sure it was real before

parker, face tucked squarely into eliot's neck: you remember us?

i didn't or... i didn't include you in my mission report. there was no proof yall existed and then the next deployment, the very next one, they... they got me. held me for months. i was convinced yall were a fantasy to give me hope. over the years, i thought maybe, maybe it was... but no, it couldnt be. but since y'all vanished, it's been coming back. eliot's fingers dig into them where he's holding them. its been coming back, ive been remembering, and ive been here, waiting

hardison, tears flowing: we told you to go home. we warned you. you could have been okay.

eliot pulls back to meet hardison's eyes: when you left, i imagined my life if i went back. it... wouldve been nice. married to aimee, likely, but that would've never lasted. not forever. too the same, all passion and no patience. mightve gone to work for my dad. itd be comfortable. a decent life.

parker: it would have been good. safe. you would have been happy.

eliot shakes his head: i chose the army first, before you showed up. it was always gonna be what i did. i was stubborn, then, and i didnt understand the scope but i was following it to its ends.

hardison: so it was all for nothing.

eliot: no, fuck. no. you showed me a way to keep my soul, but whatever happened to it, a way i couldnt take, but i at least knew, somewhere deep inside... eliot stops, tries to untangle them.

hardison: what did you know?

eliot: i'm here that's what matters

parker: please

eliot: even then, i knew at least... my soul might be lost but i would always know where my heart was

parker: oh. you love us

of course, darlin'. eliot swallows.

you never told us

you never told me

hardison: we didnt want you to leave

eliot: i never wanted to give you a reason to push me away

parker: we're so stupid.

hardison puts his forehead to eliots. like really really stupid. you said you liked us because we are smart, but we're so dumb, man

theres so much to resolve. so much doubt, so many feelings to untangle, too many misunderstandings to air... but for now, when eliot laughs and says at least youre still pretty, and hardison huffs offended before trying to tickle eliot saying oh did you say petty? i heard petty did you hear petty parker? and parker is like, oh i think i did and they overpower eliot with tickles and ninja attacks that lead to cuddles and kisses.

and the soul-pain will always linger for eliot, that won't ever go away. not quite. but in the warmth of their silliness on a spot that once hurt so bad, there... their laughter brings something that has been there longer than eliot knew to look: a heartsong of devotion, of care, of love... and that? that wont ever go away

[undertheopensky]

Wildlife 2

Whumptober Day 5: “It’s broken,” though elements of Pinned Down also snuck in

Characters: Blue Link, Red Link

Trigger warnings: Violence to a child, broken bones, mentions of slavery, but nothing happens

Read on Ao3!

Missed the first instalment? Read here!

-----

“Blue~! If you sleep much longer, Vio’s gonna try cooking again!”

Blue grunts and flails. “I’m up, I’m up, keep him away from the stove -”

His hand hits grass instead of fabric and suddenly he’s awake, jolting upright and blinking in the cold grey light.

Red’s singsong fades with the last wisps of the dream. He’s still alone. Still trapped in a sectioned-off forest with no supplies or equipment or any idea how to get home.

His stomach growls.

…and he’s still hungry.

Blue rolls into a sit and wraps his arms around himself. The constant ache in his back and shoulders and hips is annoying, but he’s almost getting used to it. It’s just one more thing making shit hard. Like the way his head hurts, and he’s sometimes racked with shivers despite the warm temperatures.

Sooo, are you gonna get up, or are you just gonna sit there and complain that you’re hungry?

Blue sighs theatrically. “Yeah, yeah.”

He knows it’s not real - that Green’s voice is just his memory playing familiar sounds. That he’s playing pretend like a child. He just -

He’s never been alone this long. Not since their last adventure, when they’d split not just in body but in mind, and never (wanted to) rejoin. Not since wind screaming, snow in his boots, hands numb with cold where they wrap around his sword hilt, shadow at his back and he - can’t - move -

His fingers tighten. At least it’s not cold here.

C’mon Blue! What do you want for breakfast?

“Bread,” Blue mutters, reluctantly dragging himself to his feet. “Apples. Goddess I miss apples.”

There’s no bread to be had here, though, and he doesn’t have the mental stamina to go through the laborious process of gathering enough wood and kindling and lighting a goddamn fire to cook a fish, so it’ll be tubers and greens. At least he’s found something that looks and tastes like a dandelion, though it never flowers - means he doesn’t have to eat spruce needles like a starving deer.

(Blue hates them, and may never drink lemonade again.)

Foraging for breakfast at least means doing something. That’s almost the worst part - the boredom. That’s when the voices in Blue’s head get a little too loud and a little too real, and he’s left scratching at his own skin with all the wrongness of being alone. Sometimes when it gets too much he’ll practice drills from their squire days, waving his favourite stick like it’s a badly-balanced sword with his brothers giggling in his ears, or run the perimeter like there’s a chance something will have changed. But more and more often, Blue finds himself just - stopping, in the middle of doing something, and thinking, I’m so tired.

Your stomach doesn’t care that you’re tired. Vio’s brisk as ever.

“I know, I know.” Blue hauls up the tuber plant he’d been digging and stands, ignoring the damp that’s soaked into the knees of his worn pyjama pants. It’s a big one - if he can find enough dandelions then all he’ll have to do is park his ass by the stream to wash everything, and then he won’t have to move for a while.

What, sure you don’t wanna practice later? Bet I can do more drills than you!

“Too tired, Green.” Truth is, Blue is probably losing strength, but he’s doing his best, dammit. Everything just feels weighed down, lead-heavy and slow. It’s almost all he can do just to sit here on the bank, rinsing dandelion leaves and trying to put more into the ‘later’ stack than into his mouth.

Building and maintaining muscle requires a better diet than you’ve been getting lately. It’s no wonder you’re tired.

“That’s nice, Vio.” The roof of his mouth itches. Blue scrubs his tongue over the ridges there, frowning. He better not be developing an allergy to the not-dandelions. He does not want to go back to eating spruce tips for greens.

The tingling fades. Blue cleans another leaf, a little more thoroughly, and chews it slowly, paying attention to the feel in his mouth. This time, there’s nothing, so he shrugs it off as a weird-body thing and turns to getting all the flour-fine dirt out of his tubers.

The comforting chatter of the water is soothing, almost drowning out the emptiness of the surrounding forest. There’s no birds, no small mammals, just plants and fish and Blue, and it’s always too quiet and too still.

From the corner of his eye, maroon flickers between two trees.

Blue blinks, for a second disbelieving, then looks up, because he can swear he hears footsteps -

Instinct makes him grab for his stick.

“Hey - hey, you! Do you know where we are? I was travelling through the forest near Lake Hylia and now I can’t find the road!”

Blue stares, uncomprehending. He hasn’t seen another Hylian in over a week. He hasn’t seen another living creature besides fish in nearly as long. It’s - something in his brain is hitting on person right in front of me and stumbling, reaching for normal interaction and finding only empty shelves.

Where did they even come from?

“Are you listening?! I’m lost!” The stranger staggers out of the underbrush, shaking off a last clinging branch, and Blue finally gets a good look at the person shouting at him.

Hard-wearing travel gear, good leather boots, the kind of warm vest he usually sees on merchants who travel long distances - brown hair, dark eyes, not familiar. If he was following the Lake Hylia road he’s likely a travelling merchant from Labrynna, as that’s the main pathway between the two kingdoms.

Thanks Vio, that’s very helpful, Blue thinks.

Always welcome, brother dearest.

The probable-merchant look up from pulling a stick out of his boot and focuses on Blue. “Hey, you’re just a kid!” The light in his eyes shifts then, to something almost greedy that makes Blue’s hackles rise in response. Abruptly feeling vulnerable, he stands and takes two steps sideways from the stream. Securing his footing.

“What’re you doing out here all alone, huh?” The man takes a couple steps forward, arms held away from his sides in a way that should read as unthreatening. Blue wants to bare his teeth instead.

“What, got nothing to say? Where’s your family, kiddo?”

The stranger rushes him.

Well if he wants to fight that bad, Blue’s got a week’s worth of disquiet and frustration to work out.

He sidesteps the rush, uses both hands on his stick to shove, and knocks the man cleanly away. (He catches himself before he lands in the stream, to Blue’s private disappointment.)

Back off, he thinks.

“Are you all alone?”

He ignores the words, ducks the grasping hands and shoves his shoulder into the guy’s gut, getting a pained grunt. The hands try to secure a grip in his hair; Blue twists away.

What does this idiot even want? They’re stuck here. It’s not like he could be dragged off to be sold into Labrynna’s slave trade -

- unless he hasn’t realised that yet.

Fuck.

Blue steps back, and back, mind racing in circles of no way out no way to get him out no way out. The merchant - the slaver - thinks he’s running scared. He’s following, smirking, just waiting for Blue to back himself into a corner, bump into a tree - trunks are thick around them and there are plenty of trip hazards in the form of shallow roots.

The man suddenly lunges. Without thinking Blue jams his stick down and across to block him, maybe trip him.

Instead the thin pine gives way with an audible crack.

Blue catches a blow on his cheekbone that has him seeing stars but it doesn’t hurt as much as his fist does when it makes contact, fuck. Must have got him in the face. The brief moment of disorientation hampers Blue more, because there’s hard hands at his shoulders and a foot between his own, and then they’re falling, Blue crushed beneath the heavy weight of a full grown male.

Real terror surges through him. He doesn’t know this person but they feel wrong and they’re much bigger and stronger and he doesn’t have a weapon -

He thrashes, kicks, scratches, and bites, all to little effect through the man’s sturdy clothes. Then, desperation overriding caution, he slams his head forward.

There’s a shriek of pain, a spatter of wet heat. Blue kicks free of the stranger’s weight and scrambles back. Pain radiates from the point his head made contact, white-hot and dizzying. His shoulder hits a tree; he grabs for it, misses, finds purchase and uses it to drag himself upright and damn the black spots that bloom in his vision, he is not lying down for this -

Things have gone eerily quiet.

And when Blue blinks the stars out of his eyes for good, he’s alone.

He spins all the way round. There’s no sign of the stranger in the trees, no flickers of colours or moving foliage. Blue remembers the horrible light in his eyes and knows there’s no way he’d just - given up -

He - he can’t have hallucinated an entire fight, right?! No, the grass is torn up. And there’s blood from the guy’s nose, splattered on the ground and on his skin, and Blue isn’t bleeding at all. The guy’s just… gone. Without a trace.

(Like the fish appearing in the stream, but in reverse. Like they’d always been there; like he’d never been there in the first place.)

Distantly Blue’s aware that he’s shaking. His head throbs, and his vision’s still a bit wobbly. Trying to squint through the trees makes him nauseous, so he lets his eyes drop to the torn-up grass, where the broken pieces of his trusty stick still lie.

And it’s so fucking stupid, but that’s what makes his eyes overflow.

It’s just a stick, and he can get another just like it, but he’s had this one since first being dropped here. It was his main tool, long enough to drag down overhead branches when he wanted or to poke through bushes, stout enough to help with digging when the dirt is stubborn. And now it’s broken, because some fuckwit saw a lone kid and decided to be an asshole about it.

C’mon, Blue. It’ll be okay.

Red’s voice is so real Blue nearly calls out to him. Stifles it at the last minute, heart panging. He misses them, suddenly, more fiercely than ever. Green wouldn’t have made the mistake that ended with Blue nearly pinned and helpless. Vio would have talked his way out of the fight completely. And Red - Blue huffs, and sniffles. Red would have been perfectly earnest and polite, right up until the first lunge - at which point everything would have gone to hellfire and screaming.

He misses them. He wants to go home.

Blue’s face hurts, a steady throb of heat up the side. It’s more evidence of the fact that there was someone here, however briefly. He wasn’t alone.

(He hates that he can’t decide if it’s a good or bad thing.)

-----

That night Blue jerks awake multiple times, heart racing.

Sometimes he moves, making his face spike with pain. Sometimes he thinks he’s hearing noises - rustles of leaves, the puff of air from someone breathing way too close. Other times, shadows in his dreams steal close and crush the life out of him, hissing warnings about the road to Labrynna, and waking to the complete darkness of the forest doesn’t help to dispel them. His eyes are open and the weight is gone but he can’t see and he can’t breathe and he can’t hold his eyelids up forever -

It’s a bad night.

-----

Blue pauses in another fishing expedition when the air shifts.

The air in this place is unnaturally still; there’s no breezes, no winds, nothing to brush the leaves or stir hair. It means that when something does move, it feels super fucking obvious. And something in the air just shifted.

Snatching up his new stick, Blue wades out of the stream and heads for drier ground. He is not getting caught off guard again. There’s a thicket of nasty spiky shrubs not far off just waiting to make a nuisance of themselves.

He freezes in his tracks when someone wails.

It’s thin and breathy and agonised, the kind of noise an animal makes when it’s horribly wounded, a sound that forces its way out of you because the pain can’t be held in.

Worst of all - he thinks it’s familiar.

The scream dies before he can get close. His heart goes cold and so does his skin, almost tingling-numb with terror so he can’t feel the thin leaves of the shrubs whipping past. No no no goddesses please don’t let him be too late -

Then the sobbing gets past the ringing in his ears and his heart thunders back to life just as bright colour comes visible through the woods.

He’d known it was Red from the first echo of sound but it doesn’t feel real. His brother is here, bawling on the grass in an awkward sprawl, the soft pink of his pyjamas filthy with grass stains and dirt and blood -

The word tears itself from his throat. “Red!”

Red flinches back then shrieks when the movement pulls at his leg.

“Red, no - don’t - don’t move -” Blue stumbles to kneel beside him, hands hovering like he’s - fuck like he’s scared to make contact because he is, where is he hurt?

Red flails a hand, smacks Blue on the neck with it. “Blue - you’re - you’re real, aren’t you?”

“I’m real, I’m here, I’ve got you -”

Red’s arm hooks around him in a clumsy hug. “I missed you so much,” he wails, trying to get his other arm up and around but whimpering when trying to roll hurts him. “I missed you!”

And Blue had missed him too, so fucking much, that he can’t stop himself from leaning in and hugging him back, tight and guilty. His brother is trapped here too, trapped and injured, and all he can feel is relief.

“Lemme see,” he says, pulling back. His left leg is obvious cause for concern, twisted and swollen under thin linen. Red whimpers as Blue pulls the fabric away. He can only be glad Red favours a loose fit.

He does not like what he sees underneath. Not as much blood as he was expecting, heavy bruising from dark angry red through blue-black and edged with green, and not even the swelling can hide the way his shin bends in the middle.

“Red, this is definitely broken.”

“No shit!” Red says tearfully. Then he bursts into fresh tears. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I know you’re trying to help -”

“You’re in pain, you’re allowed to be grumpy,” Blue says, pulling up his other pant leg for inspection. Some cuts and grazes, but so far he hasn’t found anything worth the smears of blood that had caught his eye first. “Red, where are you bleeding from? Do you have a cut somewhere?”

“I - no, it’s - I can’t - I can’t walk,” Red admits, like not being able to walk on a broken leg is somehow shameful, the little idiot, “an’ I grazed my knees crawling to water. They hurt, Blue.”

“Washing them out’s gonna hurt worse.” Blue finds the wounds, and yow. Red hasn’t just grazed them, he’s stripped the skin right off a palm-sized section of both legs, still oozing clear fluid. Not for the first time, he wishes for potions, but wishing won’t get them anywhere. Work with what you’ve got.

The broken halves of his first tool-stick will be just about perfect, he thinks. “Red, wait here, I’m gonna grab a splint -”

“NO!” Red screams and hurls himself at Blue, “don’t leave me!”

Blue freezes. Partly it’s the contact, which is again sparking a weird and not entirely comfortable tingling. Partly it’s Red and the potential damage he could do to himself moving suddenly. And partly it’s because his heart just fell into the fucking dark world.

“Red, you scared the shit out of me,” he grunts, wrapping a supporting arm around Red’s shoulders.

“‘M sorry,” Red sniffles, “don’t go. I’ll lose you - you’ll disappear - how do I know you’re real - can’t I just go with you?”

“Red, your leg is broken, you really shouldn’t move it.”

Red sniffs and gives Blue as dry a look he can manage while drowning in his own tears. “I’ve been dragging it around for the last five days, I don’t think dragging it the last however far to your camp’s gonna do it any more harm.”

He would - Blue knows he’s been here longer than that. He hasn’t taken to cutting tally marks into a tree yet, only because he doesn’t have a damn knife, but it’s been at least ten days since he woke up in this strange, enclosed forest. But right now, he doesn’t care enough to do the math, and in the face of his brother’s injuries it’s low priority anyway.

“I don’t have anything to camp with,” Blue says dryly, “but there’s a stream further in. Think you can make it that far if I help?”

Red nods, determined.

“Then deep breath, and don’t bite your tongue - up we go.”

Red swoons a little at the gravity shift.

Blue holds him up, wishing Red wasn’t hurt, and feeling guiltier than ever at how comforting Red feels pressed up close like this. He smells like dirt and sour-pain and the sticky-pine of the forest, but under it there’s smoke and iron and home.

A few shuddery breaths later, Red lifts his head from where he’d let it fall to Blue’s shoulder. “‘M okay.”

“Then let’s go.” Strategically Blue arranges them so most of Red’s weight is on him, arms over shoulders for support. “The stream’s not too far away - it even has fish in it.”

“Fish?” Red’s eyes light up almost comically. He’s probably been restricted to whatever he could reach from his prone state on the ground, and Blue’s stomach lurches again with combined guilt-horror-relief.

“Yeah,” he says, through the tightness in his throat, “I’m getting pretty good at catching them. I’m still shit at lighting fires, though. Think you can give me a hand?”

Red grins at him, shyly hopeful, and Blue hugs him a little tighter.

-----

Read Part 3 here!

[werezmastarbucks]

dreams: youtube

how many followers do you think he got?

word count: 999

warnings: none

music: can't pin me down by marina

kai parker x reader

dreams masterlist

You hit play, and the face of the weird... influencer? appears on screen. You have this vague idea that you were going to watch something else. But your 'watch later' playlist now consists of three hundred videos, and the electronic noise of non-stop brainless entertainment makes you dizzy and zombie-like. You have a strong urge to log off, close the laptop and look out the window, but this guy's face glues you to the screen. For some reason seeing him in this format in 4K feels insidious, like he's a danger not only to you but also to others. Whoever watches. Like he's somehow connected to snuff... your brain, decomposing from all of the internet commotion, tired with endless sounds and buzzwords, feels physically tired. You rub your face. He is just like the others, has a Youtube channel where he babbles away about his business which nobody asked for. Another attention seeker, full of himself in the idea that people will stick and reflect on his miserable life.

He looks like a pop corn American movie embodied. White shiny teeth, glistening eyes, tiny dimples on his cheeks. A shirt you're sure you saw in Crop recently. Everything a teenage girl needs. Apalled, you contemplate how many of his followers actually have a crush on him just because he represents their Youtube dream. Neat, smily, white guy who gives you an idea that the world exists in a shiny rectangle.

You're immersed in your thoughts until your ear catches something off - that meaning, something actually interesting. His voice buzzes with excitement.

"The last time I told you about hell. But you asked me about, like, whether I have normal - real - stories. Well, I do, and I can even tell you about some of my art. Actually, I do it all the time. You know, I write songs in my dreams all the time", he fidgets in his place like a kid. He can't sit straight and is constantly moving his torso, his hands, as of hypnotizing you. He looks like he watches himself on the screen with one eye, and acts very well, actually. Not the most typical narcissistic type, but the well hidden one. He sure admires himself, but looks cool doing it. You start questioning yourself whether fifteen minutes of this bullshit will make you crush on him just a little.

"Yeah, and it's always something, you know... like I would call it cosmic confusion. So you know how there's cosmic horror? That, but confusion. I get these very soft, ambient melodies, which I don't like very much by the way, but my girlfriend does".

Gasp. Followers lost. You never say you have a partner if you have that kind of smile that holds your whole channel together.

"And the lyrics are like puzzles that I can't seem to gather together. It's been going on for years. What if I'm dreaming a whole discography that's a mysterious code at the same time? And of course when I wake up I completely forget, like, ninety percet of that. Only remnants, but they qickly escape my head. But!" he yells out, making you jump a little, "recently I got this huge idea... I started recording myself on my phone so that if I ever meet a very cool musician, I can play it to them, and they will write the music for me, and I'll... anyway, listen to this".

He takes out his phone and reaches the microphone. The space of the audibe field is filled with his sleepy voice, singing some gibberish, missing every possible note as if on purpose. You instinctively switch off, drowning in memories. Actually, that happened to you too. You dreamt of a black room with a yellow chair in the middle that played music. It was... surprisingly like... what's his name... you look at the name of the channel again - CovenMaster - Jesus - said. Cosmic confusion, like you're lost, but you're not scared because the dimension you got stuck in is too eerie for human brain.

And the only line that was in this song that you remembered to this day was,

When's the boy coming back?

You look back at him, and now he doesn't seem Disney foolish. He looks straight at you from your screen, listening to the end of his ugly song.

"There", he says quietly, "now you know I'm a genius. You can't match me". There's a flicker of well-masked humor in this, like you're supposed to be in on the joke.

"And most importantly, you can't pin me down. I go up every time, don't I?"

Against all reason, you nod, like somebody is standing behind you and has a hand on your head.

"The dark abyss of oblivion, the hell, nothing can hold me for long".

There's silence.

"And?" you ask out loud.

"Oh, it's another one, the other song I didn't record. Jeez, I should really head to SoundCloud", he mumbles. In a second his face lights up, and everything is the same again.

"Anyway, today I wanted to tell you about how I invented a new type of slime! I heard kids were crazy about it!"

You sigh and reach out to close your laptop. Not just click away from the page, but close it completely, to not see any flat screen.

"Wait! Okay, okay", he snaps suddenly. You freeze in front of him.

"Don't go just now, I gotta tell you something", CovenMaster has his palm outstretched and looks straight at you.

You keep silent, he does, too, for a couple of seconds. The shivers run down your shoulders and arms.

"This video is sponsored by Cheetos", he smiles widely, like a prankster. You groan and slap your laptop closed, with such force that you feel sorry immediately, fearing for the screen.

You get up and go to your window to look out the street. A typical nice neighborhood in Ohio, who wouldn't want to live here? The houses around are so familiar, the cars of neighbors roll patiently down the road. Muffled music playing somewhere a house away.

Everything is perfect, and you're glad. But the question still remains,

When's the boy coming back?

[yourimagines]

Hi, can you write a story about the reader being friends with the racka racka guys. Maybe she’s dating Danny or Michael.

Fluff

Thank you 🙏🏻

Yess, I love them, they are one of my favourite YouTubers 😍

Back in the day

* English is not my first language I apologise

* Triggers: Swearing and Fluff

Y/N POV

I was hanging around with my boyfriend Michael in our hotel room in Vegas. “I’m so proud of you guys.” I said as Michael and I lay on our bed after a busy and chaotic day. “Me too. It’s so unreal.” I grabbed his hand and squeezed in it. “You guys freaking made it Michael, I still see you guys making those home videos…” he smiles and kissed my hand. “I’m happy you stayed here with me, after everything we’ve been through…” I moved closer to him, looking at his face. “I told you the day you asked me out, are you sure because I’m going to stay till the very end..” he smiles. “Yeah I remember that one, we both were a bit weird…well we still are but differently.” I giggled and kissed his cheek, he placed his other hand on my back. “That’s why I like you Michael.” “Good, I like your weirdness as well.”

A knock was heard on our door and Michael stood up, walking over and peeking through the fisheye from the door. “It’s Danny.” He opens the door and let Danny in. “I brought some noodles for you guys.” He placed the bag down on the table and starts to unpack. “Aww Danny that’s so kind.” Danny smiles at me. “I’m always nice.” He gave me one cup filled with noodles. “Thank you.” I sat back up, leaning my back against the wall. Michael sits down on the sofa as Danny sits down on a chair. “I’m tired, it was a lot today.” “Yeah freaking crazy.” The started to catch up with all the things the did today. I watched them, getting excited over everything what happened to them lately.

“I remember you smashed the windshield from the car.” They laughed. “Oh yeah, that was nuts.” “Or when you got that stick stuck in your face.” I laughed at the memory. “That was crazy as well.” Danny lay on the sofa as Michael joined me in bed. “I miss those days sometimes…” I hummed. “Yeah me too.” Danny looked up. “I’m going to my own room, I’ll see ya tomorrow.” Michael looked at me and I nodded at him, already knowing what he thinks. “You can stay here if you want, we don’t mind.” Danny looked at me. “Sure, I don’t mind to go to my room.” “No it’s fine, stay here if you want, just like back in the day.” Danny smiles. “But we slept on the floor, watching the stars, talking about our dreams…” I patted next to me on the bed. “Come, so we can watch the ceiling together and talk about our dreams.” Danny jumps in bed, causing Michael to laugh. “Careful, y/n doesn’t need a black eye.” Danny laughs. “No? Would be a real eye catcher.” I groaned and rolled my eyes at him as Danny laughed at his own joke. “That one was so bad.”

Michael and I switched places as they wanted to watch a video on YouTube, I tried to fall asleep. “What an idiot.” They were both laughing. “I’m sure he broke something, that was not a good landing.” “I know right.” I was silently listening to them, reacting to the videos. “I think she asleep.” Danny whispered. “I think she is.” I didn’t move a muscle as I held my eyes closed. The sounds of their phone became lower, a bit more quieter. “I’m happy she’s still here…” Danny said as I felt Michael move a bit. “I mean I knew you guys would end up together and stay together but still… it’s nice to see you both happy.” “I’m happy, I love her.” ‘Ahw Michael.’ “I know, I see it. It’s almost disgusting.” Michael moved his arm, probably hitting Danny. “No fighting Michael, she’s sleeping.” Danny pointed out. “Like you care.” Danny giggled and they started to hit each other. “Watch out Danny.” Michael moved over, pressing me between the wall and his body. “Ouch!” Danny hissed. “Stop it then.” “You stop first.” “Okay, I’ll stop.” They both stopped attacking each other. “Move, I’m crushing her against the wall.” ‘Thanks baby.’ Danny moved a bit away and Michael pulled me closer to him. “I love you.” He whispered softly against my head. “I love you.” I softly whispered back as tiredness was consuming me.

I woke up, pressed between Danny and Michael. Michael had his arms around me, my back pressed against his chest. Danny’s arm lay on my head as his hand lay on Michaels face. I carefully turned over to face Michael. He had still his eyes closed and was lightly snoring. I moved away Danny’s arm and traced softly Michael face, slightly brushing my fingertips over his scars. “You’re so handsome.” I whispered, his lips slightly moved into a smile. “Thank you.” He whispers back in his morning voice. “Sorry if I woke you up.” He opens his eyes. “No I was already awake.” He cups my face and gave me a kiss. “Guys I’m still here.” Danny says and Michael laughs. “Don’t worry we know. So can you leave now, I want some private time with my girl” I giggled and Danny crawled out of our bed, making gagging noises. “You guys are gross.” He walked out of our room and closed the door. “So…where were we.”

[dailylinrambles]

memories...

often I’ll see my old teachers at work, sometimes I get classmates that I’ve known since elementary through high school.

Sometimes I end up comparing my classmates as most of them seem to have life figured out, while I haven’t gotten far, others seem to be doing well, and that’s all I can ask for.

Came across a classmate today that I haven’t seen since we graduated. He occasionally picked on me and was one of the shortest guys in the grade. Never hated the guy or anything, just never one of those that I particularly hung around. He definitely grew up and I was just simply lost for words. Works for the electrical company in town.

I remember the last day of middle school and we had a free day of P.E. We were chilling when a stray football he had thrown winded up hitting my friend. He made a quick apology and made sure she was okay. The coach later caught word of our discussion as my friend was teasing the guy about it.

“He did WHAT!?” “Oh, he hit him with the football.” she said casually. Not even giving the guy a second to defend himself. “You! You hit her?” Surprised by the outburst. “Y-yes.” Immediately turns to my friend. “You. You okay?” “Yes.” nodding Flips right back. “You! Apologize.” It was just one of the most unexpected and quickest exchanges I had seen the coach make.

Occasionally I’ll look up folks I haven’t heard from in ages. One kid, he was known for being an honor student and genuinely curious about things. I remember him always being well liked in general. Since he played Trumpet, I remember letting him try flute  and being thrill to make a note on the last day of school. In high school, every year one of our Physical Science teachers did the experiment the Volt experiment. Very much like this Viral Video Only we had it school wide. Teachers that knew of this would be like ‘If you want to participate, go ahead, just come back after.’ So every year there, it would be one MASSIVE Chain of people. And freshmen year I remember this same kid claimed dibs to do the fistbump. Talk about hearing the echos in the hallways of everyone getting zapped XD. This kid, last I checked is an airline pilot. One of my friends moved away to the other side of the state. Although she dreamed of journalism, she’s now a therapist? Which I can’t help frowning at this thought... Instead of having my first cellphone in high school, I got a camera. And with everything that happened at home, school life with my friends was one thing I never wanted to forget. So I would record us and all of our shenanigans (those vids are unlisted ) And after a while, she would be the one threatening me ‘I’m gonna beat you with a stick’ and flip the bird constantly. After graduating, I rarely record stuff anymore. She later admits she misses those years and wished she wasn’t so critical back then.

One classmate made it to the NBAs and is now a middle school coach.

I recognized one girl a few weeks ago as one that used to ride the bus in Elementary, took an awkward moment of realization of knowing each other. I admitted I probably was an annoying kid back then and she also admitted to being a jerk. (which she was at the time) Never truly hated her, it was the whole younger kid annoying the upperclassmen and vice versa. But it was good to see that stuff did pass.

I will say it’s crazy the amount of parents I see of my former classmates. A few look for me now that they realize who I am. ^.^;;

Still trying to get my mind to let go of one girl, she actually came up to me with “Remember when we went to elementary school together?” and I’m over here like, ‘Girl, we went to the same school from Kindergarten THROUGH High School. With my last real image of her is during Gold Card Trip to the skating ring (a privilege only to A honor roll) sitting on the bus, senior year, singing Womanizer by Brittney Spears... yet here you are with 3 kids, at least one is a split image of you at that age and we’re only going to acknowledge grade school...

[tempestaslokni]

The suggestion that the both of them had been taken really disturbed Lokni- after all, his last memory was of driving along the open road. These days you hardly heard of a thirty year-old man getting kidnapped from a moving vehicle. Then again, stranger things had happened. He recalled a Coo legend that his mother had told him many times when they were out on the trail together. She often had the habit of repeating the same story, but Lokni didn't mind, he was content that his mother wished to share a story with him, regardless of how many times it had already been told. It started something like this:

"When the flood tide came there was no ebb tide.

All was full of water.

It was wholly filled.

The world was full of people.

There were too many people.

They looked, when that water reached its fullness.

Some people had large canoes.

And some had small canoes.

All kinds of people crowded in when they settled down on the earth.

Some people were ready with braided ropes they’d stored away.

So they quickly went into the canoes.

all people became scared.

The earth sank into the water.

Wherever a small bit of land stuck out,

that’s where they went.

A small bit of land was sticking out

Here the people assembled.

All the animals came there in twos.

All small birds came there in twos.

All kinds of things came there in that manner.

They were mixed together there with the people.

It’s as though they did not know one another,

when they were mixed together with the people."

(Phillips, P.W. (Summer 2007). Tsunamis and floods in Coos Bay mythology. Oregon Historical Quarterly, 108(2).)

If strange things like this could occur, bringing many strangers together, then was this situation that mysterious..? If only there was someone there to just tell Lokni. However, judging from her concerned expression, Miss Palmer wasn't going to be able to tell her much either. Not that he was bringing anything to the table information-wise.

Miss Palmer had also mentioned that there might be a factor in why they were 'chosen' for this. Deep down, Lokni highly doubted this. Lokni had always been one of the kids picked last, whether during recess in school, or in group assignments, I mean- later on in high school he grew tall and his work kept him in good shape, so he was chosen as a 'body,' or to do the heavy lifting- but aside from that, no actual reason came to mind. From what he knew, the defining 'factor' was that they all had to be human, at this rate. "I don't know about a 'factor,' Miss Palmer, but I would like to get back home as soon as possible." Her earlier comment about existing and dreams went way over his head, but he did his best to nod respectfully, even though he was a little lost. After Lokni had explained that he had been on his way to see a doctor, Mrs. Palmer seemed to pay real close attention, as if Lokni had hit a nerve. She seemed to be composing herself, ducking her head a bit. "I was in the hospital too. Not for me, for somebody else. It wasn't--" Miss Palmer shook her head, "But wait, you were heading in there-- do you need some kind of medical assistance? Are you okay? I am sure there is some kind of sickbay on this ship, do we need to find it for you?" She offered.

Lokni was taken aback a bit, so she had been in a hospital- and he had been on the way to one. There was a factor of similarity despite his initial doubt. "I'm sorry to hear about that-" he couldn't deny that he was curious about who she was there for- but he had just met this person, and even he got the feeling it might be rude to ask about it, "I think I'm okay, I just need to see someone with medical experience- even if we found a sickbay on this ship, I wouldn't even have the first clue as how to treat myself. Before I came here I had-" Lokni struggled to think of the proper way to phrase it, "a really hard day at work."

In terms of what he had on him, he began to search his own pockets- finding a half-eaten Slimjim, the key to his trailer, Chenoa's hoof-pick in his back pocket, his hunting knife still hung on his leather belt, the fencing plyers that he had forgotten to return to the tackroom, and his beaten up flip-phone. Miss Palmer's device looked a lot more advanced, like some sort of handheld computer like something out of a sci-fi film. "This is all I've got on me." Lokni explained as he laid it out on the counter in front of them. "Do you want to try texting to see if we're able to manage that at least?" He saw that her screen read "NO SERVICE," as well as his own, but why not at least try and experiment?

The man who called out was long-haired, taller than Darcy, looking just as lost as she felt, and once he spoke, it quickly became apparent that he didn't have a clue about what was going on either. It was either one big conspiracy to mess with her and her head before the truth was revealed (something which Darcy believed less and less as she met more people, why would anyone construct something so convoluted just to fuck with her?), or they all were in the same unexplained, confusing situation and they needed to get out of it.

She let out a small, bitter chuckle unwillingly. "Yeah, I really haven't been in a position to even think about getting on a cruise either, so I know how you feel on that one... And to answer your question, I don't quite know, but what else could make sense, right? We don't just all materialize on a cruise out of the blue. Somebody had to take us all, the only question is - why?"

It was a daunting thing to think about, though - why would she have been picked, out of all millions and billions of people to be taken to some place like this? Why her, after everything that happened? Did they know the truth or was she just a random draw and they didn't even realize the truth?

"Not to mention something else I've been thinking about while I've been trying to find my way was: is there any correlation between all of us who are here, or were we just randomly chose--?" she voiced another thought, but then the man moved suddenly, and Darcy watched him in part confusion, part curiosity.

She wasn't quite sure what he was doing even when he showed back up next to her with a mirror, so she decided to remain quiet, wait it out - if he'd need help, she assumed he would ask for it, otherwise she would just be obstructing him. And soon enough he was looking back up at her and explaining what his conclusions were due to the mirror. "I think I'll take that as a good thing - if it was a dream, I'd be most likely fake, so it's nice to know I actually exist." Being in a dream didn't even occur to her - all of this felt too real, too... tangible, too paralising, and as much night terror as she's experienced over the last couple of years, it was nothing like this. But it was good to get the idea and immediately get comforted that it wasn't the case, that she didn't have to worry that her mind just broke and she was in a prolonged dream now.

If the first person she saw and talked to right after she woke up wouldn't have been Selin, Darcy might have been inclined to believe the connection, the correlation between all of them might have been the hospital, but Selin was nowhere near a hospital in her last memories, so it must have been just a coincidence that this man's last memories included heading to one, too, still - at the mention her heart clenched and her throat closed up. There was nothing to be done, there was nobody's side she got ripped away from anymore, but it was all still too raw and she found herself ducking her head, trying to gather her emotions. She learned how not to show them over the years, and still now it was extremely hard.

"I was in the hospital too. Not for me, for somebody else. It wasn't--" She shook her head, she needed to gather herself and push through it, not focus on what happened but how to get out, figuring out what happened. "But wait, you were heading in there-- do you need some kind of medical assistence? Are you okay? I am sure there is some kind of sickbay on this ship, do we need to find it for you?"

It was funny, she literally didn't even think about what she had on herself - not that she had a lot, just a set of car keys, the key to her place and. "My phone! I have my phone with me!" she exclaimed then added, while she dug the device out of her back pocket, "No, I don't remember anything specific about getting on here or getting whacked in the head or anything that would indicate how I got here. It's-- it's the day after I remember last checking," she added, showing the working phone to him. "But no signal, so no way of calling for anyone. Maybe if we get up onto the deck. Did you have anything on you?"

[storiesforallfandoms]

an honor ~ johnny depp

word count: 2842

request?: yes!

“hey :) this is such a specific request and i’m so sorry but i need it lmao. can you do a female reader x johnny depp where she is an elementary school teacher and her school wins a contest where johnny goes to visit. he ends up spending a lot of time in her classroom and they hit it off. he’s in town for 2 more days so he and the reader end up getting dinner and he feels like he could really fall hard for her. THANK YOU. a girl can only dream”

description: after her school wins a contest to have a visit from the captain himself, she finds herself gaining his attention

pairing: johnny depp x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist (one, two)

My kids were buzzing with excitement as the minutes ticked closer to our big visitor arriving.

I worked as a teacher in a small elementary school. The population was just over 50 students spread out between kindergarten to grade 4. Not a lot ever happened at the school, so whenever something even moderately out of the ordinary happened, it was a pretty big deal.

The month before there had been a contest for one of the local schools to win a visit from Captain Jack Sparrow - actual Johnny Depp himself. Our principal had entered us, but none of us teachers really thought we’d win. To our surprise, we received a call at the beginning of the week that we had won and we’d be getting the visit on Thursday!

So now, on the Thursday of the visit, the students could barley focus on their school work. I couldn’t blame them, though. Just the thought that Johnny Depp would be appearing at my classroom door at any second made it hard to concentrate what I was teaching.

Everyone jumped with excitement as a knock came at the door. I tried to shush them but the quiet murmurs still filled the room.

I felt my heart leap as I opened the door and found Johnny, dressed as Jack Sparrow, leaning against the doorway. He smiled at me and I smiled back, hoping I didn’t look as nervous as I felt.

“Hello Mr. Sparrow,” I said.

“Captain Sparrow, darling,” he corrected me.

I felt my face heat up at the pet name. Calm down, (Y/N). He’s definitely called all the female teachers that today.

“Right, of course,” I said. “Please, come in.”

I stepped aside to let him enter. He look at my students, who were all watching him with wide eyes of wonder and excitement. In character, he grimaced at the sight of them.

“Oh, hello, more small people,” he said. He leaned in close to me to add, in a stage whisper, “Why is this place so full of small people?”

“It’s a school, Captain!” one of my students called.

“School?! Well, I must be in the wrong place then. A school is no place for a pirate.”

“Pirates are supposed to be in the ocean on their pirate ships,” another student said.

“Exactly! We’re supposed to be sailing the high seas looking for treasure. No inside a classroom learning. Although, learning to read and to do math does help us to figure out maps and if we are sailing in the right direction.”

“See?” I said. “I told you guys that math can be used in real life.”

“But Miss. (Y/L/N), pirates aren’t real!” another student tried to argue.

“You say that, and yet here I am,” Johnny said, dramatically gesturing to himself. “And I do believe I am pretty real.”

I sat down behind my desk and watched my students interact with the character. All their faces were lit up and they were so happy. I couldn’t help but smile myself. The biggest perk of my job was moments like these, where I got to see my students at their happiest. Getting to experience this memory that would no doubt stick with them for the rest of their lives was also a huge plus.

When we were told about the visit, Johnny’s management team told us that there was a strict timeline he was on for the visit. He would be at the school for a few hours, spending only half an hour in each classroom. We were told that was the best way for him to get to every classroom in a timely manner and give each of the kids the same amount of attention. It was reasonable, we all agreed to it.

However, after some time of Johnny being in my classroom, I glanced at the clock and noticed that he had been there for 40 minutes instead of the slotted half hour. I figured that maybe he hadn’t been watching the time, or that this was my fault for not having watched it better, so I quickly stood from my desk, stopping Johnny mid sentence.

“Sorry, I just realized that we’ve gone over time a little bit,” I said.

“That’s alright, I have plenty of time,” Johnny insisted.

“We were told you only have a few hours...because you have to get back to your ship,” I said, trying to improvise to keep the act up. “I wouldn’t want to be the reason that your adventures are delayed.”

“Truly, I don’t mind. I’m having a nice time with these little people.”

“But we wouldn’t want you to disappoint any of the other...little people.”

He sighed, finally defeated. “You’re right. Suppose I shall continue on then.”

He said goodbye to my class, who were upset that he had to go but could not stop talking about the visit once he had left. There was still an hour left of the school day, and I knew there was no way I would get them back on topic now, so I decided to let them have free time until the end of the day.

When the final bell rang, they raced out of the door, all saying goodbye to me as they went along. I stayed back to do some preparing for the next days lesson plan, when I heard a knock on my door.

I looked up and felt my breath catch as I saw Johnny standing there again, this time out of his Jack Sparrow costume.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.

“No, not at all,” I told him. “How may I help you, Mr. Depp?”

“Please, call me Johnny,” he said.

“Alright, Johnny. Is there anything I can do for you?”

He stepped into my classroom. It felt like some sort of dream to have him there. I was convinced it wasn’t real. I had to secretly pinch myself to make sure I was awake.

“I just wanted to thank you for having me a little bit over my time today,” he said. “I hope I didn’t interfere too much with your teaching.”

“Maybe a little, but it was bound to happen given the circumstances,” I said. “But you don’t have to apologize for that. Really, it was such an honor to have you here. I just didn’t want you to get in trouble for being in my classroom too long, or for any of the other classrooms to miss the chance to get to meet you.”

Johnny chuckled slightly. “Yeah, I sort of forgot I still had two more classrooms to visit after yours. I had a hard time convincing myself to leave today until you brought it up.”

I titled my head in confusion. “Why is that?”

He seemed flustered when I asked, which shocked me more than anything else had today. It didn’t seem right that he - the Hollywood actor - was becoming flustered by me - the elementary school teacher.

“I...I kind of wanted...to spend more time here...with you,” he said.

I take it back, this shocked me more than anything else that day had.

“From the moment you opened the door, I was blown away by how beautiful you are,” he explained. “And watching the way you interacted with the kids, I knew you had a beautiful personality to match. I was trying to figure out how to speak with you in private, but the more that time went on the more I realized that may not have been an option. I didn’t want to miss the other two classrooms I had left to visit, but it felt hard to pull myself away.”

I was left speechless. Now I was sure this was a dream. Not even the pinching could convince me otherwise.

“I don’t mean to come on too strong,” he continued. “If I’m over stepping boundaries here please tell me, but I’m in town for the next two days and I’d like to get dinner with you. If you want, that is.”

He was looking at me expectantly, and that’s when I realized he was waiting for me to say something. I still felt tongue tied as I stuttered out some nonsense, but finally got ahold of myself long enough to say, “Yeah. I’d like that. How about tomorrow night?”

His smile was so radiant at my response. “That works perfect for me. I can pick you up around 6?”

We agreed and exchanged numbers so that I could text him my address the next night.

When he left I pinched myself one last time, a bit harder than the last few. I let out a yelp as my arm stung in pain. At least I could confirm that I definitely was not dreaming.

~~~~~~

I felt very distracted throughout my classes the next day. I tried my best to seem present and to teach the best I could, but I kept fumbling or forgetting what I was doing. The day felt like it was dragging on until the moment Johnny was supposed to pick me up.

Finally, the school day ended. I waited around after class like I normally did, but the moment the hallways were empty I quickly collected my things and rushed home.

I hadn’t been on a date in a while, and I wasn’t really sure what to expect when going out with a celebrity. I wanted to dress nice, but I wasn’t sure if I should dress fancy or just casual. I didn’t even know where we were going for dinner.

I finally settled on a dress and a pair of heels to match. I decided to put on light makeup to have a natural look and just wear my hair down natural as well. By the time I had finally made my decisions and finished getting ready, Johnny was pulling up outside and knocking on my front door.

He looked down at me as I opened the door. Of course, he looked extremely handsome as well, but he always looked that way.

He smiled. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” I said. “So do you.”

He offered me his arm like a gentleman. “Shall we?”

I took it and he walked me to his car. He even opened the door for me to get in, which is something that hadn’t been done for me in a very long time.

The car ride to the restaurant was silent and slightly awkward. I wasn’t really sure what to say to him, and he seemed to be having the same issue. It made me a little less nervous to know that he seemed to be in the same boat as me.

We arrived to the restaurant and I was relieved to see it wasn’t a super fancy place. It was just a locally owned restaurant that luckily wasn’t too busy on a Friday night. I was sure Johnny was used to being recognized in public, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be noticed and swarmed by people while we were out. That much attention just wasn’t my thing.

Luckily, it seemed he had already thought of that as he had placed a reservation under a fake name and had us sat in a private section of the restaurant. The host gave us our menus and told us the server would be with us soon.

“I’ll be honest,” I said, finally breaking the silence, “I’m glad we’re not at a super fancy restaurant or anything.”

Johnny chuckled. "You were afraid that’s where I was going to take you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never met a celebrity before, let alone gone on a date with one. I don’t really know what the etiquette is for being out with one. I sometimes assume they just go to the most expensive and luxurious places.”

“That’s not me. Some fancy places have good food, but that’s the main thing for me: the food. I don’t want to go to some place that will charge you $100 for the smallest portions that aren’t even good. As for the etiquette with a celebrity, I say act as if you’re on a date with just a normal person. That’s all I am really.”

I wanted to tell him he was anything but normal, but I knew he had a point. Some celebrities acted like they were better than everyone else, but I could already tell he was not one of those people.

Our server arrived and we ordered drinks and an appetizer. As I looked through the menu, Johnny started the small talk.

“How long have you been a teacher?”

“About ten years, I think,” I responded. “It doesn’t feel like that long, though. Besides the constant change of faces in my classroom, I could convince myself I started teaching just yesterday.”

He smiled. “You seem really passionate about it.”

“I am. I love kids and I love to teach. I’ve known my whole life that this is what I wanted to do. I was lucky that I got a substituting job at the school while I was still in college, and then that they hired me on full time when I graduated. Not a lot of people get those kinds of opportunities.”

Johnny listened to me talk as I told him about my family, my childhood, and my years in college. It wasn’t until our appetizers arrived and we placed our entrée orders that I realized how much I truly had been talking.

“Oh God, I’m talking your ear off,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make this all about me.”

“Don’t apologize,” he assured me. “I like listening to you talk.”

I felt my face burn the same way it had the day before when he called me “darling”. I looked down at the food in my hands to hide any signs of fluster on my face.

“What about you?” I asked.

“What about me?”

I opened my mouth to ask something about him, but I realized it felt like there wasn’t anything for me to ask. A lot of Johnny’s life was already public and, having been a fan of his, it didn’t feel like there was a lot for me to ask that I didn’t already know.

I let out a sigh of defeat. “Okay, I got nothing.”

He chuckled again. “That’s why I don’t mind you talking. I don’t think there’s much about me that I could say that you don’t already know.”

“That must be hard,” I said. “Having people already know so much about you, I mean. Doesn’t seem like there’s a lot of privacy for you.”

He shrugged. “It comes with the job. I’ve dealt with it for so many years that it’s hard to complain now. I know what I’ve gotten myself into.”

“I think you can complain a little bit. Just because it comes with the job doesn’t really mean it’s fair to you.”

He nodded but didn’t say much else.

When our entrees came, I managed to coax him into telling me about his kids. I could see him light up even at just the mention of them. He started telling me all about them, especially his son, Jack, who was less in the public eye than his daughter, Lily-Rose.

We seemed to melt into easy conversation then. We went back and forth talking for the rest of the evening. I was almost upset when the bill came and we had to leave. I could’ve stayed in that booth for hours just talking to Johnny about anything and everything.

The ride back home felt less awkward. I felt myself becoming a little brave as I reached over to put my hand on Johnny’s. He laced his fingers through mine and gave my hand a light squeeze. I smiled to myself. Now I never wanted to let go.

He walked me to my door, like a gentleman. We both paused to look at each other, both hesitant to make a move.

“I had a lovely night,” I told him.

“Me too,” he said.

“I’d really like to do it again. If you’re ever in town again, that is.”

I tried not to let the hurt show on my face at the thought of him having to leave the next day.

“For you, I’ll come back as much as you want,” he said. “I’ll be here till you’re so sick of me that you’ll want to get rid of me.”

I shook my head. “I can’t see that happening.”

And then, with a brief moment of courage hitting me, I leaned forward to kiss him. He met me half way, cupping my face gently as he pressed his lips against mine. My whole body felt like it was exploding, in a good way if that makes sense. I could hardly describe what the feeling was like.

Johnny pulled away first and I had to stop myself from pulling him back to me.

“Have a good night, (Y/N),” he said. “I’ll see you again soon.”

“Goodnight Johnny.”

[unwrittenlibrary]

how she loves (like sleep to the freezing)

summary -> “Sometimes Bucky will catch glimpses of who he used to be in the mirror. They’re like silent movies that play as he stares at his reflection. A boy with bright eyes and even brighter smiles that can only see the good in the world. He’s struck with how warm he used to be when these memories play. Then he blinks and they’re gone, all that’s left is a cold man staring back at him whose eyes appear empty and smiles have almost disappeared.”

or; bucky has been cold for a long time and you’re unbelievably warm.

warnings -> not beta’d, nicknames (sunshine/blossom), a lot of allusions to coldness, bucky is lonely & reader is kind. implied that the avengers live in a building together

words -> 2.0k

notes -> tried out a different writing style with this one, a bit of bucky’s thoughts instead of the reader. i hope you enjoy 🥺 title from cherry wine by hozier. can u tell i love him

— ➶ —

Bucky has felt cold for a long time. He feels like the dead of winter.

A kind of cold that just settles. One that doesn’t bite against your skin harshly but instead, it pricks and prods constantly reminding you of an absence of warmth.

He’s felt cold for so long that a semblance of warmth is unknown to him.

The way you radiate warmth is a curiosity and fact in the oddest ways. It’s constant in a way that Bucky can’t comprehend, but always shown through sunshine filled smiles and gentle eyes.

“Hi, Bucky.” You murmur sweetly as you make your way through the gym. It’s empty, you and Bucky the only two occupants, and Bucky feels heat rise to his cheeks.

He nods in response before turning back to the punching bag.

Bucky has know cold for so long he doesn’t know to react to warmth. He sticks to awkward smiles and short nods so you know he’s not ignoring you.

Maybe one day he would feel thawed enough to force the words he so desperately wants to say in return out.

➶

Sometimes Bucky will catch glimpses of who he used to be in the mirror. They’re like silent movies that play as he stares at his reflection. A boy with bright eyes and brighter smiles that can only see the good in the world. He’s struck with how warm he used to be when these memories play. Then he blinks and they’re gone, all that’s left is a cold man staring back at him whose eyes appear empty and smiles have almost disappeared. 

He thinks he would have had a chance with you back then. Imagines your lips painted red and a navy blue skirt while he wears his uniform with pride. Bucky would have taken you dancing and the two of you would have been warmer than the sun together. 

Maybe that’s what hurts the most about the memories. Now that Bucky has them back he can see the missing pieces that Steve tries to pretend he doesn’t miss. Bucky can see parts of who he used to be in the memories, parts that he’s unsure he’ll ever get back. 

He tries though. In the ways he knows how. He cuts his hair and Steve’s excited smile is worth how lost Bucky feels with when he goes to tug nervously at the locks only to find they’re no longer there.

He trains with Sam. It’s obvious Sam feels better when he can help and Bucky doesn’t want to be a burden on Steve’s found family, so he lets Sam show him moves and technology that can help in fights Bucky isn’t sure he wants to be a part of.

Sometimes though, when the memories are too much and he feels frozen, Bucky needs a break.

You seem to appear at these times. Almost like you know Bucky’s grown colder and needs something to ground him to earth.

“You okay, Buck?” You ask gently tone like honey as you move around the kitchen. He nods slowly as his eyes fall to the table in front of him.

You don’t realize it, but the honey drips down Bucky’s fingertips and brings feeling back to his frozen limbs. “I’m okay, sunshine.”

Your returning grin is bright and contagious as you settle in beside Bucky at the kitchen’s island. You’re content to sit in silence and Bucky is content to bask in your glow.

Maybe one day you would know. Maybe you wouldn’t. Bucky was starting to worry less about what ifs.

➶

Steve runs like a furnace and a jealousy as green as ivy consumes Bucky when they’re in each other’s space.

It’s wrong to be jealous of Steve when for so long Steve had been the one who froze and shivered without complaint.

But when Bucky feels the heat of Steve hit him it makes him feel sick. Steve doesn’t have the same sweet as honey tone of voice or the same warmth you do. Steve’s heat doesn’t thaw Bucky out it only reminds him of the past that makes him feel colder.

“Are you okay, Bucky?” Steve’s hand slaps Bucky’s shoulder and burns. Bucky winces, it’s not the burn of a fire but the burn you feel when your hand touches snow for a second too long and his whole body recoils.

The hurt in Steve’s eyes is enough to make guilt claw its way up Bucky’s throat, but the words are frozen on his tongue. How can he explain this? How can Bucky explain that he feels like he’s never really left that ice Hydra forced him into?

“You know,” Bucky coughs awkwardly, “my shoulder. They fucked it up.” Steve’s shoulders sag with relief and his hand rests on Bucky’s right shoulder this time.

It still burns. Bucky has learned to tense his jaw and bear it.

Steve’s so happy to have, really have, Bucky back that there are things he lets slip through the cracks. Expressions he would have noticed in the forties and ticks Bucky still has.

Your hand replaces Steve’s as you step in between the two, like you know Bucky’s shoulder is hypothermic and your touch is all that can save it from turning black and blue.

“You’re okay.” You whisper without looking at him. Steve grins at Bucky, one that says he thinks there’s more to your appearance than you just wanting to help Bucky. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky shrugs.

There are no words to explain that your touch is like his saving grace.

➶

“Bucky,” your fingers card through his hair in an attempt to wake him up, “you awake?” He’s not used to the short hair yet, but you seem to like how easily your fingers glide through it.

Yes. Bucky doesn’t open his eyes. He just makes sure to keep his breathing even as he feels a fingertip trail over his cheek.

Your touch never burns. It’s a relief. When your hand rests on her shoulder or your knuckles brush over his cheekbone, Bucky feels warm. The only way he could ever describe it to somebody who asked was the first day of Spring. The first real day of spring, when all the snow of winter has melted and flowers are peeking through the dirt again.

“I know you’re awake because you’ve got a stupid smile on your face,” you chastise with no real anger in your tone. Bucky cracks an eye open and finds you looking down at him with a grin. “What’s got you smiling like that?”

You. It’s always you. “Dreaming of something beautiful.” Bucky says softly. Your hand rests against his cheek and he feels both his cheeks heat up with a blush. He briefly wonders if you can feel the heat against the palm of your hand.

“Must have been a good dream,” you murmur, “if it’s got you smiling like that.”

You drop your hand and despite to absence of your touch, Bucky still feels warm. There’s no other way to describe it, but Bucky thinks putting it simply is best. “Yeah,” Bucky says softly as his eyes trail over you, “it was.”

“A smile is a good look on you, Barnes.” You say earnestly, a bright smile of your own gracing your face.

As Bucky watches you walk away, he feels lighter too, like something is changing in him.

➶

Bucky’s learning how to feel warm again. Smiles and laughter that makes Steve’s eyes crinkle when he hears and your eyes widen in amusement.

He never wanted to feel cold, but he’ll admit he wallowed in the feeling. He let it settle over him without a fight, lucky to have someone as warm as you in his presence. Someone whose warmth melted his ice without even really trying,

“You’ve been happier lately,” you whisper. There’s a hesitance in your tone, like you’re afraid the words may upset Bucky.

Bucky nods. His head is resting against the back of the couch as he looks at you, your cheek resting against the palm of your hand as you look down at him curiously. “I’ve felt warm.” Bucky admits.

“Warm?” Your brows furrow in confusion. Bucky’s hand is resting on the cushion between you two. He inches in closer to your knee as the two of you watch one another.

Bucky supposes now is as good a time as any to tell you. “I’ve felt cold. For a long, long time. I can’t really explain it, but I know I’m finally starting to feel warm again.”

“Warm again,” you mutter as your hand meets his halfway, “that sounds lovely.” Your fingers follow a path over his palm before Bucky captures them in his.

He can feel himself blush, he seems to do it a lot around you. “You make me feel warm again,” there’s nobody else in the room, but Bucky keeps his voice at a whisper, “like spring.”

“Spring,” you repeat in a low tone, “you make me feel like Spring too, Bucky.” And you smile, one as bright as the sun, and Bucky is happy to soak in it.

➶

He’s learning that in warmth there is comfort. Bucky’s learned a lot, actually, and he’s starting to realize while he may never feel like the bright light he was in the forties, he can grow into something just as warm. Now there are more days than not where his feet no longer feel stuck to the ground and he can feel his eyes light up.

He wants to share it with you and he’s getting comfortable enough to do so. He wants you to see his spring and watch him grow and if your warmth is included in that he wants it to be because it’s what you want, not because you feel obligated to.

Not that you’d ever implied you did. Bucky just worries.

“Sunshine,” Bucky grins as you come to a stop in front of him, “you look beautiful.” You’re wearing a lovely, emerald green gown that flows to your feet.

“Thanks, blossom.” Your eyes shine with mirth as you say it and a Bucky is sure his cheeks have turned a bright shade of red in response. “I have a gift for you.”

Bucky’s eyes widen as you hand over a thin box. “What is it?” He asks automatically as he begins to pull the tape holding the lid closed off.

“Open it!” You urge. Bucky pulls the lid off and his eyes widen when he sees the emerald green tie. The one he had on now was a plain black, meant to compliment you and not clash with your dress color.

Your eyes are watching him curiously, waiting for a response, but Bucky can’t get any words out. There are butterflies in his stomach that make it hard to breathe. “Do you… Is it okay?” You ask quietly after a moment.

“Yeah. Yes!” Bucky looks at you with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. ���I love it,” he starts quietly, “will you help me put it on?”

Your eyes widen this time, but you nod and Bucky moves to pull his black tie off quickly. You don’t ask why he needs your help with this tie and not the black one and Bucky appreciates it as you slide the green around his neck.

You take a step closer and Bucky’s breath hitches as you being to slowly knot the tie around his neck. He had grown used to you and your warmth in his space, but this felt different. The air between you two felt charged. Bucky’s eyes trail over your face admiringly as you focused on the task in front of you.

“Sunshine,” Bucky starts in a whisper. Your eyes snap to his, your hands still resting on his chest. “I-“

“I know,” you murmur. Your palms flatten against his chest as you tilt your head up towards him. Bucky doesn’t have the chance to say anything else because you press a soft kiss against his lips.

It’s a blink and you miss it type kiss. By the time Bucky registers that you’re kissing him, you’ve pulled away to look at him with gleeful eyes.

“We promised Steve we wouldn’t be late,” You take an agonizingly slow step away, “and I keep promises.”

Bucky slips his hand into yours, intertwining your fingers together, and allows you to pull him down the hallway.

It’s the dead of winter, but Bucky feels like summer.

— ➶ —

notes -> not too sure how i feel about this… definitely something different. i feel like my writing has been subpar lately…. idk! have a great night 💗 or day!

if you enjoyed reblogs are greatly appreciated 🥺

[griffintail]

Okay so I'm on an angst kick tonight so here's a fic about how Little bee feels about all her new siblings.

Old news

Bee was hitting her breaking point, ANOTHER new sibling? As if Michael wasn't enough now she had to complete with the literal angel that was Boo. Her step fathers new adopted child. How could her dad do this to her? Bringing in this new 'family' as if their real family wasn't God knows where alone. She missed her cousin and uncle dearly, Little (F/L) was practically her sister at this point and sometimes Tommy was more of a father to her then her own dad. It drove the teen up the wall how quickly her father discarded them.

Now she's supposed to consider these strangers her family? No way in nether.

If anyone wants to expand on this feel free too, I wanted to write an argument but I can't think of good dialog for it.-🦊

Hahaha. Angst that I feel on a personal level. I didn’t add Little boo because I try to keep the characters separate when I write for the Lost Ones kids but there’s most certainly Michael! I really wanted to write this....NON-CANON TO LOST ONES

Old News

Pairing: Parental! Tubbo x F! Teenage! Reader

Part 2

Warnings: Angst, Misread Situations, Feelings of Neglect

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

         She sat alone at the docks, looking back to see her father playing with Michael in the upper story window. She huffed angrily as she looked back to the freezing water.

         …They were supposed to go fishing today. But Michael was sad.

         They were supposed to go last week but Ranboo wanted a day together with no kids. So, she had to watch the stupid zombie piglin…

         God, she never thought she’d miss the days when Uncle Tommy would drag her and Tubbo off on dangerous adventures. She never thought she’d miss all his yelling…she never thought she’d miss L’Manberg…With all the good memories that it held inside…

         At this rate, she’d start missing how her father and Tommy fought Dream all the time!

         “Hey.” She jumped, looking up to see Foolish. “You’re shaking kid, you should get inside.”

         Her jacket had long since felt cold. She just didn’t want to go inside and listen to dad talk to Michael though. Not when he hadn’t properly talked to her in months. She looked at the house before looking at Foolish.

         “Is the mansion warm?”

         “Uh, kind of. There should be a few rooms, come on.”

         She got up and followed Foolish inside. She’d go to her actual room later…for now, she just wanted to sit and watch the trees sway without thinking about everything she missed…

         …

         She stirred her mushroom soup as she sat at the dining table inside their home after night fell. Ranboo was out, thank god, but Tubbo was upstairs with Michael again and she had to make and eat dinner for one…

         “Hey, I need to talk to Foolish before he leaves. Watch Michael for a few minutes alright?” Tubbo asked her as he jumped down from the ladder.

         “Ok.” She muttered.

         “Thanks.” He smiled before rushing out.

         She rolled her eyes and kept eating her warm soup. The kid wouldn’t die, he was old enough to be fine. There was no need to make her eat cold soup to watch the stupid zombie piglin. After a few bites though, she heard a loud thud upstairs and she face-palmed before going up the ladder.

         The little zombie piglin was sniffling as a little bit of blood trickled from his forehead.

         “What happened?” She sighed, going over and sitting in front of the zombie piglin, wiping the blood away with her sleeve.

         Michael pointed to the bed and the floor and she shook her head.

         “You jump off the bed?” And he nodded. “Yeah, that hurts like hell. I fell off a lot of crap, mostly because Uncle Tommy dared me but I digress.”

         Michael gave a snort and she gave a small glare with no actual heat behind it.

         “You think that’s funny little shit?” She asked and Michael shrank but she smiled. “I’m just joking. But hey, watch out, I’ve been taught by a lawyer, I’ll sue you next time.”

         She didn’t hate Michael; she just didn’t like how he and Ranboo got all of her father’s attention. Michael was a funny kid and smart when given the chance. She just wanted to avoid him though so she didn’t have to think about what he gets that she can’t.

         “Alright, come on, I think there’s some of those special potions for you downstairs.” She said, standing up.

         The teenager was about to pick him up when Tubbo came into the room.

         “Hey, how—What happened?!” Tubbo exclaimed, rushing to Michael, not a second glance to (Y/N).

         “Oh, he just fell a bit.” (Y/N) said.

         “He fell?! How? Weren’t you watching him?” Tubbo asked her with even looking at her as he carefully looked at the minor cut on Michael’s head.

         “Dad, he’s fine. It’s just a little cut from a fall.” She wasn’t watching him but she also wasn’t going to tell on Michael that he just jumped off the bed.

         “You call this fine?!” He motioned to Michael as he finally looked at her.

         “Yeah, I had a lot worse going on adventures with you and Uncle Tommy.”

         “Yeah! But he’s not you!” Tubbo huffed looking away.

         (Y/N) was taken aback by that. He wasn’t her…No, no Michael wasn’t her. He was better than her, just look. Michael always has her father’s attention. What was she? Just…just a disappointment.

         Tubbo canceled plans with her, Tubbo rarely spoke to her as much, Tubbo barely spared her a glance some days. He had a better family now…

         “You’re right.” She whispered, Michael giving little snorts seeing the tears in the older girl’s eyes. “I’m going to go.”

         “I think that will be best,” Tubbo said, once more not looking at her as he picked Michael up.

         Her lip quivered before nodding as she rushed downstairs. Tears poured down her cheeks as she grabbed a bag and threw her clothes in. Nothing else.

         She left the house, hearing nothing from her father as she walked away from Snowchester.

         It was better for everyone…They could be happy without her bothering them now…

         The darkness surrounded her as she clutched her bag as she crossed the path back towards Dream SMP land. As she got across, she looked up at the well-lit hotel her uncle had finally won back. Without much thought, she dashed up the path to the building. As she got to the door, she hesitated.

         Would it be better for her uncle if she didn’t bother him? Would he be happier?

         “(Y/N)?” She heard behind her and she once more jumped as she looked to see Tommy walking past the gates to the hotel.

         He stopped seeing her red eyes and the tears staining her cheeks, along with the bag by her side. He then rushed over, taking her arms.

         “What happened? Who hurt you? Who the fuck is going to die?”

         At his words, she sobbed. She hadn’t felt this cared about in months…

         Tommy was startled before hugging her tightly. “Hey, it’s ok, kid. I’ll fuck up their shit for you. No need for the waterworks. Let’s get inside.”

         He brought her inside as she cried harder and he didn’t get much of an explanation once she calmed down as she didn’t want to talk about it but he set her up with a room and told her they’d talk about it tomorrow when she got some rest. Yes, Tommy was worried but he knew that he couldn’t just force the kid to tell him everything when she looked exhausted.

         “I don’t know how Tubbo fucked this up, but I’ll fuck up his shit later,” Tommy told her, ruffling her hair. “After I beat the ass of who hurt you. Get some rest.”

         He left the room after that as she held back the tears this time. If only he knew, and lord did it feel so good to feel like someone cared…She had missed Uncle Tommy…

         …

         Tubbo came to (Y/N)’s door later after putting Michael to sleep. Tubbo felt guilty about getting so snippy with his daughter. She was right, kids get hurt. He remembered the clumsy little girl that would fall down all the time or who he’d have to catch after Tommy dared her to jump from various places. It made him feel guiltier when Michael tried to stick up for her, trying to take all the blame.

         He hadn’t been angry; he was just scared. He had fucked up in some areas with (Y/N), he couldn’t fuck up again. Michael wasn’t the same as her, he was more fragile, a different creature entirely, which meant he had to be extra careful. It was better she went to her room though, so he didn’t say something he’d regret. He felt regret though for being so loud with his words.

         “(Y/N).” He knocked on her door.

         She didn’t answer and he sighed.

         “I’m sorry for yelling. I didn’t mean it. I was just scared because Michael isn’t like you or me. He gets hurt a lot easier. And…shit. I forgot about fishing, didn’t I? I’m making a lot of mistakes today. I’m so sorry little lamb. I…I’ll leave Michael with Foolish tomorrow and we’ll have a day all to ourselves, no matter what. We’ll have your favorite breakfast and do whatever you want, ok? Just you and me my special little bee.”

         There was still no answer and he let out another as he nodded.

         “I’m going to stick to it! I promise (Y/N). I love you so much. Good night.”

         And he left without opening the door to see what he’d find out tomorrow…

[canon-ized]

fun fact i have an entire comic in my brain for part 5 that may or may not ever get made, but for now some hurt comfort

(tw: self-harm, severed limbs (again))

As usual, Nicky had a nightmare.

It started out as just memory. It usually does. This time it was of back when he was in college. He and Cass were sitting together during a lunch break. He couldn’t really make out what she was saying, and he didn’t even know what his own response was as they spoke, but he knew that he was happy, and she was there, and that was all that really mattered. 

But then it changed very suddenly, as though he’d been punched in the face. Because he had. He was fighting with Lark, Sparrow, Grant, and Terry. But this time it wasn’t Terry holding the gun, it was someone else. It didn’t matter, Nicky knew what would happen, he didn’t try to stop it, he just braced himself for the shot.

He heard it, but it never hit his arm.

He opened his eyes from how they’d been scrunched closed, and he really wished he hadn’t. Standing there was Cass, missing a hand, she had pushed him out of the way. Everyone else stopped fighting, only the one with the gun remained. They fired again at Nicky. They missed again. This time it was Taylor, shot in his good leg. He glared up at this attacker. “Fuck. You.”

The shadow turned to Nicky once more. He was looking in a grinning mirror. The culprit was himself.

The next thing he knew he was staring at a plain ceiling in the grey shades of the dark. He was in a little spare room in Cass’ house that she’d offered to him while he had the job of cleaning the house. He put his hand over his face, groaning hoarsely. “Fuck…” 

‘Dudeeee, go get a drink, chill out,’ Nick said.

‘Ugh, no, just leave now before you do something stupid,’ Nicholas chimed in, ‘Take a walk or something.’

“Guys, not now,” Nicky sat up slowly, making a face at the people in his head. “Go away, you’re giving me a headache.”

‘You? And you think that’s not my life 24/7 dealing with this one?’ Nicholas somehow gestured to Nick although neither of them had physical forms. Somehow Nick too made physical actions, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. ‘As if you’re not the one constantly nagging me and being on my ass all the time, Narcholas.’

‘Hey! You know that hurts my feelings!’ Nicky felt Nicholas’ little pang of sadness from remembering that nickname. 

‘Maybe if you weren’t such a sensitive little baby about it this wouldn’t be an issue.’

“Christ, stop fucking bullying him, just shut it,” Nicky told Nick. He felt Nick’s increasing annoyance. ‘What, you’re ganging up on me now? Well no wonder, just look at your mind, that trip of a dream you just had. You’ve grown soft too.’

“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want to do this now?!” Nicky put his arm stump and his hand to his ears but it didn’t do anything. 

‘And to think you were so good at not caring before, bottling it up, being cool, going with the flow. You were better when you were me.’

“Stop.”

‘Actually, maybe if you hadn’t changed you could’ve cared for your family more. If you didn’t run scared you could’ve stood up and fought for them, like a real man.’

“You’re being unfair!” Nicky kept finding it harder and harder to breathe, as if Nick had reached right through his ribcage and crushed his lungs. 

‘Just admit it, everything from that pathetic dream is true.’ Nick laughed. ‘You hurt them because you can’t stand up for yourself. They’re just play-things to you. Ones that you can get rid of whenever you want. Who knows how long it’ll be before-‘

“NO!!” Nicky hit his own head repeatedly, sobbing. “No! No! I don’t want to hurt them! I don’t!! Stop, please, stop, stop…” He kept hitting himself until it hurt too much for them to want to stick around, and he was only left with the sound of his own crying. After staring at his arm stump for a long while he decided that he wanted to check on Taylor and Cassandra to make sure they were okay. He reached for his jacket, but saw the black leather and decided to leave it. Admittedly he regretted it when he stepped into the hallway, it was cold in just the t-shirt and shorts he’d been sleeping in. He walked to the door on the far left, Taylor’s room. He just wanted to peek in, but when he went to turn the handle he found it was locked. Fair enough, but not the most reassuring in the moment, and it did briefly make him panic like maybe there was some unexpected reason he couldn’t open the door other than obviously for privacy. 

‘Just do the thing you do,’ a tiny little distant voice in his head whispered. It was unclear the source, but Nicky was reminded of, well, the thing he can do. He concentrated hard even though it hurt his head further to do so, and in his mind’s eye he could see that Taylor was safe. He was in the room asleep, his cheek a little squished against a body pillow. Nicky was satisfied with that and headed the other way, for Cassandra’s room.

The door handle turned easily, but he was very hesitant to actually open the door. He pushed it slowly, inch by inch, until he could just peek one eye through the crack. He was startled by what he saw when the room came into focus.

Cass was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring directly at him. 

Nicky immediately pulled back from the door, but before he could think of what to do she stood and opened it the rest of the way. “Nicky?”

All that came out of his mouth was, “I-I’m sorry.”

“What happened?” She examined his face carefully. He stuttered again, unable to come up with a proper response, “how did you know..?”

Cassandra gave him a meaningful look, seeming like she was going to answer that until she gasped and pulled him into the room. She turned on the light in the bathroom and brushed his hair back from his right temple, where there was a large bruise. “What is this?!”

“I- I-“ He avoids her eyes, feeling ashamed. “They wouldn’t stop talking… -But it’s okay I could just step into Hell real quick-”

“No! No, you’re not leaving!” Cass pulled him close by his waist. He could feel the metal hand against his back, but it was warm instead of cold. 

“Cass…” He trailed off when he finally processed the comfort of the hug, tears welling up in his eyes again as his tail started swishing around behind him involuntarily. It’s been so long since anyone’s hugged me…

She pulled away a little, just to look up at Nicky’s face for a minute. With that warm metal hand still on his back, she reached over to the medicine cabinet and pulled out a container of high-tech compresses, well designed to help bruises heal. She pressed one gently to his temple and gave it a small kiss. “There…it’s gonna be alright now.”

“Cass,” Nicky said again, and in those eyes softly glowing with darkvision, she saw the glitter of love and affection. She turned off the lights again and admired it in the quiet before leading him over to sit down with her. “So, what happened?”

“Nothing.” He tried to look away again but she held his face still. “It’s clearly not nothing. Just talk to me… honey. Please?” The way she said ‘honey��� was different from all the other times she’d said it over the phone or in passing to catch him off guard while he swept the floor. It wasn’t so teasing now…

Nicky sighed. “I just had a dream, and I wanted to be sure you and Taylor were okay. That’s all. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“What was the dream about?”

“Um, a gun. A particular gun. And limbs getting severed.”

“Oh, Nicky-“

With the tone of her voice he couldn’t help but blurt it out. “It was me I was holding the gun. And your…and Tay…” He covered his face with his hand, trying to stifle the sudden sobs that came out. 

Cass put her arm around him, pulling him in again. “It’s okay, it’s okay, I know you wouldn’t do that-“

“But I don’t know I wouldn’t! I’ve already hurt you once, hell, plenty of times! I don’t want to do it again, I don’t, but who’s to say I won’t I mean that’s just how I am isn’t it-“

“Nicky, you’re spiraling. Just take a second and breathe okay?”

But Nicky couldn’t do that. He could feel the fist clenching around his lungs as he gasped for air. You’re a weak little coward, a loser, a deadbeat who’s doomed everyone you love-

There was a complete pause in his panic as he felt Cass’ hand, the real one, on his tail. She gently ran her fingers along it, keeping him close, and oh so faintly he heard her humming something. And maybe Nicky was just going crazy at this point, but it almost sounded like the song that he’d written for her what felt like a lifetime ago. A silly little song he made up to make her laugh, sitting in a college dorm with his acoustic guitar in hand. 

He closed his eyes and rested his head against hers, listening and taking in her touch. The pressure in his chest started to release itself, and Cassandra was glad to hear him breathing easier now. She smiled and almost chuckled even, when she heard him yawn. “Are you feeling better?”

He nodded slowly. “Thank you, Cass…”

The fatigue must’ve been contagious. She yawned too. “Why don’t we lay down and get some sleep?”

Nicky snapped to being alert and his posture straightened. “Here?- No, I should go back, I don’t want to intrude on your privacy-“

“I never filed for a divorce, you know.”

A long pause. Nicky looked at her. “…What?”

Cass smiled, but did not elaborate. “If you go back to the guest room, will you get any sleep? Be honest.”

“…I don’t think so.”

“And don’t you want to have plenty of energy for the chores tomorrow?”

“Yes…”

She scooted back on the bed. “Then you should stay. Besides, it’s a cold night, and there’s a certain pair of wings that make a nice blanket.”

Nicky looked down, blushing, but got in next to her. He laid on his side, spreading his wings out in front of him. Cassandra slid to rest in between them, and they were both enveloped in the lavender glow of the moonlight shining through the membrane. 

Cass followed the veins in his wing gingerly with her finger, but her eyes landed on his face. “Y’know, I think I’m still a little cold.”

Nicky wrapped his arm around her, moving a little closer. “Is this okay?”

She grinned. “Better. Thanks honey.”

He hummed, but it sounded a little like purring. She felt his restless tail briefly brush her leg under the blankets. 

Cass’ pjs were soft, so was her hair tickling his forehead. And Nicky knew her lips were too, but he left that thought alone by itself, in a more shadowed corner of his mind. 

Cassandra listened to that contented little sound reverberating in his throat, and when his muscles relaxed she leaned into his chest so she could feel it. 

Somehow, she knew, it was a sound he hadn’t made in a long time.

And she also knew, she wanted to keep hearing it, every single day, accompanied by the touch of his hand and the warmth of his wings around her. 

“I might be making a mistake,” she whispered, looking at Nicky’s peaceful expression, “but that’s never stopped me before…” 

Cassandra considered this further as she closed her eyes. “Don’t mistakes pave the road to the best outcomes?”

I WROTE A THING POST-S2 ENDING BYE

(tw: brief self-harm, severed limb mention, death mention)

“Fuck off.”

The words Taylor said to Nicky when it was all over. “You’re a loser. Go away. You’re not a part of this family.”

And those are the words Nicky hears in his head as he’s kneeling in the flaming pit of Hell, watching his mage hand cut off his remaining arm over, and over, and over again before it regrows no problem. 

Another voice rings out, of a much younger child wishing to please his father. “Y’know what would fix this, man? Some weed, dawg. That always makes Dad feel better, right?”

It’s accompanied by a third, flat and perfectly consonated. “Have you no sense? That won’t solve anything. Listen to me instead, my Dad says-“

“BOTH OF YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!!” Nicky slams the flat of the sword into his own head, hard. Enough to knock him over into the ashes of his discarded limbs, all parts of him, but broken and disconnected. The ringing in his ears drowns all the voices out, letting him think for a bit. Kind of. 

He realizes at a certain point, lying with all these shattered pieces of the past he once was, that the ringing is no longer coming from his ears, but instead from his pocket. His phone. He pulls it out and clears his throat before answering, not even bothering to check who it is because 90 percent of the time it’s Glenn butt-dialing him. But instead of the drunken slurring and usual crashing sounds he’s expecting, he hears the voice of someone who knows him all too well.

“Hey…it’s Cass…” is all she says.

Nicky wants to cry and start rambling on about how good it is to hear her voice and how much he misses her but he chokes it down and just responds, “Hi Cass…it’s Nicky.” God she knows that you sound so dumb she’ll think you’re drunk and hang up!

“Can we just talk?”

She didn’t hang up. Nicky sits up, “yeah, we can talk…” He climbs out of the pit of severed arms to sit on the edge, looking down into it. “…what do you wanna talk about..?”

Cassandra sighs, watching through the window of her house as Taylor leaves for Norm’s house, where they’re having tapas to celebrate the win. She promised to join up with him, but… “I just… You never really told me why exactly you left. -I mean I kind of have a general idea. It’s not because you didn’t love me or Taylor, or anything like that. I know that… I guess, ‘for your safety,’ isn’t really a good enough answer for me. I think I have a right to know the full story.”

“Of course, yeah, of course you do… Well I… Uh,” Nicky doesn’t even really know where to begin. “Well… Long story short, I’m a tiefling from Hell- you know that-“ he has a brief flashback from their first meeting, swords flying, “yeah, and, the guys wanted to do the whole Code Purple thing on Hell, and I told them no, and Terry shot my arm off, and it didn’t come back ever-“

“Yeah, severed limbs don’t tend to,” Cassandra flexes the robotic hand she recently got calibrated. 

“Yeah…”

“Okay, but that doesn’t answer the question.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m getting there, I didn’t mean to end there- fuck I’m messing this up, I’m sorry-“

“Nicky.”

His voice cracks a little and he hates it, “yeah?..”

“It’s okay. Just slow down. Take some deep breaths.”

“Okay.”

“Do you need me to count?”

“No…”

She knows he’s lying. “Breathe in. One, two, three. Breathe out.”

She hears him exhale on the other side. “Good. Again.” They do this a few more times before she says, “now I’m assuming after that fight with your friends was when you came home.”

“Right…” Nicky remembers standing there in the doorway, Cass coming from the other room holding little Taylor, big grey eyes looking at him, oblivious to what was happening. “Not you, loser.”

“Why didn’t you stay?” Cassandra’s voice pulls him from his thoughts again.

“Why didn’t I stay,” he repeats to himself. Why didn’t I? Why didn’t I? I could’ve chosen to stay and protect them. I could’ve fought for us. I could’ve changed. So why didn’t I..? 

…

“Because I didn’t want to be for you and Taylor, what my mom was, to my dad, and me…” Nicky only realizes what this means as he says it. “Cass, I- I was worried that there was a chance that I couldn’t protect you, that I’d die trying. And then I’d be gone and that’d be it- not that I’m scared of dying, I just- I saw firsthand what a death in the family can do, the rift it creates. I experienced it. What it did to me, and what it did to my dad. That is what made me who I am-“

Part of you, Nicholas’ voice says. Never whole, only part.

“Shut up, I’m talking,” Nicky hisses back, then panics, “oh god, Cass, sorry I didn’t mean you-“

“I know. It’s okay.” Nicky remembers with a wince the time he told her about the voices. “Please, continue.”

“…I’d rather that you have a deadbeat husband who was horrible and who left you than a good one who you miss. And I’d rather that you be angry at me than grieve the loss of a love-“

“But I did grieve over you!” She shouts suddenly, and it breaks Nicky’s heart how upset she sounds. “Every single day I did, for a long long time! Because you were my husband, and Taylor’s father, and I loved you more than anything! And every day I hoped you’d come back! And that’s your problem, you have no sense of your own worth! You think you’re worth more to me dead than alive?! Really? Are you fucking serious?!”

“Cass-“ Nicky can’t hold in the tears anymore, he holds the phone away from his head so she won’t hear him sob, only to pull it back to his ear as soon as he hears any sound from the other end.

“Nicky, I trusted you to come back. And you didn’t. But that’s not even what I’m upset at you for anymore, I’ve had plenty of time to be upset at you for that. The reason I yelled- which I’m sorry for- is because I am frustrated that even after all this time you’re still so focused on your hate for yourself and this whole complex you have about ‘always screwing things up,’ that you can’t pay attention to the things around you that would fix that. You know you can talk to me about anything, and in this case some communication about how you were feeling would’ve really been helpful-“

“But I didn’t know.”

“You would’ve figured it out a lot sooner.”

Nicky goes silent, he can’t argue with that.

“Listen, if you’re going to be a part of this family still, you need to start working on how you think about yourself.”

“What- what?” Nicky’s tail slaps the ground behind him repeatedly in surprise. “But Taylor said-“

“Taylor, well, you know how he is.”

“I kind of still don’t…” Nicky admits, defeated.

“Well, he’s not the kind of person to always say exactly what he means. He’s a little ‘delulu,’ as he likes to say.”

“‘Delulu’..?”

“It just means he’s in his own little world, an anime world. And I’m sure you know animes are..?”

“Very dramatic?”

“Yes. That’s Tay for you. Very dramatic. He gets it from me I think.”

“You’re not that dramatic.”

“Well I’m an actor, so, I certainly can be.” Cass laughs a bit, and Nicky’s glad she’s not there to see him melt at the sound. “My point is, he’ll come around, if you make an effort to change.”

“…And what about you?”

“Why do you think I called, dummy? We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t love you anymore.”

“Ah…that makes sense…How badly did I freak you out when I showed up at your door that one time?”

“Well I was startled considering you were banging on the window frantically, but if I’m being honest I almost let you in.”

Nicky laughs, “at least I’ve still got some rizz left.”

“It had nothing to do with rizz! I wanted to smack you!” 

They continue talking about this or that, nothing all that important. But it’s thanks to Cassandra jamming her foot into the crack, that the slammed door does not stand completely closed.

[bontenten]

Sleeping Beauty

Pairing: Shirabu x f!reader WC: 5.6k Genre/Warnings: smut, fairy tale retelling, incest, dubcon/noncon, drugs (sleeping pill), somnophilia, abusive past relationship, implied rape (not Shirabu), panic attack, victim-blaming, hero-complex with a bit of god-complex, hints of yandere, uhh medical malpractice, Shirabu’s bangs

Summary: The real story of Sleeping Beauty is anything but beautiful. Shirabu will do everything he can to keep you in a safe haven where you can freely dance with your prince once upon a dream.

A/N: This is a part of the whorehouse intoxicated collaboration, rest of the pieces of this toxic journey can be found here! Thank you Ria and Angel for helping beta <3 Love you both so much.

Unofficial bgm: Once Upon a Dream & Once Upon a December 

"You'll never wash me from you," he sneers, pulling you back by a handful of hair. You feel a blanket of pain shoot across your scalp. "You'll never really get away. Time to wake the fuck up."

"G-get away from me!" 

You thrash and kick your legs wildly hoping something will land. The moment you hear a pained grunt and feel his grip loosen, you scramble up to your feet and run. Your shoes grate against wet cement as you take off. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you will your legs forward one after another. The caw of birds seem to act as a beacon leading you through the twists and turns of the terrain.

A left turn here, two blocks straight. Past the corner store and beyond the stoplight. Three blocks. Right turn. Two Blocks. Five steps away. Four...Three..Two...Safety...

----

"In the forest, the princess played with a lot of animal friends. She grew up there in the cottage with three fairies looking after her."

Thunder claps and lightning strikes outside.

"It's so loud Kenjirou-nii!" you cry, burying yourself into Shirabu's arms.

"Shh, I'm here," Shirabu coos, rocking you back and forth until your sobs subside. "One day, the princess was singing with the songbirds..."

Shirabu begins to recount the fairytale of Sleeping Beauty to you, slowly easing your mind away from the turbulence outside.

"Do you think you can sleep now?"

You shake your head and jump again when the thunder claps over the roof of the house.

"It's okay, I'm right here. Big brother’s always going to protect you."

"Like the prince protecting the princess?"

"Yes, exactly. You're always my princess, now go to sleep. I'll wake you when the sun's up.”

After a while, you calm down and slowly drift into sleep with your breaths evening out. Shirabu pulls the covers over both of you and enters sleep as well.

The winds continued to howl outside the window...the branches tapping...tapping against the window...tap...tapping…

----

Shirabu Kenjirou opens his eyes. He had just fallen asleep while studying for the third time that night. There is no use staying at the library if he is going to treat it as a hotel; he’ll be better off going home first. He yawns and stretches his neck, then packs his bags to return to his apartment. There are few students left in the building at this ungodly hour. Dark clouds loom overhead and the air is filled with the pitter patter of autumn rain hitting cement. Shirabu zips up his coat, opens his umbrella, and walks into the dark.

You would have been so frightened by this sort of weather, whimpering under your blankets, counting sheep with shaky breaths. Just like how you did in that dream of his earlier.

While growing up, Shirabu hadn't cared all that much about anything else considering he spent most of his time with his studies or playing volleyball. Although there was you, his little sister, he figured you had your little bubble anyway. But on a stormy night, you teetered down the hall after finding your parent’s room locked. Afraid and sleepy, you looked for comfort elsewhere and arrived at Shirabu’s room.

Shirabu had been most irritated and decided to shoo you out with strings of curses and profanities, but he couldn’t. The sight of your form huddled right outside his bedroom, with young eyes pleading for him took hold of a bit of humanity in Shirabu’s heart. So, he let you into his room, a safe haven, and eventually a world that was composed of only the two of you against the rest of the world.

Shirabu has known for a long time that you are the most brilliant, precious, and purest thing he’ll ever encounter. Always perfect. Forever unsullied. 

There are many things that Shirabu wants to shield you from. If he can secure one more hour of innocence, one more day, one lifetime, he’ll do so without a moment of hesitation. The real world is unlike the fairy tales that you hear about while growing up. 

The real story of Sleeping Beauty is anything but beautiful. There isn’t a handsome prince the princess meets in a forest. No color changing cake. No kiss of love. In the real story, the princess is put into an endless slumber and has her virginal body taken by some unknown beast of a king, used like a rag for his carnal pleasure. When he leaves, the sleeping girl is then forgotten like trampled daisies under the hooves of horses. And she will wake to find her womb bulged with bastard life as a result of the damnation. The stretches clawing around the navel as permanent reminders that nothing will wash him from her.

The real world is dark. Horrible. Wretched. Dirty. Filled with suffering. That is why he, Shirabu Kenjirou, responds to the call to action and enters a life of service. In his heart he yearns to save and help, even if just a little, by becoming a prince with a white coat. He will not give up trying to salvage pieces of humanity he’ll touch, and in the process, carve out a haven, a little forest with a cottage, for his dearest sister to safely live in.

It has been a while since he last heard from you. Partly his own fault, really. Ever since Shirabu entered university and then medical school, the number of times you two would meet up dwindled. The hours on the phone became texts and soon after, communication vanished into mostly silence.

You are in university now, grown up and stepping into the real world, but that doesn't mean you are no longer his little sister. And because you are the one and only, Shirabu feels that he should try to do a better job as an older brother and check-in with you to see how you are doing. So, Shirabu takes out his phone that’s still on silent after studying.

27 missed calls from Sister 

Shirabu pauses in his tracks and returns the call. Cars zoom by on the streets while he waits for the line to connect. 

He was right, you must have been frightened.

The first call doesn’t connect, so Shirabu immediately tries the second time. You pick up on the third attempt.

"It's me, I'm so sorry I didn't pick up earlier."

"K-Kenjirou-nii..." your voice weakly translates over the speaker. 

Shirabu presses the phone closer to his ear and turns up the volume. "Where are you now," he demands. "At school?"

"...Your place..." Your voice sounds so dangerously faded, like petals beaten to the ground from the rain.

Shirabu bolts. His apartment is just a couple blocks away. Around the corner just up ahead. Shirabu makes a sharp turn and splashes through a puddle. 

"Stay...on the phone with me," he urges, paying no mind to his soaked shoes and socks.

You nod in understanding, as if he’ll hear your action.

"I'm almost there okay, almost."

Shirabu isn’t lying. A few moments later you hear the frantic footsteps coming closer to you. The stomping noises make your skin crawl, but the familiar face of your brother melts those fears away. He appears with his wet bangs stuck to his face and his shoulders heaving up and down. It’s him, your niichan, your prince finally here.

You scramble up and dive into his open arms, in relief that you are safe at last, as you finally allow tears to mix with rain.

"I was so scared. I missed you so much, Kenjirou-niichan," you sob into Shirabu's wet coat. "Where were you, where were you?"

"I'm sorry. I'm here now, I'm sorry," Shirabu apologizes, "Let's go inside first, alright? We’re both drenched.”

----

Under the bright lights of the living room, Shirabu gets a better look at you. You catch his discerning eyes studying you up and down, visually tracing the markers of your demise. That’s when you crack.

“Kenjirou-nii...the real world, the world is a horrible place. I trusted him, you know? I trusted that man.”

Foolish and stupid, Shirabu wants to say. It’ll be easy to simply yell at you.

Shirabu is not someone without a temper. He was quite known for it back in his high-school days. The bruises, the scars that did not heal well. Shirabu reminds himself to keep his composure, especially in front of you. He’s to be a doctor. He’s to be a protector, a savior. And with the training he already has so far, Shirabu knows he’s already as good as any board certified, licensed white-robed saint. He just needs to do what he’s meant to do. Heal. Clean. Purify.

After listening to your brief tale, Shirabu tells you not to worry about anything else tonight other than take a hot shower and get some rest. He gives you a reassuring smile and sends you off to the bathroom with towels and a large t-shirt.

While you wash-up and lose your thoughts piecing together the messy events of the night, Shirabu paces in the living room after he changes his own wet clothes. Nevermind the medical books he still needs to pour over, all Shirabu wants to do right now is track down the culprit and stick a scalpel through his socket. No, that’s just too easy. That bastard deserves something much more horrible, a slow and patient torture, a death within grasp but just out of reach. As if agreeing with Shirabu’s thoughts, your phone on the coffee table lights up. Shirabu picks up the device and watches the notifications pop-up.

Shirabu sees an unknown number call you. He doesn’t pick up, letting the phone ring while he reads the numbers across the screen and commits them to memory. The phone calls stop and an onslaught of texts follow; some coherent and others far from decipherable. There are messages of broken apologies and confessions of persistent love. Requests for you to go back to him. Shirabu scoffs at the language.

Shirabu continues to wait with impassive eyes, but the tight death grip around the device gives away the boiling rage beneath his skin. How dare the man behind that accursed number treat you, his little sister and princess, in such a foul manner. This beast who stole from you. Who is the reason behind the tainting of your now sullied innocence. 

Finally after a few minutes of silence, the screen lights up with a series of curses and condemnation that show the man’s true colors. A morphed beast due to your lack of response. Shirabu scrolls through the list of notifications again with impassive eyes, but the tight death grip around the device gives away the boiling rage beneath his skin. 

"You will pay," Shirabu seethes, taking a knife from the kitchen and ramming the sharp end straight into the device glass. The phone buzzes desperately and goes dark. You have no use for that phone anymore after all of this anyway, and the cursed number is already memorized by Shirabu for his own purposes.

----

Shirabu’s room is tidy. The two bookshelves on either side of the table are filled with books, photos, and many other accolades. That’s your older brother alright: perfect, proper, always right. Always right about everything, except one thing. The world you know really isn’t the wonderland he told you about growing up. Not at all. 

You bury your face into Shirabu's pillows and will yourself to sleep. You are safe here in his bed. It’s a haven...safely tucked in a forest. You are in a forest. The trees and the breeze. Songbirds are singing. 

You can dance here, twirl about...safe...free…

The trees melt.

Birds squawk and screech, scampering away…

Ink engulfs you....swallowing you whole

Falling...falling…

"You'll never wash me from you," he sneers. "You'll never really get away. Time to wake the fuck up."

NO! you try to scream. You can’t, the weight on your chest sinks you deeper, only silence is uttered...choked…

Wake up.

Wake up.

"Wake up!"

Your eyes fly open and you see him. Him. A blood curdling shriek finally tears through your throat and you thrash. "Getawaygetawaygetaway! NO!"

"It's me, hey, it's me. You're okay, you're safe." Shirabu’s eyes widen with worry at your outburst, but gives you ample space to breathe and compose yourself.

This familiar voice. It does not belong to him. It’s definitely not him.

"...Kenjirou-nii?" you ask quietly. The shadow is backlit from light coming in through the door and your vision is still fuzzy from the nightmare.

A tender hand closes around yours. "Shhh, it's okay, you're okay now. It was a bad dream, you're safe. You're safe. I'm here."

Cold sweat runs down your temples. Your breath is fast and shallow.

"Follow me, okay. Breathe in..." Shirabu takes a deep breath. You follow his voice and movement as if they are lanterns guiding you through a maze. "And breathe out. Good, you're doing great. Breathe in...and out..."

You feel your mind slowly beginning to clear with each inhale and exhale. Finally, you see Shirabu clearly again. You can smell the scent of his body wash from him. The texture of the blanket rubs against your fingertips. You’re here in Shirabu’s room. Safety. Haven. 

"I'll be right back," Shirabu tells you, before leaving you for a moment and going towards the bathroom. He opens the medicine cabinet, pops out a few white pills from a box.

"Here," he says holding out the small tablets in the middle of his palm. The off-white seems to almost glow in the dark.

"It's zolpidem, a sleeping pill I sometimes take for insomnia. It'll help you for tonight, and then we'll get you something else tomorrow that'll work better."

You look at the pill and then at Shirabu. Shirabu is someone you love and trust with all your heart. His embrace is your anchor and haven when the rest of the world has turned a blind eye. He’s your brother. One and only. There’s no reason not to trust him.

"I won't see him will I?"

"No," Shirabu affirms. The pills don't really manipulate dreams, but if reassuring you can placebo sweet dreams, then what harm really is there? He didn’t pass Ethics with top marks for nothing.

Shirabu gently presses the pill body against your lips and you part them, allowing the small object to slip through. He feeds another and you open your mouth obediently. You look at Shirabu’s eyes which are fixated on the way your lips wrap around his three fingers.  Kenjirou-nii’s lashes are so nice and pretty, you think. 

One gulp of water later, and you feel nothing but a cold sensation traveling down your throat and disappearing into your belly.

"It'll take about half an hour, I'll stay with you until you fall asleep," Shirabu says. He supports your back and gently lowers you back into the comforts of the plush mattress. Shirabu will surely carry the same attentiveness and care when he becomes a full-fledged doctor. You are sure of it. The big brother you grew up with has truly grown up and matured. But no matter how much he changes or how much you mess up, he’ll always be your big brother.

"Can you lie down next to me again, like when we were young?"

An innocent request from a patient-in-need. Shirabu complies and lies down next to you.

"I remember when we were young, I would make you dance with me to live out my princess dreams. You remember?”

Afternoons next to the stereo, crayons scattered on the floor. The smell of something baking in the kitchen. Shrieks and laughter in the living room. Even though Shirabu would be mildly annoyed at first, he found humoring your imagination to be a pleasant and soothing experience. Even he was sometimes whisked away from textbooks into a magical forest that was just you and him. The stress and burdens of everything else all seem so much lighter on his shoulders when you’re simply just there.

"Of course I remember, silly."

You hum softly and continue waiting for the medicine in your bloodstream to make its way through your body.

"Do you...remember the sleeping beauty story you would always tell me?"

"Yea?"

You pause for a moment before quietly asking, "Kenjirou-niichan, why did you lie to me?"

Shirabu does not respond and only glances over at you, eyeing your closed lids. Closed though they may be, the tiny beads of glimmering tears are beginning to emerge from between the lashes and trail down your cheeks.

"There is no prince, Kenjirou-nii...no prince for me, no one...niichan...," you mumble between your breaths. The drug is starting to take its effect, ushering your mind into another dimension far away from hurt and pain. It swallows you like a pit of ink, sinking you deeper and deeper...

----

Kenjirou-nii, why did you lie? Earlier, Shirabu felt his breath hitch when you asked that. 

He calls out your name softly, brushing over your cheeks, and listening to your soft breathing for a good while to make sure you are in fact asleep. At long last, maybe this is a good dream.

A lie? No! Not a lie, Shirabu wants to tell you. For you, his dearest sister, who only ever deserves happiness, in the rawest and truest form. You are supposed to have a life of others giving gifts of love, never having to offer anything of your own.

Shirabu feels his blood boil once more at the thought of that man who stole your innocence away. The one who took your body for his own carnal pleasures. The one who dared to steal you from him, Shirabu Kenjirou. If Shirabu's nails are not kept in immaculate condition for his profession, no doubt, his grip would be drawing blood from his palms.

Those marks and scars across your skin. Shirabu traces his finger down your neckline and along your arms...

Your head turns from left to right and you manage to shrug the big collar of the t-shirt off your shoulder. Shirabu can see, under the glow of moonlight from the cleared night sky, a nasty mark. A permanent mark. And before he realizes it, his fingers are already traveling over, tracing along and testing out the patterns and bumps.

Shirabu feels his chest burn beyond the anger and fury. Guilt. Where was he all this time when you were suffering? Why hadn't you just called him then? Anguishing thoughts of his little sister writhing in pain under that beast's grasps tear Shirabu apart. Did you cry? Were you scared? All these years studying for what? For what noble purpose is Shirabu trying to pursue if he can’t even save those closest to him?

Shirabu continues to search for any other marks or discolorations that are splayed across your skin like a map. It is what it is now. But Shirabu still has his calling. He is a man who answers to a life of service and healing: a prince in a white coat. No matter what happens, even if you’re tainted now, you’ll still be his little sister.

Even if your naivety and stupidity got you into the mess in the first place. Of course, why didn’t you listen to your brother’s warnings and stay in a safe haven like a good girl? Stay in your room and study for your future like a good student? Like him? Why did you think running off for fun, enjoying “youth and freedom” like the other degenerates would be a good idea?

Shirabu grits his teeth. Look at you now, damaged and past the point of no return, used. Injured and ill. Still, he needs to get the full story first, and see where else you might possibly be hurt. A complete diagnosis needs to come first. After the messages from the man, Shirabu is all the more certain that there are more clues left, and he needs evidence. He needs to know. The comforter is pulled away and careful hands examine the lines of your palms.

Once upon a time, you grabbed Shirabu’s hand and tried to use the methods of schoolyard palm-reading on him. You even exclaimed, “Kenjirou-niichan, this line means you’ll live a long life! And we can be together forever because my life line is really long too!”

Shirabu smiles at the memory and presses a kiss to the center of your palm. It must have been so painful, how could you have possibly endured? But you did and you survived. You are so brave. 

Probing fingertips trace across your collarbone and push the fabric of the large t-shirt up to reveal your torso. Shirabu blinks, realizing that this is now the body of a fully matured woman. You take a deep breath in your sleep from the cold air running across your exposed breasts. Shirabu can see the nipples perk up from the chill and hesitantly touches the bud with a hint of academic curiosity.

“Mmm, that tickles...” you giggle softly. Your hand pushes Shirabu's off and scratches the same spot he just traced, fondling your own breast briefly before letting go and continuing to sleep. Even grown up now, still the same adorable little sister.

Shirabu lets himself tease your nipples and knead the soft flesh of your breasts, toying around and watching your cute little expressions. Sometimes you’ll respond again and paw the tickling hands away. It’s fun, like playing a little game.

But when he lets his eyes wander down, Shirabu’s eyes narrow. Below the breasts, on either side of the waist, Shirabu sees damning marks of deep purple turning into a disgusting yellow. Like cursed claw marks. Shirabu hesitantly presses on the bruise, watching the color transform under his touch. He stops immediately when you begin to whine in pain. Carefully, Shirabu presses a kiss on these markings too, just like any other little injury you sustained in the past. A kiss so the pain flies away.

Foolish, foolish girl. Naive princess. Why did you let this happen to yourself? In the future, don’t run anymore. Stay here where it’s safe. 

There is just one place left Shirabu did not examine yet, a hidden spot that is supposed to be locked away that someone else discovered. Shirabu looks down at the dark lace panties obstructing his view like gates of a castle. It’s a poor “keep out” message; if anything it entices anyone who sees it to come in. A tempting invitation to see what’s behind.

Shirabu allows his clean fingers to easily slip through and begin a thorough investigation through the soft folds of flesh. His fingertips dip into a pool of wetness. He furrows his brows. When did this happen? 

Why are you wet? His eyes focus on your sleeping face that still has a relaxed smile. What are you dreaming about that makes your body like this? Shirabu drags the fingers covered with your slick to circle your clit. In response your thighs clamp and twitch. So sensitive, still inexperienced, even if you’re sullied. 

Shirabu slides the soaked panties off and pushes your thighs apart so he can continue his examination. That person must have touched this area too, his fingers have been here, and then…plunged his fingers into you like so. Your body trembles as Shirabu’s two fingers probe in, fully examining your inner anatomy. Soft, warm muscles clamp tightly around his digits and try to stop them from entering further. It’s for your good and his knowledge. He pushes deeper into you, dragging alongside the bumps and ridges of your walls.

You whine loudly and arch your back when Shirabu’s fingers find a sweet spot. Your head shifts on the fluffy pillows.

“Did you like that? Did that feel good?” Shirabu asks, probing your hole once more. As if in agreement, your body twitches again and your hips automatically roll against the palm, pressing your sensitive clit into the surface. Your breathy sighs are soft and sweet, unlike any other sound Shirabu has heard from you. It’s like a spell that enchants Shirabu and beckons for him. He shudders as he feels his cock responding to each noise coming out from between your lips.

It’s good, something feels so good. Under the sunlight, you feel warmth pooling throughout your body. There are tingles in the soles of your feet, like grass tickling skin while running around barefoot. Your body feels so light and relaxed. It’s warm and you’re not in this forest alone. The shape of a prince appears. You know he’s a prince because his voice is gentle and his touch feels safe.

If this feels good, it’s only because this is an act of love. If this makes you happy, it’s because it’s love. If it’s love, it’ll fill the empty pools of hurt. And if you’ll be whole again, you’ll heal. Shirabu makes up his mind and caresses your cheeks tenderly, So beautiful. Always beautiful. A sleeping beauty. His hand reaches to the waistband of his pants.

The prince rests his hand on your hips and excitement jolts through your body. You wrap your arms around his neck and smile back.

Shirabu freezes the moment he feels your arms wave into the air and reach for him. The sneaky fingers run across his skin.

"Dance..with me," you slur before falling back into silence.

The alarm washes away when he confirms you are still sound asleep.

"Are you dreaming of your prince?" Shirabu asks while tearing open a condom packet. Medical safety. He should have worn gloves earlier too, if he wasn’t already too entranced. "Dancing? Then I'll dance with you."

Forever. I'll be your prince, my sweet darling.

Shirabu runs the length of his hardened cock along your glistening slit. Rather than take, rather than pillage and steal...Shirabu will give. Replace the gross markers of pain with soft fleeting kisses. Replace the innocence stolen with love given unconditionally. Shirabu will give you all the love you deserve and more.

Shirabu’s fingers weave into your delicate ones, the palms join together, and your fingertips automatically lock with your niichan’s. It’s the starting position for a waltz in the forest, once upon a dream.

The man takes the initiation, the leading step. Shirabu closes the gap, sinking his length into your sweet embrace in a fluid and wet squelch. You respond, digging your nails and tightening your grip on his hands. Your other arm hugs around your partner, your niichan, pulling his body close against yours. Your blank eyes flutter open briefly to look straight at the shadow of Shirabu. Of course, you don’t see anything, you’re actually in a warm forest shyly gazing at your prince. Shirabu almost thinks that he woke you up, but you only let out a quiet moan before your body relaxes again.  

Shirabu groans and rests his cock in your warm and tight embrace. This is the way it should be, how it ought to be done. No one else can lead you in this dance the way he can. The way he will. This is not the self-fulfilling king stealing the princess’s virginal body for his own pleasure. This is the loving prince who loves and gives selflessly. Your big brother knows you the best, knows how you’ll respond, knows how you’ll like it. Shirabu slowly draws himself out and thrusts back in.

The prince presses himself so close to you, and you inhale sharply. During the waltz, you always have to maintain body contact with your partner. You feel his breath on your cheeks, and you’re sure he can feel your hammering heartbeat. The intimacy builds in the tender but secure hold. The steps are quick but the movements are not violent. It’s just enough that the heat stirring in your core spreads throughout your body.

Breaths become more labored and raspy into the act. Shirabu sees your face morph into bliss as he continues his pace and rocks his hips into you. His own brows furrow as Shirabu feels his grip over rationality falling apart with each thrust. Each flutter of your walls against him only invites him to come in deeper, farther. Harder. 

“...K-Kenjirou-nii...,” you softly cry out.

Your honeyed voice is a thick syrup trapping Shirabu, coaxing him. It’s like a melody inviting a weary traveler, a lost prince, in for rest. Your voice, your body, it’s tantalizing.

"Too good," Shirabu groans to himself. Why is it so good? You, his little sister, how? He looks down towards where he sees his cock, covered with your fluids, disappear into you. The thin latex barrier doesn’t stop how close the two of you are, Shirabu feels each clench and spasm around him. “My little sister, I didn’t know…” 

Shirabu can now understand just why that man did all that to you. Why that man wants to keep you by his side. Why he incessantly sends messages and tries to manipulate you back into their world.

It’s the only explanation, really, when you don’t even know how bewitching your body is. How enticing your voice is. Anyone would want to keep it as their own. Your warmth, your sweet, sweet hole. This cunt of yours is itself a safe haven. And Shirabu feels like he’s the one being made whole from you. It’s all because of you.

Each moan from you. Those gentle mewling cries, a witch’s spell, an incantation for addiction. That man is trying to manipulate you? How? When your whole existence manipulates everyone first, drawing them all in with the image of your unsullied purity.

Shirabu feels his impending release around the edge. His pace quickens and his thrusts meet with each of your twisting squirms. Your head tosses side-to-side on the pillow as your sleepy climax washes through.

Spin. Faster and faster in the forested ballroom. Twirl for the finale. You feel a dizzying jolt as the prince dips your body back. It’s a whirlwind of love. In your dream, the sunshine is so warm and growing so much hotter. It feels like you’re floating. So light and free. That prickling tickle in your feet is growing stronger until little fireworks set off across every corner of your body, filling you completely. The forest melts as the colors blend together in a dreamy painting. 

Euphoria, as Shirabu finishes spectacularly, clutching your sleeping body close to him in a messy ending pose. The final winds of the dead storm outside sound like a rumbling applause for this sinful waltz. He can hear his own pants and your shaky breaths mix into a fading duet. Shirabu lets himself bask for a moment, resting, entangled with you.

Everything makes sense now. He completely understands why the bastard king forces himself onto Sleeping Beauty. He completely understands why your allure is much too exquisite to pass on. Shirabu pulls out and carefully removes the condom, collecting the white essence you bewitched out from him into a little package with a tie. Dangerous little princess, that you are.

Even though Shirabu now fully understands the complete story after careful examination, there are still a few lines Shirabu will draw. One, that man has still committed a very grave sin, being the first to sample your purity, stealing that away from Shirabu? Damaging your flesh and skin? Unacceptable, he thinks as he tosses the used condom into the waste bin. A complete low-life who doesn’t know how to cherish. Punishment will be due.

Shirabu returns to the bed where your unconscious body is still sprawled between bunched sheets. His blank eyes study your spread legs and puffy cunt that’s still quivering every now and then. He taps his index finger against your sensitive clit. As if it is a magic button, your body briefly trembles on command. As if you are ready to enchant another unsuspecting traveler into your safe little haven. A little bit of fluid leaks out from your hole, presenting itself seductively. Welcome. 

Shirabu scoffs. And number two, you’ll be better off staying here with himself, your big brother. You’ll be safe here with a prince who knows best how to love you right, and give you the world. This is the way it should be; before you completely lose yourself into degeneracy and invite just about anyone into you. 

Those sleeping pills will be insufficient for the long-run. A different concoction while you are still healing from your terrible trauma will be needed. A cocktail of sorts that will target different needs. Yes. Shirabu files that thought away, putting it towards the top of his to-do list. There’s so many things he has to take care of. Too much pain in this world waiting for him to don white robes and be out there.

“But you’ll always come first on niichan’s list,” Shirabu whispers, slipping your panties back on and pulling the comforters over your body. He’ll never allow you to be sullied again. You’ll stay here in this safe haven, like a little cottage tucked away in the forest. Dream here. Find happiness with the only prince you need.

The first rays of dawn begin to brighten the sky, shooing away the cloak of night. The first songs from the birds announce the arrival of a new day. The morning light filters through the windows of the room, spilling over onto the bed and your quiet, unmoving form.

Time to wake up now, sleeping beauty.

[kyberheart]

A Deceitful Creation Part #1 -  Wolffe x F!Reader

Part #2

Summary: You’ve been trying for a while now to get pregnant with your lover. Knowing that may never happen, you ask for some outside help from Wolffe on the down-low...

Word Count: 1483

Warnings: 18+, piv sex, infidelity, pregnancy/trying for a baby, cursing, angst

A/N: Heyyyyyyyy.... I’m still here! I had some stuff going on this past week so I missed my Friday fic upload, but hey! It’s Sunday, only missed it by a few days so whatever. I’m still working on part #3 of my little Techy-boy story. Hopefully will be finished by Friday the 3rd! Heh... part #3 on the 3rd... perfect. ANYWAY I hope you like this little blurb I wrote. I wanted maximum sad with lots of OOF. I kept the summary and header as vague as possible to not spoil the end. Good luck in there!

(Ao3 Link if ya want it)

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Wolffe was different with you. All teeth and tongue and nails dug into the plump flesh of your thighs. The look adorning his eyes in this moment is akin to a knife’s edge; he was holding back as not to tear you to shreds.

Your lover on the other hand, well… he was the whisper of a cool breeze in the night. A cascading avalanche of stolen breaths and languid strokes. Completely and utterly tender with you.

“C-close Wolffe, almost…I’m—!”

He nods, stooping to kiss you, but swiftly retracts his head with a tiny scowl. He knew the rules. No marks that can’t be covered up, no pet names, and under no circumstances can he kiss you. This was just a mutually beneficial transaction. Nothing more, nothing less.

“I got you… I got you…”

He’s reaching down, down, down to make contact with your clit. You keen, dropping your head back into the mattress. He fucks you through your orgasm, spilling inside of you as your legs wrap tightly around his waist. You tremble under him as you come down from your high. In a blur of muscle-memory Wolffe is reaching behind you for a pillow. He props your hips upward with it, grinding into you a few more times to make sure his seed is in there nice and deep.

“If this isn’t the one, I’m not sure if I can help. Maybe what they say is true, maybe we’re all infertile. I mean, I’ve heard rumors of defectors running off and getting people knocked up, but…” He shrugs, pulling out of you to head into the ‘fresher. You sigh, staring at the grey ceiling above you. That really wasn’t the case. Some were infertile, yes. You knew that all too well…

“I’m headed out. I have a supply run to facilitate. You alright?”

Wolffe grunts as he snaps his scratched armor around himself. He wasn’t much for conversations after the act. Rather, he preferred to be on his merry way as fast as possible. It wasn’t so much to avoid catching feelings as it was to steer clear of talking. He was undoubtedly the most stand-offish of the clones you knew. You were often surprised at how easy it was to lure him into the bedroom with how hostile his demeanor could be. Though on second thought he was just a normal guy. Sex is just as fun for him as it is for others.

“Yeah, I’m good. Thanks Wolffe. If this one doesn’t stick I’ll leave you alone.”

He pauses to search your face. You smile at him, wrapping your arms around your chest with a sleepy yawn. A garbled message blips from his forearm, which he answers with a quick acknowledgement before seating his helmet onto his head.

“Understood. I’ll see you around. Say hi to my vod for me when he gets back.”

And with that, he’s silently leaving your apartment into the void beyond. In the silence of the room your mind wanders once more. You think of your lover. Where was he right now? Somewhere far, far away? Somewhere he was safe? Was he warm, fed, and happy?

The cool dribble of Wolffe’s cum down your thigh snaps you from your rumination. You glance at the clock, finding it’s already been twenty minutes since he’d left. More than enough time, you think. With a quick curl of your spine you’re up on your feet and heading to the ‘fresher for a nice long shower. Hopefully when you were out you’d have a comm or a message from your lover.

----------------- He hunches low, lips hovering so close to your ear his hot breaths could have burned a hole through your head.

“That’s it baby, such a good girl. Just a—oh, squeezing me so tight tonight, huh? This’ll be the one, the kriffing ONE. Gonna fuck you full, fill you up to bursting. Make you s-swell with my baby. Can’t wait to see you like that… all mine…”

You cum so hard the world around you dissipates into nothing but him. He growls, pitching you forward with his angled thrusts. His hips crush you into the bed as he cums right along with you. His amber eyes sizzle with freshly tapped desire. Whispered adorations mingle between the two of you, lost to the spinning darkness of the night. When you’ve calmed your heaving breaths, you reach up to grab one of the pillows above you. He helps you position it under your hips before kissing you roughly. Between pecks, he speaks with a heart full of gentle sweetness.

“I’ll keep doing this—you’ll see. We’ll have a little one running around before you know it. Our little adi’ka… yeah…”

His eyes grow distant, lips stilling at the nape of your neck. You huff, smacking his shoulder with your hand.

“I know babe, don’t worry. With how much you’ve been between my legs I think we’ll be having LOTS of them running around.”

You wink at him, leaning up to kiss him again. He chuckles, reciprocating your heavy prodding tongue with his own within your mouth.

“I just… I know we’ve been trying for over a year… what if I...”

You shoot him a frown, tilting your head up to look him straight in the eyes. The fact of the matter was daunting and sat like tepid acid on your tongue. If he knew he wasn’t able to sire children, it would truly break him.

“NO! You are perfectly fine the way you are. I’d know, remember? I’m chief medical officer here dummy. You—WE have nothing to worry about. It’ll happen when the time is right. Trust me.”

He smiles at you, the sight of which could warm even the frostiest planet of Hoth into the dunes of Tatooine. All your love, all your patience and turmoil and sympathy and curiosity and… kriff, you’re everything was him. All him, always was and always will be. Him.

-------------------- The vividness of your dream wakes you with a start. It seemed to be recurring the last few days, a memory of the last time you and your lover were together. You shake your head of the images that haunted you. If only he was home, you wouldn’t worry so much about him.

It had already been a few weeks since Wolffe had occupied your bed. A queasy feeling was beginning to settle low in your stomach. Your lover hadn’t been back in a long while, and you were starting to think something wasn’t right.

You rise to pee, realizing in the dimly lit hush of dawn that this was becoming a frequent occurrence for you. When your shirt brushes a bit too roughly against one of your nipples you yelp. Were they always so sore in the morning? Wait…

Could this be it? A surge of adrenaline hits you like a Hammerhead Corvette as you rush into the ‘fresher. Not long after, you have a small white strip laying on your counter. Your knee bobs with anticipation, head in your hands as you sit on the hard tiled floor. This might just be it!

As the lines swell in the tiny viewport, you force yourself to breathe as deeply as possible. The memory pushes it’s way to the front of your mind once more to taunt you, to make you feel a twinge of guilt at what you’ve done. With a groan you run your fingers soothingly through your hair. You knew you could do this. Joy, passion, and relief would pave over the deceit from which this baby would be born. Your lover would never know the truth, but it was unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Forging a life, a family for the two of you was all that mattered right now.

The time is up. The minutes counted down with bated breaths. A scream tears its way from your throat as you see the result:

Pregnant

Before you can have a full-blown excitement meltdown, a beeping from the other room draws your attention. Your comm sits on your nightstand, signaling you of an incoming message. The words flash on the screen as you wipe tears from your eyes:

Dropping in to save a Jedi Master on Lola Sayu. Don’t worry, should be home before your pretty little head hits the pillow. See you soon my love. My heart is yours, forever.

Oh, you were squealing with delight now. It was finally happening! For REAL! This was a dream come true. A baby… you were going to have a baby! And your lover was going to be home by the end of the day. You wanted to comm him, send him a picture of the test, yell it to the kriffing UNIVERSE that you were fulfilling a long-awaited dream. Both of you were. You calmed yourself, resolving to tell him in person when he got home.

You couldn’t wait until Echo was back!

[plush-rabbit]

The Start of a Family

Picture Perfect Series

Warnings: Sickness, Forced Pregnancy, Noncon

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: I love being a degenerate with him

-

The sound of your door creaks, footsteps light as they make themselves to your bed. You let out a low whine, turning over onto your back, your hands loosely grasping at the sheets. The bed dips and you mumble your partner’s name. You believe it to be Danny, you're so sure of it, yet the hands that hold your face and they feel off. The skin is smooth, pressing into your cheeks without the press of nails. You feel off. It’s a slight feeling that twists at your stomach and you’re unable to figure out why. You open your eyes, your vision blurry and mind delirious with sleep, the only thing you’re able to make out is white, blurry at the edges and mixed with black and in your state, you think it's Danny coming home from work.

You whimper his name, closing your eyes and reaching your hands to grab at his face. However, instead of stubble that pricks your skin, it’s plastic, almost rubber in it’s feel and your hands edge towards the middle, meeting mesh. You open your eyes, blinking harshly in an effort to erase sleep from your eye but in that moment, a hand covers your mouth. It’s heavy and forceful, covering the lower half of your face, the body now above you, legs straddling you and the full body weight pressed onto you, digging into your hips. Your eyes widen, and beneath the hand, the name of your partner is muffled. You believe it to be a sick joke but when your lamp turns on, the glaring light shooting against your face, your blood turns into ice. You go rigid, your hands trying to pry off the one on your face, so desperate for air and yet, the force stays solid above you.

Terror spikes throughout your body, eyes wide and sickness thick on your tongue that you fear you’ll become sick against him and the thought of what he might do in that case terrifies you. His petrified look of a scream haunts you, mesh black that stares at you and with a body covered in black, he blends into the darkness, his body evaporating but weight still heavy on you. He wastes no time, removing your clothes and his, his body bare above yours and hands finally away from you but instead of hitting him, you lay there, with your hands over your eyes, as his mask brushes along your collarbone. You thought you were safe; you really thought that you were safe.

“Did you miss me?” Ghostface whispers, his breath nothing more than a wisp against your skin. “Because I missed you.” You let out an ugly wheeze in response, your palms wet with tears. “I miss you so much that it hurt.” His hands- covered by gloves- scratch against your skin, they squeeze against a breast, fingers pushing into your supple breast. “I couldn’t take it. I had to see you. I had to feel you under me, writhing and squirming-” his other hand cups at your sex, two digits pushing past your folds and teasing at your entrance- “feeling your cunt milk my cock.” His gloved fingers squirm inside of you, massaging at your walls, encouraging for the tight fit to become smoother. “Did you miss me?”

You take in a loud breath, peeking between the gaps in your fingers, looking to the door that remains open. “Danny,” you gasp, hoping that by saying his name, he’ll appear. The fingers inside of you stop inside of you. “I want Danny.” Tears slide down and wet at the crevices in your ear, and slip to the bed sheet beneath you.

“Danny, huh?” You look at him when he speaks, chills running across your body. “Is that your boyfriend’s name? The one with the camera at all my crime scenes?” Your mouth is stuffed with his gloved hand, the taste of your essence lingers against your tongue. “You know he’s a bit too involved, walking around, staining the soles of his shoes with blood.” His cock is erect, pressed harsh against the inside of your thigh, slipping past your folds and pressed against your entrance. “I wonder what he would do if he saw you getting fucked by the Ghostface?” He pushes himself inside of you, and you let out a wail muted by the hand that sickens you. “You’d think he’d join in?” He rocks inside of you, steady and hard, making sure to slam himself against your hips. “He could fuck your mouth with I fuck your pussy.” He lets out a breathless laugh, his mask closing in on you until you can smell the scent of alcohol on his breath. It’s intoxicating in all the wrong ways- thick and bitter, making your stomach churn and acid creep into your throat. “Fuck, that would be something, huh?” He slams himself back into you, grunting and letting out your name intermixed with his moans.

“Stop,” you cry, hiccupping and choking on your tears. Your hands clutch at your chest, stopping the bouncing motion from his roughness. “Please, just stop. I haven’t told anyone, please. You can go away,” you cry harder, wishing for death. “Just kill me,” you wheeze out, your chest stuttering with your heavy cries.

He pauses, stilling his movements for a moment, his head tilting. “Kill you?” He breathes out. He shakes his head. “No, no,” he repeats. “I could never kill you.” He resumes his thrusting, pushing himself deep inside of you. “I love you too much to ever do anything like that to you. Did you know that?” Despite his mask, you know that he’s staring into your eyes, watching for any reaction that you can give to him. “I love you so much. And when you get pregnant-” his hand curves over your belly- “you’ll never be able to escape me.” Your eyes go wide, and you suck in a deep breath. “You’ll look so cute with a round belly.” The mesh of his mask presses against your lips. His lips wet at the mask and his spit is on your lips. “You’ll be plump and begging for my cock, knowing that it was me who did that to your body.”

He’s ruthless. A true monster disguised as a human as he ravages your body. With every push inside of you, is a groan of despair from you, your cunt leaking with your arousal, slipping to the inside of your thighs and down his length. You lay beneath him, crying and holding onto him, feeling a pressure against your stomach when he releases inside of you. It’s thick and warm, burning your inside and it's pushed inside of you. You cry his name, “Ghostface,” begging for mercy as he continues his rutting, burying his cock inside of you until he’s drained and you’re full of seed.

-

Danny finds you in the morning, curled up with dried tear stains. Your clothes stick to you uncomfortably, your underwear feeling as if it were stuck to you, drenched with his semen that had spilled out. Danny walks to you, crouching to a squat as he brushes your hair away from your face.

“Nightmares again?” He asks in a low whisper, and you nod, your lips trembling as you go to hug him, sobbing against his shoulder and clinging to him like a child. “It’s okay,” he says gently, running his hand down your back, “it’s okay. I’m here now. It was just a bad dream.” He crawls into bed with you, pulling you close to him, his chin resting on the top of your head while you curl up on his lap, resting your head on his chest. “They’re just nightmares, they aren’t real.”

“It felt real,” you mumble, your head curving around his belly, letting your thumb arc over him. “I wished you were here last night.” A sob interrupts you and you’re soothed once again by Danny. “I wanted you here,” you cry, pressing yourself closer to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly. “I wish I was here. I know how bad your nightmares can get.” His hand stills for a moment, clenching the back of your shirt into his fist. “But you were the one who didn’t want to move in with me, remember?” You nod slowly. “You can’t just guilt trip me into this. I’m sorry and I wish I were here but-”

“Danny?” You whisper, clenching his shirt loosely. He hums in response. “Can I move in with you? Please?” You can hear his heartbeat quicken, the hand on your back coming loose and returning to the soothing touch. “I don’t want-” you pause and look at him- “I miss you too much.”

“Of course you can.” His hand manages to find a way to hold yours, bringing your knuckles up to his lips and kissing each gently. “I would love nothing more than to have you at home with me.” His lips trace up a finger, kissing the tip of your thumb. “I’ll keep you safe there. Away from this place with all those gross memories- you’ll be safe with me.”

-

You lay on his bed. It’s not the first time, it’s nothing more than a bed you’ve both shared in the past and yet, now as you sit on it, it’s foregien to you. It’s nothing more than a bed, a bed that you share now because his home is now your home. The comforter has loose threads that you wrap around your finger until it pales and turns dark at the skin that protrudes from it. Your stuff is organized, fixed and moved into a space that he has made for you. You’ve come into his space and he’s made sure to welcome you.

The door clicks and you can hear him, his heavy footsteps and the jingle of his keys. “Honey, I’m home!” He sings, followed by a laugh and he’s searching for you throughout the house. Your heartbeat quickens and the comforter is gripped in your hands. “Want to go out to eat?” His voice sounds far away and you’ve realized you’ve forgotten to make a meal for him. For the both of you. “We can order take-out or something.” His voice is growing closer and you stare out the window expecting to see Ghostface but there’s no one there. “You know, since it’s a special night.” His voice is close, and when you turn, he’s at the doorway, loosening his ties and running a hand through his hair. “You good?”

You nod. “Yeah,” you whisper out. “I’m just- I feel so out of place here, you know?” You give out a shaky laugh as tears threaten to form, a lump in your throat as you release your grip and hold out your arms.

He’s quick to hold you, his face pressed against your neck and arms wrapping tight around you. “You shouldn’t. This is your home now.” He pulls away and kisses your lips, his nose bumping against yours. “You’re allowed to be comfortable here.” He pulls away, his hands holding onto yours. “I didn’t want to ask yesterday because we were both tired and hungry, but do you want to go take a picture? Something to commemorate our living situation?”

You stare up at the man who has kept you safe and you pull him down, kissing his lip and gesturing for him to get on the bed with you. He must understand what you want, why you want him to get on the bed with you, because in the same moment, he unbuttons his shirt and teases at the hem of yours. His hands stop there, his knuckles brushing against your stomach and for a moment, he stops, he pulls away from the kiss and licks his lips. Your only response is to remove the shirt yourself, continuing until you’re naked in front of him.

His lips brush against yours, his breath warm and hands lingering on your bare sides. His eyes stay fixed on yours, his thumb arching on your body, a shiver running down your spine. Your heart is beating erratically, so loud that you think he might hear it. You hesitantly raise your hands to cup his face, licking your lips when you realize that your hands have started to become clammy. You pull away from him, enough to no longer fear that he might see how flushed that you’ve become.

“I- I wanna do something else to commemorate.” You roll your lips, nervously swallowing, your legs twitching and stomach churning. “If you don’t mind.”

He stares at you with blank eyes and a parted mouth for a second until his smile grows, pulling high on the corner of his lips. He nods, leaning towards you, your hands falling onto his chest when he kisses you. It’s a blur of the moment, feeling his fingers edge against your sex, brush so carefully against your clit, and you’re gasping for breath under him, hidden in the crook of his neck with tears in your eyes.

His fingers are coarse, touching your sensitive bud, rolling it under his fingertips and he tries to move you, to signal for you to show him your expressions as he touches you, but you can’t. You stay hidden, digging your nails into his back and shaking your head. With your eyes shut tight, with only darkness in your vision, you can picture someone other than your partner. You picture him. You swear that you can feel his hands on you, but instead of the roughness, it’s gentleness, it’s him being tender, focusing on your pleasure and making you gasp and whine under him. You’ve never taken a proper look at his hands, but they’re thick, spreading your cunt and massaging at your walls, while you buck against him, feeling the tip of his cock against your thigh.

You arch your back into his chest, hissing at the contact and clutching tighter to him, squeezing his fingers in your cunt. A hand slips between and palms at your breast. He’s eager and clumsy, grabbing at your roughly and you hold on tighter to him, whimpering under his touch and his only response to hold you tighter, to pinch at your skin and push himself knuckle deep inside of you, adding a third finger and then a fourth, your sex burning with the spread and you’re calling his name, pulling away with tearstained eyes only to be kissed roughly.

Tears catch on your lashes, your hands digging into him, wanting to draw blood and get him off but at the same time, wanting him to never stop, to continue until he’s the one who has touched your body to the full extent.

He pulls away, the hand on your breast going to wipe a tear away, his head tilting and smiling softly. He looks much younger and handsome with the gentleness on his features. “Condom?” He asks in a low whisper.

While maintaining eye contact, you shake your head. Your hands hold him, and you pull him for a kiss. When his lips are on yours, you leave him, your hand slipping between your bodies and going to grab at his erection. He moans against you, bucking his hips into your hand while his tongue slips into your mouth. It lasts for a moment, the intimacy of holding him, only to disappear when he’s inside of you, pushing past your already stretched hole and pushing himself deep inside of you. He pulls away, face above you while he grunts and holds your hand, calling you everything sugar and nice. He kisses you with a gentleness that you don’t remember ever feeling.

It isn’t long until you’re clenching around him, gasping his name out and arching your back. You plead to him- begging for him to not stop with tears in your eyes, to be a bit rougher and you allow for him to spill inside of you. He’s hot inside of you, spilling his seed deep into your womb and making you warm all over. He doesn’t stop pumping inside of you, the tenderness making you gasp out and hands clench into loose fists. He holds you close, his cock fully inside of you, not allowing a droplet of semen to be wasted and you hold him, crying and thanking him, kissing at his neck and holding him there with you.

-

You rest your hands in the sink, the small space of the bathroom putrid as the air reeks of acid. Your stomach swirls and your eyes are filled with tears. Your throat burns and the birds sing their morning song outside. You want to believe that you woke up sick; that whatever it is that made you throw up is nothing more than the stomach flu.

But you know better. You know that it isn’t the flu. It’s something worse, something much more than it could ever be. You wish it were the flu. The bathroom drawer scratches open, your hands reaching towards the back where you’ve hidden your box, and when you pull it out, the box rattles in your hand and your heart sinks.

It takes only a few minutes until your timer is beeping, and you’re quick to stop it. Your hands shake as you grab the pregnancy test. You pray and you aren’t sure for what, but when you look at the pregnancy test, two loans, a faint red, stare back at you and you let the plastic clatter against the sink as you sob.