#careless?? like no idea how he could think the things hes saying are appropriate

[nullnobodynothing]

for the record i fucking guess heres how shit just went:

1. said i looked sad. told him a little bit of how hard the past while has been and about the dissociative episode i had the other day felt and how much amnesia and how badly ive been doing since

2. asked if he could tell me something and talked about how scared he was about me cutting, his fears about me being out of control and that im going to die and hes going to find me

3. i clarified my experience in an attempt to alleviate his fears and tried to reassure him

4. he seemed to feel a little better, was going through the laundry found a shirt with blood on it i tried to hide and became very upset again. said somewhere in there (i think he asked? i think i was crying?) that im upset that im hurting him because im hurting. he said thats why he didnt want to talk about what hes thinking (i had asked what he was thinking and he had said still the bloody shirt and thats why he was having a hard time). like because i was upset that he was sad and scared because of me. (commentary; the shit i fucking go through trying not to KILL MYSELF)

5. ended up saying hes glad we talked about it and that he would be thinking about it (the self harm) anyway so not to feel guilty for bringing it up (i dont think i did?) because he wanted to talk about it anyway

6. somehow after that ended up talking about how hopeless he feels and his future is like a black hole and nothing brings him joy anymore. im jusy trying to fucking hold it together at this point.

7. i dont remember what else after that a bunch of shit where im just laying there wanting to leave and hes clinging to me going back and forth between being chatty and fine and crying about. stuff i wish i could remember. at the end a lot of me telling him i want him to be able to relax and feel satisfied with the time i spend with him and not talk about all this catastrophic shit when he has to wake up early for work and is trying to wind down

[balteredsworld]

negotiations. gregory house

🥼🩺 | house would rather fight you, but negotiates a date to a gala for a truce.

masterlist : greg house n all

tags/warnings! house being house, lawyer!reader, drugs, not enemies per say but there's def something there, reader is stacy's apprentice of sorts | gifs by @propertyofjameswilson

author's note: this was one of the first requests i got in my inbox! i accidentally deleted it omg but i hope this finds you <3 lemme know what you guys think!

"if this is an ethical boards issue, file the report over there," you spoke, eyes never leaving the monitor screen.

you already knew it was house from the way a constant thud crept its way to your office. that, and you could see his figure from your peripheral, so really you didn't need to look up.

"it's adorable that you automatically know it's me," he noted, obviously humoured. "if i didn't know better, i would've pegged you down as a secret admirer."

still, that didn't inspire much of a reaction from you other than a short glance. the two of you have been veering on this lane since you replaced stacy seven months ago. you were much colder than she was, and so much less accommodating to his devious needs.

house often wondered how stacy even took a liking to you, but then again she was also ruthless when he first met her. by that logic, you didn't fall from the tree. you were your mentor's very picture, but oh were you much icier. it was annoying, but he liked drilling you.

unfortunately for him, you were several inches thick. so he considered you worse than cuddy in that regard. at least she entertained his whims, but you... you didn't care nor bat an eye.

you said all the appropriate, correct and right things.

"well?"

"i need you," he admitted ominously.

your brows knitted, "right...?"

a silence broke between the two of you, causing you to finally look up and meet his eyes.

"house, if this is an ethics question, you have cuddy to advise you," you sighed. "i only deal with court and legal processes."

he shook his head. "i need you."

you sent him another worrisome look, before finally giving in. "what for?"

"tonight's the gala. i need a date."

:..don't you have hookers for that? i'm sure they would like the pay," you told him, voice and tone slow, still unsure what the gimmick was with this request.

if you had learned one thing in your seven months here at princeton was that everything involving house was some sort of mind game. you'd dealt with him enough times to know that, and seen him through three excruciating court appearances because the man couldn't and wouldn't shut up.

house was stupid in the way he was careless.

he plopped himself on your client chairs, hands wrapping the knob of his cane like he was considering some great philosophy or debate in his mind, surely one about the manmade idea of a god.

"hmm, good point. hookers do have their perks-less backtalk, more enthusiasm," he hummed, pretending to think, brows raising as he offered the explanation to his request. "but, hey, i figured slumming it with you might be an interesting change of pace."

despite his nonchalant closing of the question, he was still there. the proposition hung heavy in the your silence, piercing through the airy creak of the floorboards from the wobble of his cane.

you cocked your brow, asking, "so you want me to be your entertainment?"

at that house scrunched his face.

"entertainment? that's putting it generous," he remarked, looking at you with incredulous eyes as he leaned on the chair's backrest to take a vicodin. "i was thinking more like a reluctant accomplice in a dull evening. but who knows, you might surprise me."

he wanted you to bite. if you were cameron, then maybe you would've then and there, and entertain house's wild fantasy of taking you to the gala to stir up hospital gossip. but you still didn't know the caveat to your compliance, not to mention the sea of paperwork you'd been made to deal with due to his merry malpractice.

it was like this every other week, somehow piling larger because you had to justify house's forgeries on paper.

"well, i'm flattered at your proposal, but alas i'm swamped from your court hearing last week," you straightened up, gesturing to the piles and piles of folders and legal binders littering your desk. "i have you to thank for that i believe."

your dry remark elicited an impatient huff from house, all but crass and lax about administrative affairs of his hospital job.

"the perks of my charming personality. you're welcome for the excitement," he told you, leaning back toward you to flick through the papers on your desk.

"what's the gimmick?"

"no gimmicks. just you and me surviving the god awful gala, and you can have tickets to whatever show you want. what do you say?"

he looked at you innocently.

"there's always a gimmick with you, house. it makes your puzzle for your team to figure out. so what's the puzzle here?" you query, locking your hands together.

more than anything, this was negotiation. anything was negotiable with house: rules, conduct... the law.

anything was remotely subjective was up for his objective debate, all to prop himself up with more advantage to do whatever he wants in the hospital. even though he makes up for it with his rightness, it's made up more work for you

"you on my arm; i need to quiet down cuddy," he finally reveals, pursing his lips. "she's antsy about our squashbuckling. personally think it's great pr, but mommy says otherwise."

you let out a breath, considering the argument. he was right, of course. the times the two of you went to court, you looked like you could barely control your client even with your stern voice and threats. your threats were empty in house's books. so long as he proved himself on principle, consequences were an afterthought to him.

his integrity made him a man easy to admire, but he would rather ruffle your feathers to see how far you'd go. it infuriated and vexed you. but, if this was really a chance to call an armistice, then his proposition was more than an attractive offer.

"okay," you agreed.

house bobbed his head, appeased with your agreement, "great."

"but i don't want tickets."

he edged his head, encouraging you to go on. eyes wary, nonetheless.

"i want the next case without a pile of files for me to review."

a beat.

he blinked.

then he uncontrollably laughed. the fucker laughed.

"that's cute, y/l/n," he chortled, sinking into the backrest completely. he was smug, face dancing with amusement and disbelief like you believed he could really do that.

"let's see, you want me to diagnose a complex medical case discarding my process and adhere to standard protocol. wow that's really cute."

"well, fine then. appease cuddy another way," you waved him off, letting your eyes fall to your monitor to go back to work.

sensing this, house groaned a sigh, exchanging his previous amusement for your veering annoyance. he took his fingers and massaged the bridge of his nose.

"alright, you want a break from my malpractice masterpieces? fine. i'll keep it clean the next time. but if i manage to save a life without a single piece of paper, you owe me more than the gala."

you stared back at him, mildly bewildered, "are you asking me out on a date, house?"

"my diagnostic powers deserve more than a gala."

so it was a yes, then. part of you wanted to beam, but that would betray your icy façade. so instead you settled for cool nod, won by the whole proposal. you knew he wouldn't resist a challenge if you posed one, and if it meant less work for you, then you'd let house take you out.

house also owed you more than a date after the last seven months of putting up with his shit.

"wear a nice suit," you accepted, weathering a ghost of a smile. "pick me up at my apartment at 8."

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

an observation

YOU KNOW WHAT 😭 Rollo’s even more neurotic than I initially thought he was, and now I’m realizing it may be a coping mechanism for his trauma… If you think about, there’s a clear pattern in his behaviors: they all amount to maintaining a strict and methodical routine:

Keeping things clean, to the point where he rises before sunlight every day and climbs up the stairs to clean and ring the Bell of Salvation. This must be something he has been doing for a LONG time, which is how he got those very noticeable dark circles under his eyes.

On the subject of keeping things clean, there is an instance of Rollo letting his facade slip and getting mad when a goat (an animal, which he considers unhygienic) comes close to him and tries chewing on his robes. This indicates (at least to me) that he can react negatively when his ideas of cleanliness are not adhered to. The outbursts are not always loud or violent; other instances of disgust are indicated by him holding his handkerchief over his nose.

Rollo specifically cites that he likes the Bell of Salvation and wishes that more things were like it. It rings when it should and it is silent when it should be, and “nothing is […] more appropriate and certain.”

Eats the exact same lunch 24/7, 365 days of the year (2 croissants, 16 grapes, and 1 cafe au lait). I presume he must have similar restricted menus for his other meals as well.

Rollo extols the virtues of a strict routine, which helps him abstain from “unnecessary desires” and recommends that others do the same.

Buys the same plain white paper and envelope set all the time, even when the vendor offers him a better deal.

Man absolutely LOSES IT when a goat tries to eat his stationary; this implies that he may have struggles coping with changes to what he is normally used to, or just general disruptions to his routine.

He seems bothered by the idea of abandoning a task he has set his mind to, even if the task annoys him (like tending to all the gargoyles).

Rollo is very strict in general about keeping to a schedule.

This one is more open to interpretation, but he chooses to communicate via letters instead of via social media or e-mail, even though he clearly lives in a time period where he could easily access electronics. This implies to me a fixation on the past and older ways of doing things rather than adapting to what’s new and modern (though Rollo also says this is a method to avoid careless wording).

He openly states he likes to keep things orderly and consistent.

Routines are familiar. Routines are safe. There is a comfort to be found in that sense of sameness. Maybe Rollo feels content retreating to order because it’s preferable to leaving himself vulnerable to chance, to the wiles of the world that may have no mercy on him just like it had no mercy for his brother… Something he couldn’t predict or plan for, something he was totally powerless to stop… 😭 But meanwhile, there’s a certainty in the ability to control his activities, a comfort to relying on the same events to play out every day…

Those are just some musings I had! 🤡 I’ve been stewing in the new Rollo content and obsessively reviewing it the last several hours, squeezing what juices I can from it…

[hanibalistic]

#01004A | MARK LEE.

genre | romance, fluff

word count | 1880

warning | none​

note | mark lee being in love !!! is a concept !!! i like to think about !!!

"how does it feel to let people down all the time?"

mark paused with an uncontrolled chuckle. he debated his response as he pressed the tip of his lead pencil against the class record book repeatedly, his mind blanking out the middle of the sentence he was writing, thus leaving dots of lead on the paper instead.

"well–um, haha!" he cleared his throat after a gentle voice crack, then he let out an uncontrolled chuckle again. it sounded almost identical to the last one he let out. mark shook his head at this ridiculousness before he spoke, "when you phrase it that way, it makes it sound like i disappoint people all the time."

"you do," you said without a beat's passing, your eyes still focused on the window of your classroom where a sullen girl had gone by. "don't you?"

mark blinked with a dejected yet amused smile. he had no idea why he was trying to defend himself when what you said was technically true. he does, in fact, have to let people down a lot.

it was only the start of the year, and he had already gotten plenty of love confessions from people from all corners of this town.

from the girl in cram school, the junior he was tutoring for an extra credit program, the senior from music club, and the boy he meets every morning at the bus stop. And, just then, a girl next class. he let all of them down by giving out countless rejections, and he has seen numerous disappointed smiles. he assumed things would get more hectic as valentine's week rolled to its red carpet entrance.

"it's not like i want to reject them," mark said, scribbling on the record book. "you can't fault me for who i didn't fall in love with."

you hummed thoughtfully and audibly; the tone he has long learned to recognize to mean that you have something insightful to say. he waited in silence for you to speak, his concentration hanging on his written words and his patience. he didn't notice it, but the class was unsatisfactory today, according to the teachers' remarks.

"move your hand, mark," you muttered suddenly as you reached over and tapped at his hand with the eraser tip of your pencil. he complied easily, glancing from your end of the table to the record book before him, then he heard you sigh. you asked, "did you not get the teacher's signature after school?"

"huh? uh, i didn't, i guess..." he replied with a drop of his voice. his attention was elsewhere.

mark suppressed a smile when he saw you glare at him with faint annoyance. your lips muttered your distaste for his careless mistake, complaining about the uselessness of your nagging for him to do tasks according to instructions.

you always tried to keep those words to yourself, perhaps as a caution to not hurt his feelings. but some part of your mind also desperately needed your frustration to be heard, so you always ended up giving him a scolding gaze that displayed a warm defeat he has grown to love so much. it was when he would talk too much in class, or when he would stray off-topic in discussions, or when he wasn't paying attention to your explanation of a math problem.

sometimes he does those things on purpose just to get a scrap of your endearment—something he found in the gaps of your every action toward him—despite having additional consequences. he has gone to detention just to hear you ask him to stop talking.

"it's okay! i'll make sure to get the signature tomorrow morning," he said optimistically.

you huffed with furrowed brows, then you relaxed. it wasn't really that big of a deal. "you better."

you returned to the class budget book. you were chosen to mind the budget for the upcoming school valentine's fair, where each class would be in charge of a station of their choice. it could be about food, music, or fashion as long as the theme is school-appropriate. it is also a good day to sell the school to prospective students as parents would likely come along with the middle school children.

mark stared at you expectedly for a moment before he cleared his throat. you had clearly forgotten about the previous conversation you started, and he still wanted to hear what you had to say about his love life. was he trying to gauge your interest in him? a little. has he ever been good at checking for people's romantic interests in him? absolutely not, but he suspected he would be hyper-aware of yours because he has feelings for you.

he just needed something, however trivial and however minor. it could even be a delusional assumption! he just needed to experience a leap of joy from believing that you may also be in love with him.

"so, you were saying?" he asked casually.

you looked at him then, confused. "saying what?"

"after i told you not to fault me for who i didn't fall in love with," he said as he returned your gaze.

you raised your brows, and your shoulders slumped in relaxation once your mind bounced back into deep thoughts. looking to the side where the corner of your desk was, you saw a glimpse of mark's hand that tended to rest there, and you looked away to the window, where you watched as mark rejected the pretty girl's confession. you frowned, causing his heart rate to pick up.

"i don't think falling in love is out of our control," you said. "i think we choose to love who we do."

"you're saying love is a choice," he asked rhetorically, the corner of his lips quirking in question.

you were about to push your stance until you saw the amused expression on his face. you squinted at him, knowing very well he disagreed with you just from the glint of his eyes, and you gave up on explaining your philosophy further. tapping your pencil's end against the desk mindlessly, you chuckled in surrender. he mirrored your laughter immediately just to hear how the air would sound with your voices woven together.

"each to their own," you said.

"alright," mark nodded, "but one of my friends said once that love is nothing but a promise."

you tilted your head with a faint, humming laugh. "which is a choice."

"i just thought it was romantic," he said with a shrug.

"i mean–when i say by choice, i just meant... " you sighed in frustration as you put down your pencil. mark looked up at you, and you pouted in dismay. you thought you weren't going to say more about this, but you always end up talking. you chuckled lowly to yourself. "goodness, and i tried to say each to their own opinion."

"it's okay," he reassured, his fingers playing with each other on the table. "what do you want to say?"

"nothing groundbreaking," you whispered with rejection, poor eyes staring at him to let it be known that your self-consciousness dampened your mood, then you looked away.

mark softened upon your sullen expression, much more than he had felt when he rejected the girl next class.

your misconception that you must only speak if you have new things to contribute to the conversation was, as he believed, nothing but a misconception. as he could hear you talk about anything. dull things, obvious things, unnecessary things. maybe that he was holding a pencil, or the sun was setting outside the school, or that you two were sitting across each other and you found him looking at you a lot. anything.

you turned to look out the window when you caught a glimpse of a figure. the girl from the next class walked past slowly, her eyes a faraway gaze you cannot reach. you watched her move, taking in the elegant beauty of only half of her features being visible. you found yourself drawn to her in a way that mark unbelievably was not; not in a romantic sense, only that you wondered why he didn’t at least try.

"i just don't understand. i don't understand why you rejected her," you said, brows furrowed in thoughts. "she's so pretty."

mark blinked in disbelief. he spared a glance out the window and quickly back at you, whose eyes remained focused on the past silhouette of the girl who admired him. he cursed inwardly at himself because he couldn't tell what you were thinking or what you were implying. there was no way for him to let it be known that the matter lay not in how beautiful someone else was but that his heart belonged to you.

and that fact had not been a choice. to make a choice, one has to be in the know of it being made.

but he never knew.

he knew nothing about how he captured the current youth on your face and yearned to watch the creases grow old so he could be able to tell the stories of them as he aged. he knew nothing about being above common sense as a boy who fell in love because all he did were stupid things just to hear you laugh at him, to hear you nag him. he knew nothing about worrying and overthinking, analyzing and longing, thinking about what you were doing and thinking even though you sat next to him.

mark didn't know he was in love with you until he did. until the realization hit him like vines tightening around his lungs, and he had to choke out his affection in a splatter of blood. and he couldn't trace back to where it all began.

even if you noticed the way he looked at you now, hazy eyes swarmed with an unknown substance that bubbled and foamed like soft clouds that were forbidden to leave the sky where they belonged, he doubted you would understand what his heart meant.

his body contorted upside down, his heart raced the speed of light, his dreams a vivid reaction to his desires to be with you.

his heart was yours, and you thought she was pretty.

"i'm sorry," mark muttered with a sorrowful chuckle. this was a new type of pain he had never experienced before; his lover being oblivious and directing him to another. "you can't fault me for who i fall in love with."

"i don't," you responded. "you be in love with whoever you want, as will i."

his heart paused, and he looked up through his lashes. for a moment, panic surged through his veins, the vines around his ribs suffocating him with the possible assumption that you would fall in love with another. his hand shook with uncertainty. the thought was haunting.

"woah," you expressed as you placed a hand over his, tightening your grip to stop his tremors. "are you okay, mark?"

your concerned eyes drew him in; he wondered if he drowned himself in your senses enough, you might get a whiff of his affectionate scent. he looked at you, his bones softening and melting upon the tender graze of your touch, and he wished you were right about love.

let love be a choice, and please, let him be yours.

[wormlette]

Your fic "a good dog" lives rent free in my brain and I'm so glad bc the characterization and the introspection and LAIOS SERVICING CHILCHUCK just make me go feral, can't wait to read what comes next ❤️

(and the noises I made while reading "fervent, writhing" could only be heard by shrimps).

PS: Y'all at the chilaios council are tempting me so hard to create a Chilaios sideblog bc all your brains are so HUGE

OK FIRST OF ALL sorry for hanging onto this ask for so long, I have been cradling it in my hands like a good luck charm while I write ❤️ I appreciate you so much. ALSO "noises that could only be heard by shrimps" is part of my lexicon now lmao.

I've been trying to get a good dog arranged into some sort of satisfying narrative -- I don't know how obvious it is, but even when I was writing more regularly, I still mostly only ever wrote drabble type things that are unconnected. Writing an actual story is my bane in life, but I've been very inspired to try because of all of you.

Here is a good dog snippet I'm particularly proud of!! It's a flashback!!!

“If I can ask…” Laios held up a finger, like a kid raising their hand. Chil raised a brow, and he and Falin watched curiously to see what would come next.

“…why did I upset you?”

Chilchuck sighed and ran his hand through his hair, messing it up further. He resisted the urge to grab it and tug. This guy really needed that said?

“Okay, but I want you to think for a minute, first. Have you ever seen a party lead by a half-foot, Laios? Have you ever even heard of one?”

Laios looked at the ceiling, hmm-ing. “…I guess not?”

“Right. That’s because the things a party leader needs, half-foots don’t have. That’s what people think. Long-legs think anyone who can’t fight can’t be in charge.” He shrugged. “They don’t say it, but it’s like that.”

Laios frowned and started to open his mouth. Chil waved his hand to cut him off. “The way people perceive you is everything in an adventurer’s party. ‘S just how it is.”

The siblings stayed silent. Were they twins? He realized he didn’t know. He’d been a bit incurious about them as well, truthfully. Assuming he’d work for them a little while before they parted ways, probably from pissing each other off. That hadn’t happened yet, so…

“Well. And that's exactly why YOU-“ he swung his empty mug at Laios - “have got to start taking this more seriously! This exact kind of thing is what I’m talking about!” They let him rant on. Having both of their attention on him was not a new feeling, but he ignored it. “The reactions people will have to you are exactly what a leader needs to be aware of! You can’t just say whatever you want!” He was ranting. “You’ll damage their trust in you if you’re careless. Think about how they’ll think, Laios.” It was so obvious, but Laios’ eyes were alight. Had nobody ever had talks like this with him? “And if you can’t figure *that* out, then at least listen to the people around you.” They were listening like he was bestowing crucial information on them. Chilchuck suddenly felt like laughing. There was something funny about these two overgrown dummies, so eerily at home in the dungeon but so in need of caretaking outside of that. They’d followed him around like puppies on errands across town to the bank and the slums, and now they were hanging on his every word. Eventually, he paused, raising his mug and drinking deeply until only foam was left. A warm feeling was in his gut.

“So it’s ok if I ask you, next time?” Laios looked at him with glimmering eyes. “If it’s an imposition, we could renegotiate…”

The idea of Laios renegotiating was laughable enough to make Chilchuck reach for the pitcher, but Laios beat him to it and leaned over to give him a refill. Ha! Maybe he wasn’t completely helpless. He was thinking now, wanting not to offend, wanting to be helpful. This was the kind of thing a party leader needed to practice, so it suddenly seemed very appropriate to reinforce him. “Yes! Like that! Good boy!”

If not for his keen senses, he would’ve never noticed. As it was, most of the time Chilchuck convinced himself he’d imagined it. The look in Laios’ eyes, in that instant, was feral.

[carnal-lnstinct]

Ohhhh. Sign me up for the Ox Prince. I’m so interested in your idea for that. 🔥 I’m all about how hot that would be.

Ox Prince Gohan x Reader〖 requested by @loki-love 〗 ✦✦Content: M/18+. MINORS DNI. Gohan inherited the power pole and greatly misuses it. co-workers. fuck buddies. light bondage. ✦✦Warning: explicit language. manipulation. implied hate sex. ✦✦A/N: Don't ask him what that power pole do unless you got time to find out. 👀 I'm mad because this was meant to be sweet still tbh but that won't in the stars for this man and that still feels appropriate.

"Ox Prince" fits him more as a nickname suited for a son of Chi Chi. Often his tantrums are likened to the wrathful Fire Princess who can meet his temper on common ground and reign him in like no other. "Delinquent" also gets tossed around as a fitting title for his behavior by the woman. But what could she do to stop him, put him through the wall again? The foundation of their home can't take another beating.

Once Gohan saved his father from his uncle as a boy, he was viewed less as a child and this almighty "savior" persona stuck with him. He liked it, against his mother's wishes, and learning he was also a saiyan as ruthless as those before him empowered him. It made putting fear in other people fun. He liked making an impression on those who thought he was weak for his humanity and if in the height of his fun they happen to die, then that was their problem. Maybe someone loved them enough to use the dragon balls on them, but good luck getting revived twice.

But these were things you didn't need to know. He's just a man now. The handsome professor's assistant who was known to annoy those who sought conflict with his remarkable intellect and ego to back it up. And as a man, more than ever before, he was free to do whatever he wanted. You may have invited him out to study under the pretense of getting to know your fellow colleague and what made him so scrappy, but being so forthcoming to him about his arrogant ways, showing a temper of your own for his immature display, you somehow wound up naked and breathless beneath him.

The first time was a mistake, you convinced yourself. Caught up in your emotions that you lost your composure. The second time you had no excuse. You wanted him and he was not shy of dropping hints at you while you worked together. What can you say? The man's a biology major and knew how to turn a phrase. As annoying as it was, it didn't fail to get you in Gohan's lap at the end of the day, fucking him in the empty classroom and risking your job.

It became difficult to turn down his advances after that. In fact, sex was all he wanted from you. That and to outdo you in your shared profession, riling you up just to pound the attitude out of you. Not once did he try to get to know you with your clothes on or if you were by chance already seeing anyone else. There was practically no romance in it at all. Gohan only seemed interested in fucking you when it was convenient to him regardless of time or place. Catching on to the superficial nature of your "relationship", you tried to end it more than once in favor of re-establishing your professional relationship. But when you did Gohan only teased you, declaring that you don't even have any relationship to begin with. That you're trying to run away from him because you are afraid of him truly making a mess of you so no other cock could fuck you decent when he's had his fill of you. All with that smug, careless grin on his face.

Of course he said it to make you mad and succeeded in doing so. But your lashing out came much more bitter. You called him a coward and it was the first time you got that annoying smirk off his face. You called him a child thinking he's better than others, afraid of committing to anything outside himself and that he only makes himself look tougher to hide how scared he really was. Gohan didn't like that one bit, abruptly lunging at you and making you back into you a wall where he cornered you with both his hands on either side. The panic in your face made him snicker.

"If you wanted to be my girlfriend so bad, you should just say that. I thought we got along well as is, is all. You don't really want to stop fucking with me, right?" Gohan spoke more softly, pulling one hand from the wall and you can see the bits of broken drywall fall from his palm before he strokes his fingers down your cheek. "I'm actually a really nice guy if you really want to get to know me. I'll even let you in on a little secret."

Gohan reaches into his satchel hanging around his shoulder and digs around inside. Already spooked, and out of curiosity to actually learn something about him, you didn't move. Only praying he wasn't about to pull out a dangerous weapon. He pulls out a short, black sheath by its roped strap and says inside there is a magical staff. Oh, it's worse than you thought. Seeing your brow furrow, skeptical of it and his sanity in the moment, he gives you a knowing smirk and slips it behind your back and lowers it to the height of your knees.

"We're supposed to be reviewing the lecture for tomorrow!" You quickly blurt out before this could any further and you find yourself cumming on his dick, giving him what he wanted all over again. Gohan pauses and looks back up at you with a skeptical and annoyed look of his own. He utters a command to the Power Pole and it extends out of each side of the sheath. Holding the center where it rested between your legs, he pulls the staff forward making your knees buckle around it and lifting you up, balancing your weight with your back pushed against the wall and knees pushed up toward your chest so your hips sank lower. He's strong in a way you can't describe, he didn't even look like he was struggling to hold you in place while you struggled to brace the wall to support yourself. "—Gohan!"

Gohan shakes the drywall from his other hand and slides the satchel off his shoulder letting it hit the ground. He then pulls off his glasses and loosens his tie. "You didn't bring me to this study hall for a damn lecture."

[black--sun]

@the-actual-last-quincy || from here

Ichigo pulls his attention away from one of the decorative figures lining lining certain sections of the wall, drawing the conclusion they’re lights of some sort before moving his gaze to the person asking him questions. Rich people have weird shit. But it’s a straightforward, closed question, so it doesn’t require much thought or many words or even for him to be paying much attention. He considers not answering at all, that’s as good as a yes and less effort, but he finally releases a near silent sigh. “Yeah.” 

This seems to be the father, and his new owner. 

A lot of responses surface in his mind at the next prompt. None of them appropriate. And as much as he’d like to let all the uncomfortable truths out into the air, it won’t do him any favors. He doesn’t know what this man knows, so he nods once and submits to that brief inspection. 

He’s not dressed much like a pet, and he’s never been treated like a human before. Masaki had been more than his owner, she’d been his mother. Not that anyone had been allowed to know that and maybe no one ever would. Half breeds weren’t legal. Though to be fair, more often than not, they were mindless, dangerous things. They received immediate execution if found. The same way one might exterminate any invasive species. And they were always found. They were careless and destructive. They made messes and preyed on the already dwindling human population.

Except he wasn’t mindless. He didn’t eat other humans. It’d alway made him wonder if there were others like him. If maybe they were all like him, and if the stories were a lie. But he kept his thoughts to himself. Ichigo never knew his human father. His parentage had been a tersely kept secret, even in their own home, even when they were supposed to be alone, she’d always been looking over her shoulder. But no one had questioned Masaki’s treatment of him- the hugs, the gifts, how she’d spoiled him. That’s just how she had been. Though if Ichigo understood what she’d told him over the years, this was… some relative, maybe their closest. Ichigo isn’t sure what he knows. Isn’t sure he cares. It was hard to care about anything around the yawning void his mom left behind. And strange to him that something could hurt so much it was simultaneously crippling and numb. 

After the widespread, forced evolutions to avoid starvation and drought, humans had either been transmuted into a species with certain immunities or had been left scarred in a way that altered their ability to breed. Wars had been fought over the suspicions of forced sterilization, but if anything had ever been proven or discovered, the general population hadn’t been told. And then, humans had simply stopped reproducing. Stopped multiplying. Within a generation, the food shortage crisis had been eliminated. Within another generation, they’d started talking about extinction. There were very few humans that hadn’t been genetically scarred in some way that made it impossible to reproduce, and that difficulty passed to the few successful offspring.  They’d put themselves on the endangered species list with desperation and faulty research and too little experimentation. The altered humans, however, had thrived. They didn’t need food in the same quantities humans did. They resisted disease. They were physically stronger. All the gmo’ing they’d been doing to their food for centuries, humans had finally done to themselves. And even if the cost had been great, it’d worked. Those turned successfully had pushed to look toward the future, and not to live in the last. And those humans that’s been left behind evolution wise, had become an inferior subspecies. 

He tunes in to what’s being said a few words late, but he gets the idea. “‘s fine.” Ichigo managed. Except he thinks he’s supposed to say something else, so he shrugs. “The guy’s a self-aggrandizing twit. I didn’t know he was your kid.” But, “I have the paperwork. My registration.” He fishes it out of his back pocket where he stuffed it, unfolding the sheets before moving forward to drop them on the desk. Though, there’s one more thing that’s been bothering him. “Are you related to her? My...” His voice sticks and he swallows, finishing with, “owner.”

[melye1981]

To Everyone Who Wants To Know What It's Really Like... To Have Mental Illness... Read this:

Hello, today is Freak out Friday. LOL Um, I am mentally ill, I struggle with it daily, have since I quit having Epileptic seizures around age 10. Didn't know I was mentally ill until I was 27. My parents knew there was SOMETHING wrong, but they couldn't pinpoint it. Sent me to several psychologists when I was a kid and they still couldn't put their finger on it. So, clueless psychologists? Yeah, total quacks. Mental illness is not a joke, not somethin' to ignore when people who are mentally ill, are hitting rock bottom. Be there for them. Even if they say the classic "I'm fine" comment, NO. Stay. You could be the reason they DON'T do any self harm, and I mean something else, y'all know what I mean, I guess we're not allowed to say the "s" word on YouTube now, so gotta be careful, but yeah, your willingness to lend an ear could save a life. Literally. You have no idea what hell mental illness truly is, unless you have it yourself. I'm telling you this from the inside, lookin' out... You're seeing it as from the outside, lookin' in. You only see the cover of the book, but you have to be read the pages, and you won't know the story, unless it's read to you. You get what I mean? Every person is different, every mental illness is different, everyone's way of coping is different. Not one mentally ill person's story is gonna match another's. We can empathize, but we can't be them and their shoes. I only know the miles I've walked in MY shoes. I could try to get you to understand, and you might, a little, but unless you have mental illness yourself, you really have no idea of the hell it brings. I once told someone, this is how I describe my bipolar mind/borderline personality mind: Think of that ride at the fair called The Gravitron. You get in, lean up against the walls, and the ride starts. You get spun really fast one direction, and you stick to the wall, and you could injure yourself if you move the wrong way, then the ride slows a bit, then starts going back the other direction. By the time you get off the ride, you can't walk straight. That's the only way I can describe what that feels like. Wikipedia has great insight if you want to know more, but that is by textbook definition, they're not lying, but it's a general explanation. When you get the information from a mentally ill person themselves, that is the God's honest truth. And it's more brutal than Wikipedia makes it out to be. I take meds every day, but I still have days where I'm just not myself. It is part of who I am, but it does not define me. My mental illness is the result of a careless man who gave me his DNA through my mom, to put it more appropriately, while he was high on H. and so that's what I believe contributed to both my mental illness, learning disabilities, and Epilepsy. But I'm grown now, so I have to just swallow the facts like I drink water. I'm still alive, and there is one thing I find that's special about mentally ill people: The majority of mentally ill people have a high I.Q. and are talented in one way or another. So, I can either cry about being mentally ill, or I can embrace it and say, hey, at least I was blessed with music, art, writing, singing, playing instruments, and speaking and singing in foreign languages as an added blessing to my life. I have talents, many of them, I was blessed in that. Now, trying to keep my mental illness in check while exercising those talents is another thing. It's hit or miss sometimes. It's not easy, but I do it. I get up every morning and I'm here. I am not a victim. No sir. I'm a warrior. That's facts. #AquariusThinkLikeThatTho I am also a survivor of a near-fatal "s" attempt. Been ten years since I tried to end it all, and God wants me here for whatever reason. I wouldn't say I'm a curse. I'm here for a reason. It's never gonna be easy. But I make due with what I've got and the tools God and the world have given me. Now to put them to use and stay focused. It's not easy, but I'm doin' it. Gotta prove the devil wrong

[yandere-sins]

My Name

Horrortober Day 6: Time “How long has it been?”  

Oh man, first Xiao piece and I??? Really enjoyed it???? When will he come home, I’m desperate for my lovely boy ;;

Warnings: Yandere, Twisted Thoughts, Fighting/Death of monsters, Planning of Kidnapping Characters: Xiao x Reader

How long has it been?

It felt like Xiao waited forever for you to call him. He would have loved to deny that he waited for it… but he did. Ever since he told you to call when you needed him, he had been waiting—hoping!— you would, rather sooner than later. If only he could get a good look at you again, he would feel prepared enough to face his duties again. You were the beacon of light in his life, no matter how harsh he spoke to you or faked disliking you. Your job wasn’t any more dangerous than any other in this world, making you travel back and forth cities to sell your merchandise there. You needed someone who could help you if things went downhill. 

You needed Xiao. 

His fingers were still tingling from the feeling of your body as he held you. Even when you squirmed and flinched in his arms as he defeated the monsters bothering you, you were warm and soft, and you smelled like dirt- But the good kind! Xiao didn’t know how else to describe it. You’ve been on the road for a long time, showers weren’t your priority probably, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. You were perfect just as you were.

And finally, you called. Or rather, screamed into the disappearing sun on the horizon, for Xiao to come and save you. You fulfilled the promise to ask for his help any time, and he fulfilled his by coming to your rescue. No matter how weak he felt, how much he wanted to vomit at the sight of more and more foes arriving. With you, weakly as you were, leaning into his chest, avoiding your eyes from the death and fight, he would have defeated armies of Hilichurls if necessary. All while holding you, never letting go of his precious sun. 

The toll on his body was tremendous, his breathing ragged. Still, standing in the middle of disappearing corpses, Xiao was victorious. For you. For both of you. He turned his head to look at you, the disheveled hair slick with sweat out of fear and flight instinct. You weren’t made for the outdoors; not as long as they were cruel and dangerous. You wouldn’t have come out of this attack unscathed if not for him. 

Letting go of his weapon, he petted over your head, pushing it down and combing out some leaves. He knew he was rough around the edges, unfit for gentle comfort. But if he could help your shivering to wane, he would have tried anything. You once showed kindness to him; he had to repay it. 

Helping you towards a big stone out in the open, you two were stumbling over your feet while you grew wary, looking up and realizing there was no fight anymore. But Xiao wasn’t about to let you go, much less leave you alone right away. He’d stay. It’s been too long, and the temptation to be close to you too big.

Making you sit down, you folded like a sack of potatoes before regaining some composure. You were fidgeting with your ripped sleeves, avoiding looking up at the dark matter rising to the sky from the dead Hilichurls. Instead, you looked at him, studied him, his hair, expression, the hands that tried to desperately be gentle as they searched for wounds on your body. Xiao didn’t mind. You could stare as much as you wanted at him as long as he didn’t have to respond to it. Silently, he was begging you to look more at him. Just… a little more. Look at him as if he was your hero.

Edgy, you called him after bothering him at the balcony of the Wangshu Inn. No one allowed you to be there; Xiao didn’t want to have company that night. But you couldn’t sleep, and sitting on the roof appeared to be a better alternative than turning in your bed to you. He told you he hated your presence, and you laughed, saying it was fine. Fine. How could it be fine? You told him about your business and your family even though he never asked, and then you asked about him and his past. He… he had been weak. That night, he had fought and conquered and been incredibly weak afterwards. So he told you, and you laughed again, telling him how edgy he was before leaving him behind, confused and irritated by your words.

The next day, you brought Almond Tofu and left him a note, thanking him for sticking with you and be honest.

He didn’t forget about you ever since.

Even Xiao felt stupid for seeing you off when your stay ended. He had no business meddling with you or anyone in your world, but now that he finally saw you again, he was furious for letting you go. What he should have done was hold you back, make you stay longer. But when you thanked him for offering his help, smiling at him so kindly, he let go of your arm, and gone you were. Only to end up battered and bruised, just like he feared.

“How long has it been?” he asked, dragging his finger over a bruise that wasn’t fresh anymore. It was at least two or three days old, yet, no tint lighter than as if it happened just now. Instantly, his throat was clogged with guilt. And though his question wasn’t about the bruise, you answered honestly, confirming the two days he assumed.

“I meant, how long has it been since someone called for me,” he corrected himself in a mumble, a question you were in no place to answer. Years. Decades. So long, he didn’t remember the last time. But now, you did. You. The person he wanted to answer to. Only, he was too late anyway—he couldn’t protect you either.

“You need to be treated,” he worried with a stern face. Anger flitted over his features as you shook your head, wiping away the tears of panic you had produced. “What I need is to get to Mondstadt,” you argued. Thick-headed. Stubborn. A thick-headed, stubborn, weak human, that’s what you were. That’s what you were supposed to be, but his heart throbbed painfully as he cursed you in his mind. Not even his body wanted to think badly about you, much less Xiao himself.

“No,” he denied your idea firmly, placing his arm around your shoulder and hooking the other under your knees. There it was again, that tingling sensation that overcame him when he touched you. You were squirming some more against his actions before you tensed in pain. Bruises would heal. Cuts would close. But if there was something internally, something Xiao could not see, then he didn’t know how to help you. It was him who was pathetic, still knowing nothing about the humans he was protecting silently from the shadows. He was pathetic because he denied getting close to them, fearing they’d make him weak.

And he had been right. You made him weak. Weak in the knees, weak in his head. Gone was his keen mind and tough body. Now there was only the invested, curious, worrying Xiao. Xiao at his worst, and he hated himself for it. Seeing you hurt and in pain made him want to be strong even more. So he could protect you when you would call his name. But he wasn’t sure if you would after he already let you down.

Xiao knew everything about the lands around you. He knew where the closest doctor was, and he’d get you to them and then… then what?

Gnawing at his lip as he waited for you to get better, he stood there in silence, clothed in the darkness of the room you were offered to rest that night. There had to be something he could do. Something only he could do for you. He didn’t have the leisure of traveling like you, and he wasn’t a human that could join you easily either. But he was strong if you didn’t warp his head into the miserable state he found himself around you. He could protect you, but how would he do it?

There needed to be a plan soon. The sun was rising, the day promising to be beautiful for travels. And you would want to go. Because as wondrous and loveable as you were, you were also stubborn and weak. Duty-bound, like him. But both of you couldn’t share this trait, not when he wanted to keep you from danger instead of making you rush headfirst into it. One of you had to compromise, and as the sun was setting, Xiao realized something else.

If he was strong, and you were not. He, an important Adeptus, and you, another human between so many, then you needed to be put back into your place. A place of safety. Somewhere close to him. It was a stretch to assume other Adepti would help him, but they could create realms. Safe realms he could carry with him. Even if he didn’t know how to wager with them, much less address the issue, he knew they played a vital part in the role of keeping you safe. He was almost jealous.

Xiao looked back at you sleeping soundly, your chest falling and rising under the blanket. Bandages were all over your body. The doctor made sure you knew the risk you had taken, traveling alone and vulnerable and enduring injuries you should have gotten checked up. You were careless and ignorant to the dangers of the world, even though, deep inside you, Xiao imagined you were just as scared as anyone else. It would be nice, right? If he could take this fear from you. Keep you safe and sound and with him at all times. He’d do you a favor.

A future without worries and fear, the dream of so many of your kind.

Stepping up to your bedside, he reached out to your forehead, remaining still as you furrowed your brows when you noticed his warmth, but then you relaxed again. Maybe you knew it was him. Maybe, deep down in your dreams, it was him who made you feel safe right now. Xiao wished he was. Still, he disappointed you, but he wouldn’t do it again. He’d make sure that you wouldn’t have to be in pain and scared anymore. For you, and only you, he’d do it.

Letting his hand slip down your face, his fingertips brushed over your cheek and to your lips, his touch lingering a second too long to be appropriate. Flinching away, he scolded himself for touching you there, pink flushing his cheeks as he shook his head. He was busy; there were preparations to be made.

Leaving behind Mora, he had no use for, and a note to the doctor, he told them to keep you as long as they could. Knowing where you were would make his life easier, even though he wouldn’t leave a stone unturned and a monster alive if he had to search for you. There were no lengths he wouldn’t have taken for you. The thought scared him because he didn’t know how to handle this feeling that burned inside of him at the mere thought of you. But it scared him even more to see you like last night, and he wasn’t sure his heart could take it if it happened again.

No, he couldn’t let it happen again.

How long had it been since someone called his name? One night. The next time you’d call for him, how would it sound? Sweet? Affectionate? Thankful? Praising him for his work and dedication for you, accepting his snide remarks, and laughing at him again with that kind voice of yours? He couldn’t know it yet. But with a jump in his step, he would have never thought it could be the complete opposite.

Angry. Scared. Horrified.

[velvet-apricots]

The NSFW Alphabet no one wanted: Sir Gideon Ofnir, The All-Knowing.

I saw a lot of people making these for their own favorite old men, so I wanted to push myself to do the same.

A = Aftercare 

Aftercare is not something Gideon is used to giving. It’s not that he won’t, it's that he doesn't think of it. He’s never considered himself a rough person, and he’s not a rock your world kind of man in the first place. He does however give care, though privately. Fyra, overtime, grows more and more morose, and he is left to comfort her when she seeks him out.

B = Body Part

Gideon takes great care in his appearance. He is well groomed, manicured, and clean. He dislikes being dirty. At the same time, he heavily neglects himself, sleeping poorly, hunching over books for hours on end in poor lighting, often not drinking enough water. His skin clings to his body in clear signs of constant dehydration.

C = Cum

To say Gideon is ‘careless’ with his seed is an understatement. He doesn't even think about the consequences of cumming in a woman carelessly. He’s lucky Fyra did not get pregnant before she became Elden Lord. 

Afterwards… Well it wasn’t like Radagon was doing his part as Marika’s male half.

D = Dirty Secret

Oh this man is full of secrets. But dirty? Probably not many. He’s not like that old Dolly Botherer Seluvis after all. Maybe there was the time, when he was young and still had the grace, when he fucked a man’s wife, but afairs are not that uncommon in high class society, let’s be real here.

E = Experience 

His all knowing title is not for show. Gideon does have experience, He lived an entire life before he died, and now lives a second. His hands are extremely skilled and once he knows how to touch you, you will cum and you will come hard.  However while he can find the g-spot and clitoris easily, and knows the basics of sex, he has no real skill in the actual act. However he is observant, and once he stumbles across something that gets a strong reaction, he never forgets it and will use it mercilessly.

F = Favorite Position 

Purely due to the fact he rarely leaves his study, over his desk has become a favored position. Face to face, or from behind, or even some awkward moment where his partner lays on their side. Those parts don’t matter really. He just wants them on his desk, or a desk.

He is also rather fond of cowgirl.

G = Goofy 

Gideon is very serious, and is not one to be goofy in any situation aside from offhanded comments that might get a laugh from someone. However, he quickly finds he likes Fyra’s soft girlish giggles, and does try to get her to make them whenever it seems appropriate, usually by pinching something, like her bottom.

H = Hair

He doesn't mind body hair on his partners. He just asks they be clean and not have lice in said body hair.

I = Intimacy

I will be honest…. Gideon is a bit of a cold fish. His expressions of intimacy are small and to some probably not very meaningful. He doesn't read poetry or steal any kisses. No. he links his finger with yours while you both look over a map. He tucks your hair behind your ear, and stands very close as he speaks to you, hand brushing yours. 

Fyra however relishes every one of these tiny moments, and when he does something more, she is the happiest she could ever be. Her favorite thing is when he presses his helmet to her forehead, so hard it makes a red mark on her skin. 

J = Jack Off

In his youth in his first life, Gideon did this often. These days however his time is better spent in other ways.

K = Kink 

Gideon rather likes when Fyra is pushy and forward, and he gets a thrill when a quickie is in a risky spot.

He also might have, possibly, really gotten off on the idea of knocking Fyra up before Radagon did.

L = Location 

Location does not matter. Gideon may seem like a stuffy aristocrat (and he is, let's be real), but if he feels like it and it is asked of him, he will bend a partner over a ruined wall, push them against a tree, or take them hard behind a tower of books. He’d even have sex in a barn stall if he found it clean enough.

M = Motivation

Gideon, a man driven by motivation to be Elden Lord, is to no shock to anyone, not very motivated by sex or romantic inclinations. That is until someone shows interest, in which case he is more interested in turn, especially if he considers them competent.

N = No

No butt stuff. Do you have any idea the shit (pun intended) that is in a person’s arse? Don’t even mention it to him, let alone suggest you put anything up his own. He will make the most sour face and probably avoid you for a week.

O = Oral

While Gideon’s hands are very skilled, and his love making varies from good to decent. His ability to give oral sex is seriously lacking. He’s never really…. Thought about giving it. Oh he likes getting it, but giving it isn’t really on his mind. So he is a bit selfish when it comes to that, but he will try. Just direct him on what you like, and he will get you to the finish, if a bit clumsily.

P = Pace

He takes whatever pace his partner wishes. His and Fyra’s courtship was fast and quick, with Fyra seeking him first, and he had no objections to that. In terms of pacing when it comes to sex, he can usually preform how ever he is asked, though he personally likes a bit of a fast pace, but he can go slow too, to savor the moment.

Q = Quickie

Quickies are far more common after Fyra becomes Elden Lord. She has a lot of work to do, and new duties to Marika and Radagon both. That won’t stop him though from reminding her he loves her the most. 

R = Risk

Gideon is not a risk taker at his core. He would rather everyone else do his dirty work and just read his books… however as mentioned before, he doesn’t really consider the consequences of unprotected sex, nor pushing Radagon’s buttons.

S = Stamina

Gideon doesn't have the best stamina. He is past his prime, and his body isn’t in the best shape. But he can go a one round of rough sex before he tires out, two if time is taken. Besides, Fyra could always ride him if he got too tired to continue the other way.

T = Toys 

Even if there was a modern setting, I don’t think Gideon would be super into using toys. Like, I am really trying to think here and he doesn't seem the type (though fyra would have toys for her own use). Now using sorceries, oh yes, he would figure how to use those for something.

U = Unfair

Oh Gideon is never unfair. You want to cum five times? He will get you there, and get you there as slowly or as quickly as you want, no teasing or strings. 

However, if he is asked to tease you he will. And he will be very unfair about it.

V = Volume 

Gideon is not a man to yell, or make loud sounds. He speaks calmly, even when angry or in the throws of passion. However, to make the usually quiet Fyra yell is something he very much enjoys.

W = Wild card

The most wild thing this man has ever done was fuck a man’s wife once before the shattering and end up in the shittiest polycule ever seen in the lands between when Fyra became Elden Lord and ‘married’ Marika/Radagon. 

X = X-Ray

Gideon once had an athletic but lean build, and while that remains somewhat, years of self neglect and old age has rendered his body a shade of what it once was.

Also, if you want to know how big he is, he’s just over six inches, and has a decent girth. While that might not sound very impressive in comparison to a man like Radagon (or Morgott, if you are into him), it gets the job done, and Fyra would never complain. As they say, it’s not the size that matters, but how you use it.

Y = Yearning

Absence makes the heart grow fond, and when Fyra is away, Gideon finds himself yearning for her company. Even more, he yearns for her to again be what she was when he first knew her. Giggly and sweet with a big smile. Loss and trauma has stolen her voice, and her smile away from him almost completely. 

Z = Zzz

Fyra makes it a habit to make him sleep by riding him till he has nothing left in him, or at the least giving him a massage so deep he has no choice but to completely relax. Gideon is also, shockingly, a bit of a cuddler when you get him out of the armor and into proper sleeping clothes. In his sleep he will inch closer, craving that soft skin to skin contact that he doesn’t get very often.

[internalsealpanic]

Love Through the Ages (Bruce Wayne)

Summary:  Love like baggage needs to be declared.

a/n: This is part four of a series that is a fic rec list disguised as a fic. For these fics, most of the characters will be speaking different languages, so unless specified otherwise assume that the characters are speaking in the first language I mention. They’re all vampires with centuries under their belt. Why wouldn’t I make them all polyglots.  Also, thank you to the proof reading gang for putting up with my shenanigans.  I will have links to the fics I recommend in the fic itself. Also also, this is my first time writing Bruce. Please, don’t murder me. 

Warnings: Everyone is dramatic.

Masterlist

Series Masterlist.

You'd come to the museum as if pulled along by an invisible string, fate tugging at you gently.

The man at the ticket window frowns as he looks into your eyes. You tug at the flap of your wide-brimmed hat smiling at him with your painted lips as you hand him the appropriate amount.

It was strange to be in Gotham. The rising skylines, the thick city air, the gloomy haze, and the gothic buildings were at once new and old, foreign and familiar, a distant world and your home. 

You blink at the thought. It was strange to think of the concept of being home after dreaming about it for so long. The first time you woke up all you could think of was going home, but now that you’re here...

You step carefully, trying to avoid the swelling crowd. You wince every time you brushed up against anybody.

The inside of the museum made your head spin. The building had obviously been remodeled but remodeled to replicate the old building with its high stone columns and mirror shined floors. The craftsmanship is breathtaking but you could still see the obvious flaws.  It was supposed to bet the color of obsidian, deep and dark, only for it to catch fire when the sun shines on the large glass windows in the roof. The tile work was off by a shade.  The stone columns were a ways thicker than the old ones and missing the numerous scratches they'd received when careless workers moved pieces around the museum.

You hum running, your hand over the smooth stone of the columns. Somehow it feels less beautiful like this. It might have been the sentimentality but you feel your chest carve open with longing for its old imperfections. 

"Tim, you're being ridiculous." Someone behind you says in an old Slavic dialect you faintly recognize.

"How?" Another voice behind you replies in a more modern version of Mandarin. 

You lower the rim of your hat to obscure your features.

"You've never asked Bruce about it but you say he doesn't want to talk about it!"

A young man with black hair throws his hands up at his companion, brushing past you as they continue their argument. "You know how B gets when he doesn't wanna talk about things."

You stifle your laughter as they continue to bicker even as they disappear through a set of double doors.

You can hear soft chuckling from the rafters. You tilt your chin to look up and squint at the catwalk, straining to look at it with your good eye. There’s a flicker of a shape before it vanishes. You shake your head in frustration but proceed to the exhibit.    

You stand in front of a painting, your left eye straining and blurry, but from what you can gather from your right eye it’s beautiful or at least well-made. Set in an ornate frame crawling with golden vines is an old uncleaned painting. Impressionist. Even under the grime, you can tell the hues used in the painting were bold and brash. With your good eye, you can tell that the pigment used was rich and expensive but the paint itself was locally made. You could imagine using the same kind of paint in your off time. You heave a sigh trying to wave away the torrent of nostalgia. 

You know that continuing on with the piece is a bad idea. Every brain cell is screaming it. It is the quintessential example of a bad idea. Still, you continue to look up. Your heart sinks like a stone. Bruce’s face. It was rendered lovingly with brushstrokes highlighting his strong jaw, his eyes shining blue like the hottest part of the flame. You swallow, hearing the roaring of flames in your ear. You close your eyes. You hold your trembling hands against your chest, gloved finger training the intricate shapes of golden flowers blooming around your wrist. You hold the image of Bruce in your mind. The image you press into your eyes is of him smiling after he’d sprung one of your traps, leaving him dripping in yellow paint. Bruce, the man you dreamt of for centuries. Broose. Your Broose. 

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

Your eyes fly open at the familiar baritone. The familiar roll of syllables makes your ears ring.  Your spine curls and your veins freeze over. Without looking, you can feel just how close he is. You steady yourself and level your nerves. You look up at the painting again and hum, keeping your voice low. You don’t know how well you can hide your trembling. You tug on the rim of your hat. 

“You can almost taste the love between them.” Bruce’s chest aches as he says the words. 

You hum, tapping your foot absentmindedly. The rhythmic tapping of your foot against the tiled floor sends Bruce’s mind tumbling down the rabbit hole,  down to autumn afternoons spent in an art studio with the scent of paint in the air. You would sketch caricatures of politicians as Bruce complained about having to interact with them, your foot tapping away as you thought of how to best exaggerate their worst qualities based on his stories. You cock your head to the side in thought, careful to keep your face obscured. “I suppose.”   

Bruce snaps out of his trance. He chuckles and looks at you curiously. “Suppose?” Bruce never got out of the bad habit of trying to unspool your mind. 

You shrug at him, noncommittal. You know he’s baiting you, waiting for you to elaborate and despite yourself, you want to. You may not have been half the detective Bruce was but your mind relished in picking at the details,  poking at something until it made sense. You remember mornings spent debating over stupid details until Dick whined and Alfred told the both of you -in detail- how greatly you were overthinking the matter. Would he recognize you this way? Does he even remember you? 300 years is a long time even for your kind. 

You glance at him. There’s a longing look in his eyes. It made the burn scars on your face throb. Your force your eyes back to the painting. 

“It’s more tragic than romantic.”

He hums, prompting you to continue. You do, the coil in your muscles loosening. 

You point to the painting, rotating your wrist and drawing a circle with your gloved hand to draw. “You see the lighting?” He nods, “It’s dim and dark as if all the light had been taken away. It might indicate that the woman in the man’s arms isn’t simply asleep.” That room in the Manor was one of the few that was regularly lit by moonlight. There would be no reason for it to be so dark and somber, you continue in your mind. 

Bruce rubs his chin. You want to tease him, to call him an old man, but the curious shine in his eyes stops you. He’s looking at you. There’s a prickling under your skin. “What else?” There��s a quirk to his lip, a hint of a real smile. You feel the ground fall under your feet and you’re left with a feeling of elation. Bruce’s full attention always did this to you, it was like falling under a spell -  one that you didn’t fight hard against. 

The smile on your face broadens. It hurt, rubbery scar tissue pulling at itself and stretching beyond what it’s capable of. 

Bruce heart twinges at the sight of your smile. 

“I see a lot of things. Look at the way they’ve been positioned,” you say, “it isolates them, highlights their loneliness.”

“Couldn’t the painter just be highlighting the intimacy between the two?”

You open your mouth to reply but close it letting his words sink in. That was a good point. Damn him. You tap your chin with your forefinger. Bruce can practically hear the gears turning in your head. He stifles a chuckle, envisioning the way your face scrunches up when you’re deep in thought. Dick always said you looked like a pug when you were thinking. Bruce can’t find it in himself to disagree with that assessment. 

“Ah see, that’s when you have to look at the lighting,” you say, pretending as if he had never thrown you off your game. This time Bruce lets himself chuckle. It was extremely childish but quintessentially you. You tap the air in front of the painting the way you do when you’re directing his attention to a particular part of a blueprint. “See, the colors are somber which the painter uses to cue the audience in to the tone of the piece. If they just wanted to highlight the intimacy between the pair, they would have used softer, warmer colors.”

“You seem to know a lot about this piece.”

So do you, you think. 

You both lived it. 

“Just a fan.” You say, tugging at the rim of your hat. Your skin hurts when he looks at you. 

“Impressionism?”

“Of course.”

“I knew someone like that once,” he says airly, “She was very fond of art, impressionism especially. My sons always protested that impressionism was the most boring but she didn’t care. One of her favorites was the water lily pond.” He shakes his head smiling sadly. “I never understood why. I was only able to appreciate the skill of the painter.”

You snicker, “Do you appreciate everything on such a technical level?”

“I suppose I do.” He says, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. 

You turn your head to tease him, to call him ‘Broose’, to rib him about the shy pink creeping up his neck but you stop yourself. Instead, you turn your attention back to the painting. Seeing your old face made the scars on your face feel so raw but you concentrate on it just to avoid meeting Bruce’s gaze. You’ve wanted to come home to him for so long but now that you’re here you don’t know. Has it been too long? Were you too late? Could you have healed faster? 

“I could never understand why people are so obsessed with preserving tragedies.”

Bruce glances at you. “Perhaps, it’s to learn from them.” Bruce offers. You hate how sensible he sounds. 

“They say these two were torn apart. The townspeople set fire to their home because they …thought … They suspected that the count… No, they thought it was the countess. According to the story, they thought the countess was a vampire but the family would not give her up. The count is still mourning to this day or so the story goes. Maybe this painting was made so that in some way the pair could still be together, frozen in each other's arms.”

You're reaching out with your left hand as if drawn by a  string. The golden bangle of flowers hanging off your wrist winks from beneath your sleeve. Bruce can still remember the day he'd given you that. You gaped at him, telling him how horrified you were by his spending habits. He'd simply laughed and kissed you and told you that he would get you the moon if only you asked. You laughed at that. Not the kind of soft sound that people expect but a sharp sound that feels like it's been yanked out of your chest. 

"(Y/n)," Bruce calls out softly, gripping your wrist. You flinch. Bruce loosens his grip and slides it down so he can hold your hand in his. The familiar warmth of his hand makes your head swim. "I thought… I thought I lost you…" 

You can't bear to look up at him. To meet his gaze would be a stake through your heart. 

A warm hand cups your face, it makes you more aware of the peaks and ridges, the skin that had healed wrong. Bruce  brushes his thumb over the scars and  tilts your chin so he can see your face. His eye rove over the scar tissue, memorizing the new topography of your face. The fire had consumed more than half of it. He can tell even now it hurt. 

There is no pity in his eyes. You silently thank him for that. Bruce has always been good at hiding that kind of thing. You cup his hand against your cheek. The scars feel raw and sore from his touch. " My love... I am not the same. I cannot be that again. I cannot be the same ethereal creature you fell in love with." The shame burned hot inside you. Bruce wasn't shallow, not like that, but he also deserved good and beautiful things and… you weren’t that. You were never that. Now, it was so plain to see.

"(Y/n)... Do you really think I care about that?" Bruce sounds hurt. You can't stand that but you can't bear to push him away. 

"I know you don't because you're good, too good. You should care. You should care that I look like burnt popcorn." You laugh. It was dull and exhausted. Bruce wants nothing more than to scoop you up and take you back to the manor for some rest. 

"But I don't," Bruce sayd, settling with pressing his forehead against yours. "My love, I have missed you. I have missed you so much."

The throbbing in your skin fades. You press your forehead against his. "I've missed you too."

[mxvladdy]

Lost Affections: Part 3

Ayyyyoooo. Here is the last part to @marymaryroo's request!

On to the next one :)

Magic is a beautiful and powerful thing. It permeates the Devildom like an eternal fog. For the residents, it is as common as breathing. From the strongest of their kind down to the lowest inhabitants, it is integral to their culture and daily life. Mistakes and accidents happen daily with young and old alike learning or experimenting. Magical rebounds and mishaps mean very little to them, especially the brothers. From the Celestial Realms down, they have seen it all.

Sometimes they forget that to you, magic can be a volatile and dangerous.

Beelzebub

Beel would never call himself accident-prone. He didn’t trip and stumble like Belphie when sleep deprived. He most certainly wasn’t as bad as Mammon when he was without his glasses or contacts. No, he would never say he was that bad. While not clumsy he knew he could be careless, especially when food was in the picture. He didn’t think twice about eating random things. It did hurt anyone, not physically. Sure, Luke and Satan got a little put out when he swiped something, but it didn’t hurt them.

He just forgets sometimes that you are different. You and he go together so well he forgets that you aren’t a demon. You don’t have the steel stomach or fast recovery time that he has. You make up for it. When you go out to eat you always research the place ahead of time. Does the place have non-enchanted food? Human grade options? If not, you make sure that Beel has his fill before taking him somewhere more appropriate for your stomach. Neither of you thinks about residual contaminants.

His life with you unravels with kisses. It is a slow, inconspicuous death. It builds over time with each brush of his lips to yours. Neither of you notices the taste of magic clinging to his mouth or tongue, neither of you thinks of the implications of all the weird potions and food he samples.

It starts small, you forget simple things about him. When his club activities ended, or what his favorite post-game drink was. He brushes it off, it’s trivial really. You are busy and these things can happen to the best of them. He keeps brushing off the nagging worry until he can’t.

It comes to a head one night at the door to your room. “Beel?” You yawn, pulling your robes closer around you. “What’s up?” You glance down at the box of snacks and pillows in his hands. “Did I miss something?”

“It’s date night.”

Your brows shoot up, facing heating. “What.” You sputter. Beel frowns, placing the box at his feet. With slow movements, he places his hand on your forehead. You were a little warm.

“Mmmmm.” His hearts flutter with nerves. Was his little human sick? He ignores the way you stiffen when he touches you. “Do you need a doctor?” He asks bending down to look you in the eye. He catches a whiff of something when you exhale. It is faint but clings to your breath, it’s sickly sweet and sharp to his nostrils. “You need a doctor.”

Without a second thought, he grabs your arm and drags you out of your room. His food forgotten in the hallway with your protests buzzing in his ears. “Beel...Beel!” You stumble after him. He ignores you each step he takes determined and picks up speed. Before you know it you are sitting next to Gluttony in Purgatory waiting for Solomon, beyond confused and anxious.

You fidget on the couch, peeking glances at the troubled look on the red-heads face. This wasn’t like him. He was a man of few words, sure, but this was new. Beel left you to your devices mostly, a few polite conversations here and there, but you two never hung out a lot. You zone out when he starts talking to Solomon. You were still half asleep from Beel waking you up. You had been sleeping so soundly beforehand. “Are you alright?” You jerk awake unaware that you started dozing again. Solomon crouches in front of you.

“I think so?” You had no idea what this was about. “I’m just tired.” The mage says nothing to you, instead turning to glance at Beel. He jerks his head to the door, a clear signal for the old demon to wait outside.

With one last pitiful glance, Beelzebub leaves the two humans to converse. “Now then.” Solomon rounds his piercing eyes back to you. “Tell me how's your stay in the Devildom?”

You tell him confused but willing to play along with his odd request, the sooner you wrap this up the sooner you can go back to bed. An odd feeling of missing something begins to grow as you tell him. Soon you began to fumble, the harder you try to recount something the harder it was to collect. You still were convinced anything was seriously wrong but the growing look of concern on Solomon’s face was making you think otherwise. “So,” You finish rubbing your knees with sweaty palms. “I’m I dying or something?”

He laughs dismissing the notion with a wave of a well-manicured hand. “No, no your soul is still firmly in place.” He rubs his chin. “But you have lost your memory, only when it comes to Beelzebub though. It is very peculiar. Have you ingested anything weird of late? Done any experiments with Satan?” You shake your head. To the best of your knowledge, you have been really careful with your food intake while down here. Devildom foods were delicious but had potential side effects for you and Solomon.

Solomon nods. He figured that. “Could I draw some blood? It sounds to me like you might have trace contamination of some kind. Diavolo and I discussed that this might happen but I wish to double-check.” Well, that’s worrisome, you nod and begin to roll up your sleeve. Solomon bustles collecting a few vials and a mouth swab for extra measure.

“Thank you.” He smiles looking at the samples with scientific glee. “I will let you know what I find. Until then, I guess just go about your regular day. Unless you feel ill, in that case, come to me immediately.” With that, he leaves you depositing you back with Beel.

The walk back to the House was more subdued, both of you were confused as to what to do next. “So,” You flounder. “We were-are an item?”

He shrugs looking down at you. “Yes. We’d hang out in your room on Saturdays, and get brunch on Sundays... do you still want to?”

You shrug feeling awkward. You felt nothing but platonic friendship to the large demon, though Solomon did fill you in on what you apparently have forgotten. “If you want to? I’m up now, and too nervous to sleep.” Beel grunts clenching his fists at his side.

“No,” He shakes his head. “You should rest, even if you can’t sleep. This is overwhelming. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow?” You feel bad. He sounds so hopeful when he asks, like a good night’s sleep was all you needed to fix whatever this was.

You reach for his big hand and squeeze it. “Sure, Beelzebub. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He lets you go watching you head back into the house. Running on instinct he turns and heads into the dense forest surrounding the house. He needed to hunt for a bit.

That’s how his twin finds him, gorging himself on the fauna of the forest. Belphie’s socked feet pad loudly over the dried grass and scattered bones of the once lush lowlands. “You know Lucifer is going to be pissed. It takes forever for the wildlife to come back after one of your benders.” He tosses his oversized pillow onto the dead grass and lays down. Belphie doses for a moment, the sound of his brother’s many mouths and whistling of wings a white noise to him. Up until an obnoxious locus landed on his nose.

“Beel.” He flicks the bug off his face, shooting the swarm coating his brother’s skin a sour look. “What’s going on?”

Forgot. Me. One of his mouths rattles out, flecks of meat and vegetation falling from between crooked and jagged teeth. Another opens near his rib cage to speak. They. Don’t. Love. Me.

“I’ll kill them.” Already Belphie is back on his feet. He feels for his brother and his plight, but the thought that you betrayed him after you promised to never hurt Beel took precedence. The storm of bugs goes quiet, all the millions of eyes now turn to him. They jerk and twitch in unison before converging back on the mass of leathery gaunt skin of his brother. His human form takes shape slowly, shiny wings and many mandibled skulls melding together to create his flesh.

Beel grabs Belphie’s shoulders. His claws dig into the soft fabric of his nightshirt. “It’s not their fault.”

“Then who?” Beel chuckles weakly at his brother’s blood lust. He couldn’t deny that he felt it too, but he had no idea where to channel this anger.

So he ate. It calmed him a little. If he could get into the village and eat there...no. The last time he siphoned the emotions from the populous at large Lucifer got mad. The whole of the Devildom had to shut down for a good week to recover. He rubs his stomach a feeling of agitation growing in the pits of them. “Don’t know. Solomon is taking a look at it.” Belphie snorts a sneer growing on his lips. “He is helping, Belphie.”

“Sure-right. That boy meddles in all shorts of shit he shouldn’t. Careful he doesn’t try to bargain with your skin for this.” He eyes where your mark rests on his brother. It would be a perfect lure to entrap his twin in a pact.

Hmm.

No, none of this would do. Belphegor would rather die than let some human-like Solomon meddle anymore in his family’s affairs, and as far as he was concerned the moment you started seeing Beel you were as another sibling. “Come on. Let’s get you back to the house. I’ll bring dinner up to our room.”

After settling Beel under the covers of his massive bed Belphie went on the hunt for more food in the kitchen. He stops by your bedroom door picking up the box of goodies still left in front of it. He piles more things into the box when he reaches the kitchen. Swiping up snacks at random Belphie piles the box sky high. His hand stops over a few of your favorite human snacks. Should he? Honestly, it was a blind shot in the dark if it would comfort his brother or not. After a bit more debate Belphie puts the chocolates back, a different idea already turning in his head.

Back in their shared room, he listens to his brother run down the last week between huge bits of sweets. As he recounts every little thing that has gone down they both began to notice just how strange you have been. Both twins sit in the aftermath of Beel’s words, a wasteland of wrapper and silence stretching between them. “Think it will come back?” The twins lock eyes, Beel’s large and unsure but simmering with foolish hope.

“Possibly.” Belphie grits out, breaking their eye contact. He could never lie to his brother, at least not to his face. “Get some rest. I’m sure someone will have a plan in motion by tomorrow.” He’ll set his plans in motion tonight.

Lying in wait some hours later Belphie listens through the walls of the massive house for your quick little human heartbeat in your bedroom. He matches his shallow breaths with yours feeling yourself slip into slumber and his realm. Once you are completely under he drifts off himself.

He enters your dreams and scowls unused to stumbling inside of a dreamscape. Your dreams are muddled and clotted with stick webs of confusion and hazy memories. Odd bits and pieces of images drip around the edges of your mind. This place was a disgusting mess. With a deep sigh, Belphie begins trudging through the quagmire.

He peers around making note of the black holes in your mind like canvas ripped from their frames. Rotten magic assaults him from all sides. Stopping in front of a particularly deep gash in your mind he rolls up his oversized sleeves finding what he was looking for. He knew this memory was in it, just on the outskirts of the scene playing out. He could knit this rip back together easily, after that it should give him some clarity on the others he couldn’t place.

This was going to take a lot of energy. No one would notice if he stole some energy to get things started. Belphie smiles to himself already tapping into Lucifer's dreamscape, taking a bit more than he needed. You deserve only the best after all.

__________________

“Morning everyone.” You chirp plopping down in your chair. The brothers reply with groggy acknowledgments, completely unlike themselves. You look around at the bunch. “Are you all ok?” The group grunts collectively yawning or rubbing their weary eyes.

“Tough night.” Lucifer looks up from his newspaper. He was half-dead in his chair, a cup of coffee shaking in his hands. Asmo sits beside him looking on the verge of tears as he gently pokes his swollen cheeks and eyelids. The only two that seem to even be remotely coherent were the twins. The youngest of the two sleeping oblivious to the turmoil of his siblings while his brother stares at your every move. “Good morning Beel.” You nod feeling awkward in this shared space.

“Morning.” He smiles at you, a few crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth. Something ticks in the back of your mind at his look. A foggy image comes to mind. It feels like a dream, but so real at the same time. It makes you nauseous, a weird sense of dejavu fighting its way to the forefront. “You ok?” He puts a hand on your shoulder.

You blink noticing the room at large turning their gaze to you. You nod, reaching across from him for some leftover food. The moment a bowl of cereal was in your hands Asmo swept you up in a conversation about his “fading” looks. You don’t think of Beel and your predicament for the rest of the day, not until Solomon invites you over to his hall for tea.

“You were poisoned.” He states simply over his sorry excuse of scones. You pause in the middle of trying to break a piece off on the table.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing to apologize for, unless you did it intentionally.” He laughs. “It appears to be through slow ingestion over a long period of time. The levels in your blood are staggering but not lethal. It looks like the magic took root in the temporal lobe-much like a tumor, really quite fascinating- and has been eating away at the memories of the person, or in this case, a demon that poisoned you.” Beel had been poisoning you? Solomon waves his hand at your look of concern. “I am quite positive that it was not intentional. Mind you he does find the most wondrous things to shovel down his gullet. The fact that it mixed perfectly into a potion instead of a lethal toxic is sheer dumb luck on your end.” You breathe a sigh of relief finally tossing the baked good away as a bad job. Well that's...something. At least you’d be alive to stumble around your apparent “forgotten boyfriend”.

“Any chance of fixing this?”

Solomon shrugs. “Possibly? I need more time to figure out exactly what components are involved in your test results. Then making a tonic to undo all the magic is another thing entirely.”He discusses a few other options with you for a few hours, going over in great detail the ins and outs of potion-making. Soon the windows of the sunroom grew dark, the glow of the lamps outside growing brighter so you could see the pathway back to the house.

“I better head back.” You stretch looking out into the pitch outside. Hmmm, if you remember correctly Levi should be off of work by now. He said to call when he was done to come to pick you up. As if on cue a sharp knock on the door disrupts you. Instead of a shock of blue hair, you are greeted with orange. “Oh-hey Beel.”

“Hey.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a facsimile of a friendly smile. “Ready to go?” He picks up your forgotten school bag and takes your sweater from the coat rack. With a well-practiced motion, he slings the bag over his shoulder and holds your sweater open for you. He obviously did this a lot before…

You stare back wide-eyed at Solomon who only smirks, nodding at you to hurry up.

Out the door and into the chilly night you sneak a peek at Beelzebub walking quietly beside you. He catches your look and raises a brow. “Sorry.” You feel your cheeks heat a little under his thoughtful gaze.

“About?”

“All of this.” You wave at yourself. “Please don’t feel obligated to hang out with me. Until we can get this settled. I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Beel grunts, stopping in his tracks by a low garden wall. “I was hurt-am still hurting.” He admits. “But this isn’t your fault, so what good does it do to blame you for it? Even if you don’t remember me as your partner, you still remember me as a friend...right?” A warm smile spreads across his face when you nod. “Then I’m ok with this. I haven’t lost you completely and even if you don’t ever feel the same way about me anymore, I think I will be ok.”

“I- thank you Beel. That means a lot.”

“Of course.” He hums. “Let’s head back. I think Asmo left some food out.”

You dream of Beel again, a weird amalgamation of scenes all tossed together in a great pile with you in the middle of it. You could do nothing but watch like a film as they rush by you in a blur. Some scenes didn’t line up right, bouncing around like a scratched vinyl, but it still made sense in a way only a dream could. You play out each dream like an actor, the script coming to you naturally with each little venette. You sit outside his locker room, a basket of food and drink in your lap, your heart fluttering in your chest. You and Beel were watching his brothers on the beach, his broad hands rubbing sunscreen into your skin. Beel walking you back to your room after a long night in the library holding your hand in his strong, sure grip. Saturday afternoons spent hopping from one cafe to the next sampling the sweets and drinks to both of your heart's content.

It grips your heart but slips away with the rise of the young morning moon.

When morning comes the night is nothing more than a few smudges in your mindscape. Yet, a light, sweet feeling stays with you. You found yourself smiling more around the redhead and gravitating to him during the day. He accepts you back with a friendly hug and a friendly ear.

He treats you no differently than you remember. It’s nice. Even if a part of your yearns to see how he treated you when you were more than friends.

You begin to get excited for when your head hits your pillow. The dreams become clearer and clearer each night. Some new pieces show up and fall into place as the weeks progress. You start seeing bits of your dreams in the day too. After-images of you hand in hand with him walking down the other side of the street. The taste of something sweet on your tongue or a familiar scent in your nose.

After one particularly vivid dream, you wake determined not to let the contents of this dream slip through your fingers. This time you dreamt of the kitchen, dirty bowls, and units scattered about the cluttered counters. You had been baking something, and failing miserably.

Sneaking down to the kitchens you pull out all the things you could remember. For some reason, this dream lit a fire in you, like it was the last piece of the puzzle to getting it all back. You don’t think, instead, you just let your body take control. You baked a cake.

Well, it was supposed to be a cake. The center was too spongy and collapsed inward while the sides were dark and cracked. The icing was badly blended and melting from the still-warm pastry. It was almost exactly like the one from your dream.

You stare at it waiting for some great revelation, but nothing comes. Great. Now what?

“I smell food.”

“Gods!” You jerk smacking your knee on your bar stool. Beel’s deep voice scaring you half to death. “Should put a bell on you.” You grin. Beel peeks his head through the door brows furrowed.

“This is familiar.” He walks in pulling up another chair to sit next to you.

“Ye?” You look back at him.

“Yes. This was our first kiss.” You drop your icing spoon. “You wanted to surprise me before a big game.” He put a finger through the thick black and purple icing and pops it in his mouth. “Ah- You forgot the bane extract...I had thought that perhaps you remembered.” The hope in his voice stung your chest.

Oh. You look down at the mess you made, whatever feelings of satisfaction are lost. “I thought I was forgetting something, but my dreams are all blurry.”

“Dreams?” Beel pauses reaching for a slice. “You dreamt of this?”

“Yes. Been dreaming about you a lot of late.” You flush. “Little things that are starting to build a bigger picture. I just had this dream of a cake and the urge to make one...so- here we are.” You wave your hand out over the messy kitchen. Sighing plopping your chin down on your palm. “Guess I can sleep on it a bit more huh?” You shoot him a quick wink and sad smile.

“Or just ask Belphie.” He shrugs, taking another large slice of the disaster. “Sounds like he’s been meddling.” That realization hits you like a ton of bricks. Damn, you could have slapped yourself. “I’m sure he meant well, but he shouldn’t force you if you don’t want to. I could tell him to stop.”

What! No! You shake your head. “No. I-I don’t mind it. Solomon has yet to figure anything out, and whatever your brother is doing seems to be helping a little.” Beelzebub said nothing to that and just continued to eat while you started the dishes.

“Do you want to end tonight like we did before?” He asks sometime later, half of the dishes now drip drying in the rack. His long arms box you in on either side holding on to the lip of the sink. His head dips low, his chin resting on the top of your head. Deep down you knew that you could leave at any time. His grip was loose and easily breakable, considerate as ever to your comforts.

You turn to face him, a soft look crosses his face. “And how did it end?” He grins moving closer. You would have to thank Belphie for his interference. Just, perhaps later. You doubted he would want to be in your dreams tonight.

[watermelonlipstick]

Stabbed

This was written following an anon request that read as follows:

Hello sweetie, can I please request a dean x reader one shot in which she gets stabbed during a rough hunt and it's a race against time to save her (maybe Sam is the one driving and dean gets in the backseat with her?) And dean is scared of losing her and he has a panic attack after she wakes up but she manages to calm him down?

Obviously everyone’s experiences with panic attacks are different, but I tend to think if Dean had one it might manifest more externally as a violent outburst; I think he would subconsciously feel like it’s a more acceptable way to express ~freaking the fuck out~. This fic is sort of loosely set during early season 3, partly because that contextualization made sense to me with what you were describing and partly because I feel like that tenderhearted, slightly-less-jaded Dean would be more likely to allow himself to be perceived as vulnerable in such a fraught moment. 

I’ve also taken a couple liberties with the medical situation described for literary purposes. 😋 Don’t @ me, I know this isn’t exactly how hypovolemic shock plays out.

Title: Stabbed

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4206

Summary: Dean’s anxiety gets the best of him when the reader appears fatally injured on a hunt, and is soothed only after the danger is gone. 

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence, description of panic attack, swearing

           Sam slammed the door once Dean had hauled you into the backseat, propping you up like a mannequin next to him on the bench. Your vision was starting to fade in and out, but the sense memory of the muscles in Dean’s side and the leather seat underneath you were comforting anyway. It seemed like the car started flying before Sam had even closed the driver’s side door and you tried hard to focus on Dean’s babbling.

           “You’ll be able to give me shit about this one forever, right, kid? Should’ve listened to you, you said they would’ve left the barn by the time we got there. Always so smart, when am I going to learn?” He was trying to chuckle but it came out breathy and wrong, Dean never quite able to actually hit the casual affect he wanted in moments like this. Honestly, it made you more nervous, knowing that for injuries he wasn’t worried about he wanted to look over you with clinical precision, chastise you for being careless. He only did this pretend calm when he was trying to keep it together—you used to think it was only for you or Sam but after a few years and more than a few bad scares you started to understand it for the defense mechanism it truly was. Not that you needed extra evidence that this was bad; you could feel the life leeching out of you like a water balloon with a pinprick leak.

           “Hey, come on—open your eyes for me, lemme see those stunners,” he said, guiding your chin up where you had begun to slump onto his shoulder. “Perfect, yeah, just like that. Hey, stay with me—”

           You mustered up everything you had to swim to the surface of the sleep-darkness your body so desperately wanted and straightened your spine to take a deep breath. Bad idea, the wounds in your side feeling like they were splitting you clean in half even through the haze. At least it woke you up for a moment to catch Dean’s eyes, fiery with panic even as he tried to smile.

           “Dean, I—” you started, feeling like your throat was full of broken glass.

           “Babe, don’t try to talk, it’s okay, you can tell me whatever it is when we get to a hospital.”

           Sam turned his head away from the rural highway the Impala was absolutely sailing down to look back at his older brother. “We’re hours away from a hospital, we’ve gotta go back to the motel,” he said, low and serious.

           “If we’re hours away from a hospital then I guess we’re driving for a couple hours, aren’t we, Sammy?” Dean was getting worse and worse at covering the hard edge of fear-driven anger in his voice as the seconds ticked by.

           “Dean, we—she’s—we don’t have a couple hours.”

           Dean closed his eyes tight and set his jaw firm. “We’re going to a fucking hospital.”

           His brother swerved deftly around a giant pothole, somehow able to turn the wheel so slightly that the car’s path barely changed. “Listen to me. She can’t bleed like that for long enough to get to a hospital. We have to try to handle this one ourselves or there’s no chance—”

           The whole conversation felt like it was happening to someone else, your senses starting to detach from your body, and you couldn’t hold onto those trains of thought for long enough to process them. You were forced to expend all the energy you had on what you needed to say, and reached for Dean’s hand with a weak grip.

           “Dean, look at me.”

           He sounded like a hurt puppy when he said, “please,” and you knew he was asking you not to make him listen but you were worried you were out of options, out of time. That frantic smile looked almost crazed as it started to quiver on his face, eyelashes clumping with moisture.

           “Sam, can you hear me too?” you asked, frustrated in an abstract way at how frail your voice sounded.

           He gave one tight nod in the rearview mirror with a jaw set firm as iron, and when he said “Yes—yeah,” it was choked.

           “I love you idiots so much. These last—ow, Jesus—however many years have been some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Sam, I—you’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I—fuck,” you winced, something about the breath you took to keep from crying sending an electric jolt of pain through you and doubling you over.

           “It’s okay, I know,” Sam said up into the rearview mirror, and you couldn’t tell if the way the headlights were falling on the trees impossibly fast was something about your sight being distorted, because if it wasn’t then you were surprised the Impala hadn’t broken some kind of land speed record. You made a mental note to tell Dean to start drag racing before remembering you might not tell him anything ever again. What you were nearly positive you weren’t imagining were the break in Sam’s voice or the reflection of tears on his cheek as he locked eyes with you in the mirror.

           By the grace of whatever higher power the Winchesters were on the good side of at the time, you connected with him in the reflection, were able to absorb some fraction of the bone-crushing, pick-you-up-off-your-feet hug you wanted so badly from Sam in that moment. You tried to be thankful for what you got and drifted back to Dean’s gaze.

           “And Dean, baby,” you continued, some bizarre flutter of second wind giving you enough force to clench your hand tightly around his and remember to keep your breaths shallow, keep talking even if your eyes couldn’t quite focus. “This was not your fault, you gotta—promise—me you know it wasn’t.”

           “I, ah—” he faltered, throat vibrating as he tried to keep the inevitable tears down.

           You gripped his hand tighter, felt your fingers going numb, and tried to smile hoping it didn’t look too grotesque on a face almost certainly drained of lifelike color. “C’mon, gotta obey a last wish, right?” The grief-stricken chuckle of surprise that dark joke punched out of Dean opened the floodgates, and tears burst forward to stream down his face. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

           You’d thought of some goofy punchline to try to give, some ‘no sleeping with random girls for at least a year, want you guys to pour one out for me every day’ bullshit but seeing the love and pain in Dean’s eyes as your vision came in and out zapped it away. “I love you baby. I just—thank you for—everything—and—”

           It was getting too hard to take even those shallow breaths, your hearing gone fuzzy around the edges, and the last thing you remembered was seeing a streetlight on the edge of town as Dean took your face in his hands, “I know, kid, I know, come on—please,” fading out like he was being zipped away through a long tunnel.

           You were completely motionless in Dean’s arms, pulse gone thready enough that Dean was having a hard time finding it through the rumble of the car.

           “Fuck, Sam, FUCK!” Dean screamed, one hand wrapped up in the hair at the back of your neck as he fought desperately to keep you upright.

           Sam muscled through the lump in his throat and tried to stay focused. “When we get there you need to be ready to go, okay, Dean? HEY, listen to me. Don’t quit on me like this,” he barked, trying to catch his brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror without taking his focus off the road, terrified at the speed of the Impala and the potential of repeating what had happened the last time he’d had someone he loved bleeding out in the backseat.

           The car skittered around two corners and Sam prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything that there weren’t any Keystone cops looking to meet their month’s ticket quota by hanging around dark parking lots with radar guns, willed Dean to stop punching the window of the car with the hand that wasn’t clutching your head to his chest. He couldn’t decide if he thought it would’ve been better to have Dean drive, if he would’ve been able to hold it together any better than Dean was right now, if Dean could’ve focused if he was driving and not feeling you drift in his arms. There wasn’t time to figure it out and it ultimately didn’t matter, his brother turning into a bomb in the backseat and Sam needed to figure out a way to funnel Dean’s sheer panic back into the denial that would fuel him to keep moving, do anything to keep you alive, regardless of whether there was any hope left.

           “It’s not over, you’ve gotta keep it together. She needs you. See, we’re right around—"

           But he didn’t get to finish through the flurry of action as he pulled into the motel. He careened the Impala straight up to the door of the room, more than half of the car parked over a strip of grass intended to make the nondescript building feel more homey. By the time he’d torn the keys from the ignition Dean was practically leaping out of the backseat, carrying you into the room a quarter step after Sam half-busted the door open, laying you on a bed and tearing your t-shirt off with his bare hands like a cheap wrestling gimmick.

           Sam didn’t bother closing the motel door, moving too fast to care as he ripped a cork out of whiskey bottle with his teeth and poured it all over your now-exposed side, grimacing with nausea at the way it didn’t make you draw back in pain even a little. Dean tried his best to thread a needle with floss and remember whether it was better or worse that the blood was still flowing fast and bright red out of those stab wounds rather than slowing or oxidizing—this is bush league shit Dad pounded in years ago why can’t I remember fucking any of it? His hands shook with too much adrenaline to get the floss through the needle but Sam was already working on patching the biggest wound, tying knots with the rapid precision of a surgeon.

           It was only when he started getting in Sam’s way that the younger Winchester said anything more, encouraged that Dean was at least trying to pull himself together. He began talking through the stitches, muttering when he had to pull one tight with his teeth.

           “We—Dean, look at me.” Sam drilled into him with those brackish eyes, struggling to maintain the appearance of being in control that his brother needed of him when he could feel you going cold underneath his fingertips. “We’re going to need to give her a lot of fluids when she wakes up; all we have is beer. Go get some stuff for her to drink—electrolytes, she’ll need electrolytes.”

           “I’m not going to fucking leave, asshole!” Dean was strung out and not even pretending to hide it anymore, voice taking on that juvenile squeak Sam had only heard a handful of times since Dean was a teenager.

           He took a deep breath in an effort to soothe himself before speaking as clearly and firmly to Dean as possible, no room for negotiation. “Dean. This is not helping. The best thing you can do for her is to go get some fluids. Gatorade, OJ, bananas too, if they have them. She’ll need iron but we can deal with other food once she wakes up.”

           “What if she doesn’t—” Dean half-moaned, sounding like he’d been struck by something that was sucking all the oxygen from his lungs, looking like he was on the last ten feet of a hundred-mile race.

           “She’s going to wake up.”

           And Sam’s stubbornness actually did help Dean a bit in that moment, knowing that even if his life was about to change radically, that never would. “Go get some fucking Gatorade.”

           By the time Dean came back—arms filled with so many bags of sports drinks that it would be comical in any other context—his brother had stitched up every wound, cleaned off most of the blood, and put all your limbs atop high stacks of pillows in an attempt to get as much blood to your vital organs as possible. Dean was near catatonic with the singular focus of a task, which was Sam’s intention. One thing at a time.

           After about five minutes of sitting alongside Sam watching you, thick, viscous panic bubbled back up to the surface.

           At first, he was muttering like he was talking to himself. “She told me, she fucking told me they wouldn’t be in the barn anymore, I didn’t listen. I should’ve been right behind her, Sam, what the fuck was I thinking—she was—she—she was alone, they wouldn’t have—” and then the way his voice built to a fever pitch matched his body, Dean perched on the mattress like a sailboat in a tempest, slammed against invisible waves of panic.

           “It wasn’t your fault, Dean. You couldn’t have known—”

           “She was alone against five of them, Sam, do you get that? I left her fucking ALONE!” Dean wailed, springing forward from the bed with eruptive energy and bashing the nightstand lamp hard enough that its base shattered against the opposite wall, coming clean out of the socket as easily as if it hadn’t been plugged in. Sam flinched but didn’t get up, instead taking a quick visual inspection that no shards of ceramic somehow bounced back to cut your still body. By the time he glanced up again he only had a millisecond to react as Dean threw a chair from the kitchenette against the wall, exploding the mirror there into shimmering beads of glass and ricocheting back, forcing Sam block it with a forearm lest it hit him or you.

           “DEAN, enough!” he yelled, crossing over to his brother with a few powerful strides and grappling with him, battling to keep Dean still as the older of the Winchester brothers fought to destroy the room to match the chaos in his mind. Sam knew exactly what was going on, the way Dean’s brain converted fear to rage, but hated when his brother got like this, not only because it cut so deep to see him in pain but because the explosiveness was so similar to the knock-down drag-outs they’d grown up with, made it impossible to try to fix the root of the problem.

           Sam tackling Dean to the ground was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes.

           “Do I pull this shit when you guys are sleeping?” you croaked from the mattress, trying to sit up and immediately abandoning that plan, stilling yourself and holding your breath until the pain settled a fraction.

           Sam and Dean scrambled to get to their feet and ran over to you, hovering over the bed looking like their backs had a light dusting of glitter rather than a million tiny shards of glass.

           “What’re—are you okay? What do you remember?” Sam blurted out, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade out of a plastic bag and cracking it open for you. He snatched a pillow and helped you sit up slowly, jamming it under your head so you could drink.

           “Well, I’ve definitely felt better,” you tried to chuckle, but the tension it caused in your abdominal muscles made you wince. “I’m really sorry, you guys, I shouldn’t have—” you began, immediately stopped by the way Sam and Dean shook their heads, sucked on their teeth.

           “I’m—ah,” Sam started, smiling self-deprecatingly through the shake in his voice and looking down at the ground for a beat with his tongue in his cheek. It was like his body knew that the worst of the crisis had passed and refused to let him hide his emotions for one second further. After a second he met your eyes again, faintest hint of tears in his eyes. “I’m really glad you’re up.”

           Behind him, Dean collapsed into himself, his expression simultaneously complete relief and like he’d seen a ghost. You peered around Sam to meet his gaze. “Hey, dork,” you breathed, unable to come up with anything to match the weight of the moment.

           He opened his mouth a few times and couldn’t find anything either, wincing and biting his lip hard as he rubbed the back of his head nervously. “I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out.

           As always, Sam knew what Dean needed and snatched the car keys off the table as his brother tried in vain to keep his restless limbs still. He gazed at you with such naked thankfulness it made you smile involuntarily. “I’m going to see how much red meat I can find you, I’ll be right back, okay? Drink as many of these as you can and don’t stand up alone.” You nodded gratefully to him as he backed out the door.

           When Sam left, Dean still shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands until he ultimately jammed them deep into the pockets of his coat with enough force that it shook loose almost all of the glass, sending it floating to the ground around him as if he was a mirage. You could see, even as he stood a few paces away from the bed, that his breathing was quickened from the rapid, shallow movements of his chest and neck. “I’m—ah, I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—” he stammered against a jaw locked shut tensely enough to make the muscles bulge out of his cheeks, and the lack of the self-assuredness that was normally so Dean to you made him seem unbelievably young, made you want to leap across the room and wrap him up in your arms. As it was, you beckoned him over with a shaky hand.

           He walked over to you hesitantly, only sitting down on the side opposite your injuries when you patted the sheets next to you. Awkwardly trying to move your torso as little as possible, you tossed the pillows on that side to the floor and motioned for him to lay down.

           “I don’t want to hurt—”

           “I’ll be fine. Please?”

           Reluctantly taking off his coat and dropping it unceremoniously to the ground, he gingerly tucked himself under your arm and laid his head on your chest. You faintly dragged your fingertips down his back, waiting for his heartbeat and uneven, shallow breathing to slow down. When they didn’t and all you felt was a spreading wetness on the remaining upper half of t-shirt you still had, you twisted laboriously to see Dean’s face.

           Tears streamed down onto you, Dean biting his lip so hard to keep quiet you were shocked you couldn’t see blood, the whites of his teeth almost matching the pressure-blanched skin.

           “Oh, Dean,” you hummed, pulling him close to you with your one arm. “Babe, I’m here, I’m right here. Everything’s okay; I’m okay, you get to treat me like a princess for a few days and I’ll learn for the hundredth time that I shouldn’t go off by myself.”

           “I—I thought you were gone,” Dean whispered between stunted sobs breaking the words off in short staccato, still fighting to speak as though he wasn’t crying even as his tears soaked you.

           You craned your neck slowly to kiss the top of his head. “Not gone, right here. Always going to be right here.”

           “You were bleeding so mu—just like Sam, it was just like when Sam—” he faltered, speaking slowly to try to grab the reins of his voice as it shook.

           “Not just like Sam, baby, I’m still here. Everyone’s okay. And Sam’s okay too, right?” You waited for him to confirm what you knew was true and emphasize your point, drawing back to meet his gaze when he didn’t. “Right?”

           Reluctantly, Dean nodded. The redness around his eyes made his irises seem almost unreal in electric green contrast and you couldn’t believe you were so close to never seeing them again. His lashes were even darker than normal, spiky black frames formed with salty tears like cartoonish mascara. You waited a beat then let him settle back into your chest before continuing, feeling the choke-hiccupping of his breath stop even if it stayed rapid. “Everyone’s okay. You’re okay,” you hummed into his hair. “You’re okay, baby.”

           The two of you stayed like that until Dean’s breathing finally steadied, waiting past the clearly forced long held breaths and through to the point that he genuinely seemed like he’d hit the smooth rhythm you knew so well. “How are you feeling?” you murmured.

           “Like a bitch,” he grumbled softly against your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, thankful beyond anything for the glint of humor back in Dean, that shimmer of normalcy returning.

           “Sorry for scaring you.”

           “I’m never fucking letting you out of my sight again,” he said, words still sticky with swirling emotion and muffled by his cheek pressed against you. You knew he was only partly joking but also that now was not the time to push back, just kissing his hair in response.

           There was no way it took Sam an hour to get you a diner burger but you were thankful for his intuition nonetheless, because by the time he got back Dean was calm enough to get up and had even helped you to put on a new t-shirt—one of his black ones; he said it was because it was looser but you suspected it was some kind of metaphor, covering you with part of himself—and shimmy into a pair of mesh athletic shorts. Standing up for a shower was still too ambitious, but the fresh clothes made you feel a little less gross. He was trying his best to clean up as much broken glass as possible when his brother opened the door and tossed him a paper bag with a bubbly illustrated hamburger on it.

           Walking into the room without taking his jacket off, Sam set your food on the nightstand and grabbed a motel binder of local attractions (minimal) as a makeshift tray for you to eat off of before carefully helping you to sit up a little more. “Double cheeseburger—eat it before the fries, you need the iron. Oh, and I almost forgot—couple of these too.” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two bottles in one big hand that appeared to be acetaminophen and an iron supplement.

           “You’re the best, Sam.” It was nice to hear your voice sound more normal, lubricated with two bottles of Gatorade already, and you tried not to imagine how awkward or painful it was going to be to try to get up and go to the bathroom later.

           The Winchesters sat on the other bed, still in their boots because of the rug of broken glass no one wanted to acknowledge, and Sam turned on whatever dumb comedy he could find first. For a fleeting moment it felt like any normal night on the road, nursing an injury and eating greasy food in a room you’d never see again past tomorrow morning, and you almost forgot that (minutes? hours? you still didn’t know how long you’d been out) earlier you thought you were saying goodbye to the two people you loved most, who’d moved heaven and earth and miles of rural highway to bring you back, whose superhero resilience you’d seen start to crack at the thought of losing you. A searing jolt of pain when you reached for another Gatorade reminded you all too much, and when you hissed both Sam and Dean leapt off the bed with faces contorted in concern.

           “Just stretched too far, I’m okay.”

           Watching them take twin deep breaths could’ve been funny and you hoped it would be in a few days—hoped in a few days laughing wouldn’t feel like being impaled. For now, you tried to drink in this little moment of peace and made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t take another one for granted ever again.

-

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[haruno-sakura-san]

So I'm playing around with this idea for a Fic I'm writing called Altered. I'm just trying to get some thoughts down about it. Let me know what you think.

**

Shikamaru

Tsunade died quickly and painlessly one morning before her retirement. Shikamaru was sure it was the punch line of some cosmic joke at her expense. He wouldn’t be surprised in 20 years he was the butt of a similar one. Both of them hated the job and both worked tirelessly forward. So he supposed it just couldn’t be helped.

The funeral was huge. Kage and shinobi from all villages came to pay respects to the woman who saved the lives of thousands in the war and who’s leadership had come to bring together all the shinobi nations in peace. Each Kage made a speech that was some variant of this narrative, standing in a noble line to the side of her portrait, large enough for the entire gathering to see. On the end, flanking Kakashi, was the only non-hokage, Sakura.

Her frame was small. Smaller than most of the Kage lined beside her, but it was sturdy and unshakable to Shikamaru’s surprise. She wasn’t crying. So often he’d seen Sakura break down, over teammates and Sasuke and strangers, but now of all times her face was dry. She looked strong, respectful, at peace. A mirror of Tsunade’s portrait on display. The perfect apprentice.

“Wasn’t she the one that found her?” Temari asked. She’d followed his gaze to Sakura’s form.

“Ah,” he affirmed, not sure what else to say.

“Must have sucked,” Temari said, and for some reason this made Shikamaru a little irritated.

Sucked. Sucked? Shikamaru knew first hand how much it sucked seeing your teacher die in front of you and having no way to stop. Sucked didn’t even begin to describe it.

Sakura had worn that face when she’d marched into the Hokage’s office, like it was any other day. She didn’t look dazed or broken, but she wasn’t smiling her normal cheery smile.

This was the only clue she’d give as she squared off in front of Kakashi’s desk and said plain as day, “Tsunade passed away this morning. We should begin making arrangements before word gets too far.”

Both him and Kakashi froze.

“Mah, Sakura. That’s not a very funny joke so early in the morning,” Kakashi recovered more quickly than he had.

“It's not early. Its noon. It's not a joke.” She didn’t snap and this shook Shikamaru more than if she’d stormed across the room and slapped her Hokage across the face. Normally she’d snap. But this was just a tired statement of fact after fact.

“How did it happen?” Shikamaru asked, still in shock. He remembered Tsunade barreling in just a few days ago, informing, not requesting, her leave from the hospital for retirement. Kami knows I’ve earned it.

Sakura’s clear gaze turned on him and he felt the weight of his body acutely. Maybe it was that lack of smile.

“A heart attack. It was quick. She was gone before she could feel any pain.”

Kakashi swiveled in his chair, peering out the window at the cloudless blue sky. Not appropriate weather for news like this.

“I see.” Is all he said. Processing, Shikamaru guessed. “Didn’t even get a chance to retire.”

Shikamaru stifled the dry, ironic laugh itching at his throat. Or maybe he just needed a cigarette.

“No,” was all Sakura said.

“Who else knows?” Kakashi now all business.

“Just me and a nurse I trust to stay quiet until an announcement is made.”

Shikamaru felt the floor warp a little. “You were there when it happened?”

This time she did smile. Yeah, isn’t that just the darnedest thing? “Yes. I did everything I could to save her, but there was nothing I could do.”

He knew she wishes there would have been.

“Where is the body” Kakashi asked. Shikamaru winced. The body. Such a careless way to say it.

“It's already been taken care of.” Sakura lowered her eyes to a knot in the wood flooring.

Kakashi let out a weary breath and Shikamaru could tell he wished it wouldn’t have been Sakura taking care of it.

“Sakura,” Kakashi still looked out the window, “We can take this from here. Take some time off and see one of the counselors or be with your friends.”

“With all due respect, there much to be done at the hospital with Tsunade’s departure. I’ll continue working, Hokage-sama.” She bowed stiffly, the Tsunade’s departure hanging in the air. Departure, like she’d just left for retirement and that was that. Shikamaru wondered if that’s what Sakura was thinking. Just that she’d left like planned and she was supposed to carry on. The good little apprentice.

A long moment passed. A battle of wills.

“No,” Kakashi finally said. “You need time to grieve.”

Finally, some of the fire comes out in Sakura. “So do you, but you’re not taking time off, are you? We both have jobs to do here – important jobs - and I’m not going to sit on my ass eating icecream and crying into teddy bears while her hospital goes to shit -”

“Sakura this is not negotiable.”

“I’m fine.” And she does sound fine. “I. Am. Fine.”

They exchange a look loaded with history Shikamaru isn’t privy to. He watches for a moment, then two, wishing he could shrink away and become shadow.

“Thank you,” Sakura says tightly and walks out of the room. If Kakashi gave any sign he assented, Shikamaru didn’t catch it.

“Was it really a heart attack?” Temari says in the present. Shikamaru blinks twice, extracting himself from the memory.

“Ah,” he grunts in confirmation, wishing she’d drop it.

“Seems like it’d take more than that to take her out.” Temari speculates. Again, he’s irritated by her casual tone over the matter. “I mean, she was literally blown apart in the war and she still survived that. The woman was tough as they come. Seems like a little heart attack –,”

“Drop it.” Shikamaru barks, surprising himself. He’s not one to ever take a tone with her, not one to lose control over anything. But the past week has done something to him though, dredged up old memories of Asuma lying still and cold and it frays him at the edges.

Temari opens her mouth to snap back, ever strong-headed, but he interrupts, eyes turning toward Sakura’s steady form, his mind flashing between now and then.

“If Sakura says that’s what happened. That’s what happened.” It's too much trouble to think further than that. So he believes it. He has to. “She did everything she could, so just drop it.”

For now, she does. But he’d be an idiot to think the discussion was completely over.

**

Sakura

Tsunade was dead. Her teacher was dead. The teacher that believed in her and saw in her what Kakashi and all the rest hadn’t was dead. And she’d just walked into Kakashi’s office and lied through her teeth about every single part of it.

Tsunade didn’t die quickly and painlessly. It took several minutes for her spirit to finally untangle from her body and move on. Sakura watched it all happen.

It did happen suddenly. One breath she’d been discussing retirement plans then next – well. Sakura’s stomach turned. She hurried into the ladies' room and hurled her coffee up.

It’d been horrible. Nothing like Sakura had ever seen. And when it was over, nothing remained of the teacher she knew and loved. The image of Tsunade old, shriveled, blackened – Sakura dry heaves into the toilet again - wrong. So, so wrong and it wasn’t supposed to have happened like that. Sakura presses her forehead into the cool rim of the toilet, not caring how dirty might be. She deserved it. Tsunade didn’t.

Knowing how vain her teacher had been, she’d taken care of it. All of it. So that her teacher would have the dignified death she deserved. She had destroyed any evidence of the truth all on her own. And Sakura would carry it, her secret, until her dying breath.

[it-was-summer]

Video Killed The Radio Star - Chapter 6 (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hello! I’m sorry for being so inactive, I just started up college again this semester and it’s been a long week and it’s only Wednesday. I think I might try to update Sunday every week starting next week so we will see how that works out!

Warnings: Soft mention of drugs once again, They are just talking again and things are being put in motion. 

Plot: Spencer and you have conversations and make some plans. You have a certain kind of dream. 

Word Count: 2.1K

Spencer could feel his cheeks grow warm, a grin creeping its way onto his face. There was the pesky idea of fate repeating in the back of his mind. Spencer suppressed the idea, not wanting it to ruin the moment. He was too busy zoning out, thinking about how easy the smile on his face appeared when he heard your voice, not noticing the growing silence over the line. “Spencer?” your voice called through the phone.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m here!” Spencer laughed quickly, clearing his throat nervously. “Why are you up?”

He heard you laughing over the phone, nervous knots twisting in his stomach. “Spencer, it’s seven o’clock.” You giggled, feeling lighter than you had all day. You heard him laugh nervously at himself as he muttered an embarrassment, “Right.”

Spencer licked his lips, “Why did you call?” he questioned, trying his best to relax on his couch.

You felt the weight in your chest replace the butterflies, swallowing hard. You had kept it all in, it was hard to pick the reason for your call. You took in a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “Things have just been piling up, and I feel like I need some help.” your fingers pinched the comforter between your thumb and index.

“What kind of things have been piling up?” Spencer asked, straightening as he listened.

You pinched the comforter tighter, jaw clenching down. You didn’t want to cry with Dr. Spencer Reid on the phone. Maybe it was because you hated feeling vulnerable. You tried your best to relax and remember that he wouldn’t judge you, he said to call if you needed anything, and you did. “I don’t want to say something stupid,”

“You won’t,”

“Well, it kind of started when I left the hospital. I had a dream, a memory, one night. I could feel her, she wasn’t there, because she’s dead! Then,” you let out a calming breath, “Then, I was in my mom’s kitchen, and I saw this pink light. I was back there, like in the room, I could feel it, smell it.” You shivered, overwhelming anxiety dawning on you.

You felt safe with Spencer, you couldn’t explain why you did, but you did. Was it because he was the first face you saw that day? Or because he had come to check up on you in the hospital?

Despite your overwhelming feeling of trust towards Spencer, you couldn’t stop the tiny voice in the back of your mind that told you he thought you were crazy. Clammy hands rubbed against your pajama pants in a desperate attempt to dry them.

Spencer wanted to spew statistics, say something about how many victims experience post-traumatic stress disorder, but he stopped himself. He wanted to dig deeper, he wanted you to know you weren’t alone. He cleared his throat, trying to sound calm. “I know what it’s like, to feel like they’re still around. It seems irrational to think that a dead person is around, that getting saved was all a dream, but I know what it’s like.”

Your heart rate slowed at his words, closing your eyes as you chuckled gently. “You just have to say that because you're my federal agent,” teasing him softly over the phone.

“Hey, that’s Doctor federal agent to you.” Spencer joked, a tiny chuckle building up in his throat. “I’m saying it because I know,” he ruffled his hair as he tried to think about what to say, falling back into a silent panic. He wasn’t used to talking to people about it, especially people that he didn’t know. He tried to recall his emotions, trying his hardest to remember. He wanted to be a beacon of light for you, something to follow, something to trust. He swallowed hard, “About two years ago, I was kidnapped,”

“Spencer,” your tone was so soft, so sweet, he felt his chest pound. “You don’t have to explain anything to me,” You heard a gentle protest on the other line, shushing him. “Spencer, really, it already means the world to me that you gave me your number. You didn’t even have to pick up and yet, you did.”

Spencer hesitated, wanting to insist that he was fine with talking about it, to insist that it didn’t bother him, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew that it wasn’t something he was comfortable with talking about and you were right. He didn’t even know you, but here he was trying to convince you that you were safe. That you weren’t alone. “I’m sorry,”

“For what?”

Spencer grinned, feeling lame as he searched for an answer. After a few moments of silence, you spoke up again, “Spencer, I’m not working right now and I’m always alone,” you trailed off, your cheeks flaring, “Well, I was wondering if I could keep calling you. As long as you aren’t busy,”

You were waiting to hear Spencer’s calming voice reject you, but you could hear the excitement in his voice as he answered with an enthusiastic “Yes,”

You felt your chest tighten, “I’ll call you tomorrow at eight?”

“Eight sounds good,”

“Okay,”

“Okay,”

You quickly said a nervous goodbye, hanging up after hearing Spencer bid you farewell.

---

It was night, cool breezes blew through your hair, as you looked up with a smile. Your arms wrapped around his neck, large hands holding your hips. You ignored the excitement shooting down your spine, your body feeling nuclear under his touch, your emotions being the bomb and his touch was the impact. You felt so wonderfully warm if something touched you, you were sure it would heat up in a second.

You felt his hands move away, pulling at his neck for a thick scarf, wrapping it around your neck delicately, pulling you closer by the ends of it. He laughed, peppermint filling your senses, leaning down quickly. You caught a glance of hazel eyes before you woke up in your lonesome bed.

A pit formed in the bottom of your stomach as you push yourself up on your bed, blinking as you registered who you were just dreaming about. You let out a whisper of a desperate no, dramatically falling back down onto the bed with a groan. Your hands rubbed your eyelids, trying not to picture Spencer leaning down, trying not to remember how he smelt of peppermint. How did you even know that? You scolded yourself as you got up, throwing on some semi-appropriate clothes and heading for the door with your crutches.

You needed some air, you knew he was in your dreamland of romance because he was the last person you talked to last night. After the phone call, you spent the rest of the long night on your bed with a copy of The Picture Of Dorian Gray. Why couldn’t demonic Dorian Gray live in your dreamland? You limped into the coffee shop, holding back a giddy smile as you gave Spencer Reid’s lips one last thought.

You had spent the rest of your day, doing mindless tasks; you read, you cleaned, watched mindless television, anything to keep yourself distracted. Your mind kept drifting towards darker ends, today seemingly worse than the last. Your body yearning desperately for numbing bliss, a gentle reminder that despite all of your romantic dwellings you were still living in an unbearable existence.

You were about to endure another episode of staring up at the ceiling when there was a gentle knock at the door. You welcomed the distraction with a grin, hobbling as fast as you could, over to the door. You opened it to see a delivery woman smiling back at you as she handed you a tiny package, you signed for it quickly and politely shut the door. You sat at your kitchen table, opening the package with a tiny struggle.

It was free from all the tape now, but you couldn’t stop the sick feeling from eating at you. What if you had another stalker? How stupid were you to just bring a package into your house? After everything that had happened, you cursed yourself for your carelessness. You swallowed a quick gulp of air, opening up the package slowly. You let out the air with a tiny gasp, seeing a tiny card on the inside that read Spencer. The note was right next to a box of peppermint tea and a small copy of Oscar Wilde’s The Nightingale and the Rose.

You tried not to let it get to you as fire decorated your cheeks, you opened the note quickly, reading messy handwriting.

Y/N,

Since you said you were always alone, let this keep you company.

-Spencer

You bit the inside of your cheek, heart racing as your stomach filled with the fluttering wings of butterflies. Before you could let your mind go any farther, you suppressed them, choking the life out of beating wings in your stomach. It wasn’t fair to him, to Spencer. He was too good and you were here in your apartment, yearning for a drug to satisfy you. He didn’t need that. He shouldn’t have to fix you and he wasn’t going to be your coping mechanism.  

You stood up, grabbing the peppermint tea, slipping it into the cabinet with a dramatic huff. On your way back to the couch you grabbed the book, sitting down and letting it do the job of keeping you company.

After a cup of peppermint tea, you called Spencer’s phone. You felt a very familiar lump grow in your throat as you heard the first ring. Despite being in the good company of a good book, you couldn’t stop thinking about Spencer. It seemed that thoughts of him kept you more company than anything Oscar Wilde could produce. You let yourself be convinced that he was just a friend, that he was just someone trying to help you get through a rough patch. He was just someone who understood.

Another ring. You squeezed your eyes tight, the sudden urge to hang up the phone was becoming slightly overwhelming. You were about to hang up the phone at the third ring, but then you heard a very breathless “Hello?”

Anxiety exited your system, warmth replacing the void effortlessly. “Hi,” you chuckled, hearing a heavy pant on the other end of the line, “Did I interrupt a workout  routine?”

“No,” Spencer let out a breathy laugh, relaxing at the sound of your voice. It was a welcome distraction from his day, they didn’t have a case, it was just a long day. “I was just cleaning up,”

“Is the doctor dirty?” you questioned, the word choice setting in as your cheeks became a light pink, stuttering to fix your mistake. “I mean, messy! Are you messy?”

Spencer didn’t think the question was all that odd till he realized that it could have been taken out of context and then he let out a tiny chuckle, shaking his head slowly. “No, I’m not dirty, just cluttered,” he answered, a smile on his lips. “Did you get the package?”

“Yes,” Your voice rising in volume with excitement, “I did, it was perfect. Thank you so much.” A tiny piece of guilt slithering into your mind as you stole a glance over at the book next to you. You were about to speak when Spencer cut you off.

“I was just thinking about what you said last night and thought it would cheer you up,”

Your guilty thoughts came to a halt, a blush creeping its way towards your ears as you let out a gentle, “It did,”

“I’m glad it did,”

You let out a soft hum, trying to come up with something to say. You wanted to ask him how his day was, or ask him how he was feeling. But all of those questions seemed weak. You could’ve told him that you wanted to be friends, but your emotions decided for you. “Would you be alright with going out, like as friends?”

“As friends?”

“I would like us to go out as friends, yes.” your voice shook slightly with anxiety as you waited for his response.

Spencer couldn’t fight back the laugh bubbling in his chest, chuckling at how nervous you seemed. “I would love to,”

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, you might think I’m weird or something?”

“Y/N,”

“Yes?”

“I would want nothing more than to go out with you, as a friend, that is.”

[cherienymphe]

Protect & Serve II (Steve Rogers x Reader)

WARNINGS: Cop!Steve, mentions of abuse, gaslighting, STALKING, HARASSMENT, eventual KIDNAPPING/NON-CON

IF ANY OF THIS OFFENDS YOU, PLEASE DNI

➥ {page breaks done by @whimsicalrogers​}

summary:  escaping an ugly past, you have no choice but to return home. While much has remained the same, Officer Rogers is a new addition who has won over the hearts of the town in your absence. And no one believes you when you start to see him for who he really is

~

The next day, you took the time to go outside and walk around your house. You stopped below your bedroom window, eyeing the wall and frowning as you looked around. You weren’t getting much sleep, so perhaps Officer Rogers was right. Maybe it could have been an animal…

Your thoughts turned sour as you thought of the blond man.

It was impressive really, how quickly his demeanor had changed in only a matter of hours. You didn’t know the man, at all, so perhaps it was a bit assuming of you to think such a thing, but you couldn’t ignore the evident shift in his behavior. Was he…upset that you’d turned him down?

With a shake of your head, you made your way to your car. As soon as you settled inside, something felt off. You looked around, unsure as to why that was, but something just did. Brushing it off as your own paranoia, you started your car and began your drive to Walmart.

You hadn’t brought much when you moved back, and you found yourself in need of the simplest of things like tape and a hammer…possibly even a machete. You shook your head, determined to swallow your paranoia. You had grown up here. You knew firsthand how safe this town was.

Your shopping excursion didn’t last long, but when you left the store and made your way back to your car, you noted a police officer behind it. You frowned, picking up your pace when you realized that he…was writing you a ticket.

“Excuse me,” you called.

He looked up, and the familiar blue of his eyes gave you pause, but other than that, he was completely unfamiliar to you. His neat brown hair was pushed away from his face, and light stubble decorated his jaw.

“Is this your vehicle?” he asked.

“Yes, it is. What’s going on?”

He didn’t respond, instead beckoning you forward before pointing. You stood beside him and blinked at your busted taillight.

“Normally, I’d give a warning to get it fixed as soon as possible, but the boss has been cracking down lately. Sorry,” he halfheartedly apologized before handing you the slip of paper.

You sighed when you realized that the man who towed your car to your house must have been extremely rough. You called out to the brunette as he turned to leave.

“Um… Look, this isn’t an excuse or anything, I promise, but my car was brought to my house yesterday. The man who brought it was clearly careless with it. I didn’t even notice…”

He sighed, eyeing you.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but unfortunately, there isn’t much I can do. Just pay the fine and get it fixed as soon as possible,” he told you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but you were interrupted.

“Is there a problem officer?”

You turned towards the familiar voice with wide eyes and noticed the teasing grin on his lips as he stared at the other man.

“This man bothering you, ma’am?” he wondered, looking at you.

“Steve, let me do my job,” the cop huffed.

“It’s a broken taillight, Buck. Hardly a danger in this tiny town…”

With a start, you realized that they knew each other. Of course, they would. There were only so many cops in this town, and they all worked at the same station. Steve’s grin, however, told you that they were closer than just the average coworkers though.

“Giving poor women tickets for a taillight isn’t what the boss meant by do better, and you know it,” he said, taking the paper out of your hands before you could protest. “Besides, I’m responsible for it, anyway, so I’ll deal with it.”

Your eyes widened when he ripped up the ticket, but the officer, Buck is what Steve called him, didn’t protest. He merely sighed, tone filled with exasperation.

“It’s your ass,” he threw at Steve before glancing at you. “Sorry to bother you. Have a great day.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said as soon as the other cop was gone.

“Don’t be silly. I am responsible. Can’t let you pay for something so ridiculous,” he said, reaching for you. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

You hesitated with a frown.

“My car is perfectly fine. I can drive home but thank you though.”

Steve eyed you.

“You have a broken taillight. If another cop stops you, you will get a ticket, and I won’t be there to intervene that time,” he responded.

You wanted to tell him that you didn’t ask him to the first time, but you held your tongue.

“Really, Officer Rogers, it’s-.”

“My car is just over here,” he pointed to a sleek black vehicle.

Again, you were reluctant. He’d asked you out, and when you turned him down, it would be stupid to deny the 180 his attitude had taken. You didn’t want to send the wrong message by accepting yet another ride home from him. But unfortunately, he was making some points.

“Look, I’ll get your taillight fixed, and leave the rest to you so that you can make sure no harm comes to your car this time,” he offered.

Again, if you agreed, you didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s appropriate-.”

He cut you off with a laugh.

“I’m not gearing up to ask you out again. Scout’s honor. I just feel bad…”

Your heart clenched, realizing that he was offering out of guilt, and reluctantly, you agreed. He led you towards his car and opened the passenger door for you. He waited until you were settled in, but unfortunately, you were having trouble with the seatbelt.

“Here, it’s tricky…”

You sharply inhaled when he bent down to lean in, reaching over to click it in place. His hand brushed over your stomach when he pulled back, and you blinked, wondering if you read too much into that. He had closed the door and was slipping into the driver’s side in no time.

The ride to your house was silent. There was tension in the air, but you wondered if it was purely your own doing. You didn’t feel comfortable accepting rides from strangers, no matter what their profession was, and a few run ins with Steve didn’t mean anything to you. He was still a stranger.

You quietly thanked him when he pulled into your yard, exiting the car without a backwards glance. You waved him goodbye as you entered your house, but just like last time, he didn’t leave right away. You watched through the window as he sat there for a worrying amount of time. His windows were tinted, so you couldn’t see what he was doing, but you could’ve sworn you felt the heat of his gaze. Eventually, he drove off, and you sighed in relief.

The next night, you were woken up by a noise coming from behind your house. Rousing from sleep, you were convinced you’d imagined it. You had rolled over, determined to go back to sleep, but your eyes flew open when you heard it again.

You sat up in bed with wide eyes, listening for it. A few minutes passed with nothing but silence, but then you heard a noise coming from below your window. Frozen with fear, you listened as the bumping noises traveled around the house. Swallowing that fear down, you threw your covers back and slowly, but surely, descended the stairs.

One of your steps creaked, and you remembered to step over it. You glanced at all of the windows as you stood in the living room, not seeing any shadows through the thin curtains. You heard another noise coming from your left, and you slowly made your way into the kitchen. You didn’t hear anything else and considered going back to bed, telling yourself that it was just some animal.

You aren’t in the city anymore, you had to remind yourself.

However, when you turned your head to the right, towards the kitchen window, you could see a shadow through the curtains. A yelp left your lips, and you stumbled back before hurrying up the stairs. You could hear banging on your front door, now, but you were already dialing 911.

You locked yourself in your room as you waited for the police to arrive. Like before, it took no time to hear the sirens approaching, but this time, you didn’t open your door until you heard your name being called. You shakily exited your house, arms folded over your chest as you came face to face with Steve again…and the officer from earlier.

Steve approached you while you stood on the front porch, and you explained to him what happened. The other man stood by the car, looking around, gaze hard. Steve told you that they’d secure the perimeter of the property. You leaned against your door and waited while they did so.

Frustration bubbled up within you minutes later when Steve shook his head, approaching you. His partner slowly went to stand in between him and the cruiser, eyeing both of you.

“Can you…check again? Please? This is the second time this has happened, and I know I’m not going crazy,” you begged. “They were banging on my door.”

Steve exhaled before he slowly nodded. He made a gesture to the other cop, and you watched as he moved to scope out the property again.

“Bucky’s going to check out the place again. Are you getting enough sleep?” Steve asked you.

Your eyes cut to him, and you frowned, not liking his insinuation.

“Of course. There was someone here,” you told him.

He nodded.

“I want to believe you. You say you saw someone in your yard, and I’ll believe that you did. Its just…”

He looked away with a sigh.

“We don’t get a lot of crime in this town. Nothing more serious than some bored teens stealing some gas, anyway,” he told you.

You did your best to keep your voice even as you narrowed your eyes.

“I know that. I grew up here, Officer Rogers.”

His lips thinned, and he nodded.

“I understand. I’m just saying that it’s unusual.”

“Believe me, I know that its unusual. Hence, why I’m calling you guys because this isn’t okay. Someone is skulking about my yard and making noises and-.”

“It’s all clear,” the other officer, Bucky, said as he glided around the side of the house.

You heaved a heavy sigh at that, placing your hands on your hips as you looked to Steve again.

“So what are my options? What can I do about this?”

His lips parted, and he glanced away, seemingly hesitant to speak. You blinked and let out a scoff, a humorless chuckle escaping you.

“Let me guess… There really isn’t much you can do because, as far as you know, no crime has been committed. Am I correct? I’m not hurt, and no one has been caught on the property, so…until then, your hands are tied,” you recited the words you’ve heard on thousands of crime documentaries.

“Everything you’ve said is correct,” he confirmed.

“So that’s what we do? Wait for someone to break into my house and kill me?”

“I’m just doing my job,” he defended, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes.

“Yeah…I know,” you murmured. “Thanks, anyway.”

You left him on the porch and closed your door just a tad too hard behind you.

Unfortunately for you, the nights that followed went much the same. You’d be roused from sleep sometime in the night, and again, you’d convince yourself it was some animal, but like always, you’d go downstairs. It would take some minutes, but eventually you’d see a silhouette through your curtains, and every time, you’d call 911.

It was always Steve who showed up. Sometimes he was alone, and sometimes he’d have that other officer, Bucky, with him. For some reason, you got the feeling that Bucky didn’t like you. You supposed that you couldn’t blame him. Night after night you called the cops on some perpetrator who they had yet to even see. It was probably frustrating, but you guaranteed it was a thousand times more frustrating for you.

On the 7th night, after walking around the property a total of 3 times, Steve approached you with a sigh. You already knew where this was going before he even opened his mouth, and you rolled your eyes.

“I’m not crazy,” you told him before he could even speak.

“I never said you were,” he responded in that placating tone that was becoming all too familiar to you.

It was starting to wear on your nerves.

“Someone is out here every night. They are messing with me!” you desperately said.

He pursed his lips, taking a step towards you, and you eyed him.

“Look, Y/N… I’ve seen this behavior before, and it isn’t uncommon-.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about victims of abuse.”

Your eyes widened, and your heart dropped to your stomach. You looked at him as if he’d punched you in the gut, and never mind how he knew, but the audacity to throw it in your face so callously. You took a deep breath before you spoke.

“Excuse me?” you gasped, a frown on your face.

He sighed.

“Your body language,” he explained. “I could tell from the first moment I met you. They train us for things like that.”

“I don’t care what they train you for. It’s incredibly rude of you-.”

“This is common with people like you. You’re paranoid, your thoughts get the best of you, you convince yourself of things that aren’t happening…”

Your head started swimming, and you felt like you were going to pass out. How dare he!

“You’re not crazy, just…traumatized, Y/N” he finished.

You clenched your jaw, glaring at him now. God, you wanted to wipe that look off of his pretty face, but he’d probably arrest you.

“Whatever has happened in the past has nothing to do with what’s happening now. Someone is tormenting me every night, and it seems like you won’t take me seriously until I’m dead,” you spat. “…and that’s Ms. Y/L/N to you.”

You turned and slammed the door in his face before he could respond.

You didn’t sleep much that night, too frustrated and angry. Why did he think it was appropriate to throw that in your face like that? It didn’t negate the fact that someone was prowling around your house almost every night, and no one was taking you seriously. You were growing worried, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before this started to affect your daily life too. You couldn’t be dealing with this when school started, and Wanda agreed.

“Have you tried talking to someone?”

You frowned at her.

“What? Like…a therapist?”

She rushed to continue at the look on your face.

“I’m not saying that you’re imagining it. We both know that nothing serious ever happens in this town, but I’m not naïve enough to completely write off any possibility. I just think that if you show that you’re dealing with whatever happened to you, and you have credible support to agree that you aren’t imagining things, maybe Steve and the rest will be more inclined to take this seriously.”

It sounded like a good idea, but you didn’t think it should come to that, and that’s what you told her.

“You’re right, but what else can you do? Eventually, they’re going to stop taking your calls seriously and might even charge you for a false 911 call.”

You groaned.

“God, I bet Officer Rogers is telling everyone at the station what a nut I am,” you whispered, resting your forehead on your hands.

“Steve’s not like that. He’s just concerned. Are you sure you didn’t misinterpret what he said?”

You scoffed.

“There was no misunderstanding about it. He threw my past in my face in the most callous way possible and proceeded to use it as evidence to support his claim that I am simply imagining things.”

“That just…doesn’t sound like Steve,” she hummed.

“Of course, it doesn’t,” you mumbled just as the bell dinged, signaling customers entering the diner.

Wanda looked up, and by the look on her face, you knew who had just come in.

“Welcome in,” she greeted, standing.

Her voice drifted away, and you assumed she was seating them to a table. You closed your eyes and rubbed your temples, mulling over what to do. You were preparing yourself for another sleepless night. You were pulled from your thoughts by the clearing of a throat, and you opened your eyes, gaze connecting with a familiar one.

Steve stood in front of you, sans uniform, and threw you a small smile. His hair wasn’t so neat today, a couple strands kissing his forehead. He was wearing a plain fitted white tee. The last time you saw him out of uniform, he’d had on a leather jacket, and it put your nerves on end to confirm that he was indeed as muscular as you thought.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” he greeted. “Can I steal you away for a moment?”

The hesitation must have been written all over your face, so he continued.

“I wanted to apologize for last night.”

You gave a jerky nod and stood, following him outside. You folded your arms over your chest as you waited for him to speak.

“I shouldn’t have said that last night. It was uncalled for, and while I had the best intentions, it was still wrong. I’m sorry,” he said.

You simply nodded and watched as he darted his tongue out to swipe over his bottom lip.

“…I was correct in my assumption though, wasn’t I?”

“I don’t really think that’s any of your business. Besides, you seemed sure enough in your assumption last night,” you told him.

Steve took a step towards you, and you eyed him.

“I know it isn’t any of my business, but it doesn’t have to be that way…”

Your brows furrowed.

“People in this town, they don’t just see Officer Rogers when they look at me. They see someone they trust…a friend. They confide in me, and I want you to feel comfortable to do the same.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that.

“I do want to help you. I know it may not seem like it, but it’s the truth. I imagine this is quite hard for you,” he continued.

“It is,” you confirmed. “…and that’s why its so frustrating that nothing is being done.”

“I wish I could do more, but my ranking prevents that. If I had it my way, I’d stakeout your house every night,” he confessed.

“You’d do that?” you wondered hopefully.

He took another step towards you.

“I would. My superiors don’t have to know everything I do at night…”

You only took note of his close proximity when you realized you could feel his body heat. You squirmed under his gaze, and he chuckled.

“Unfortunately, I can’t though. If they found out, I’d have no good excuse for being there so late at night. It would be a different story if we were, let’s say, seeing each other, but that isn’t the case…,” he trailed off.

Your heart skipped a beat, and your mind whirled, wondering if you were imagining the implications behind his words, perhaps misinterpreting the way he worded that. You blinked when he took another step closer, eyes gleaming.

“It’s really a shame too, because I know it won’t be long before they hit you with a charge for a false emergency call,” he admitted, and your eyes widened.

He tilted his head at you, a frown on his own face.

“If things were perhaps…different, there’d be a lot more that I could do, but unfortunately for you, they aren’t.”

No.

You weren’t crazy.

The man before you was definitely insinuating what you suspected he was, and your stomach churned. You stumbled back, away from him, heart going haywire in your chest as you ran your eyes over him.

“No…they aren’t. If you’ll excuse me,” you rushed out, jerking the door of the diner open.

You were quick to grab your purse, tensing when you heard him enter behind you. Wanda called out to you, but you were already out of the door, not sparing Steve Rogers a glance.

Days later, you were pushing your grocery cart to your car, glad to have it back. Your taillight was fixed, and you’d been the only one responsible for driving it home. Per your inspection, there was no more damage done to it.

You’d just parked it beside the vehicle, preparing to load your groceries inside when you heard someone calling for you. You didn’t realize they were trying to get your attention at first, after all “ma’am” wasn’t exactly specific. However, when you looked up, your eyes met the grocer who often bagged them for you.

He was holding a bag as he ran towards you, brown hair bouncing, and he panted as he slowed. He held the bag out, nearing you with a smile.

“You forgot this,” he said, short of breath.

“Oh! Thank you,” you told him, taking it from his hand. “I didn’t even notice. Sorry you had to run all the way out here.”

“It’s no problem,” he cheerily told you. “I wanted to anyway. Didn’t want you to miss them.”

You threw him an appreciate smile, and he opened his mouth to say something else when something over your shoulder caught his attention.

“How would May feel about you flirting with customers instead of doing your job?” a familiar voice teased.

You jumped, glancing over your shoulder to find none other than Steve there, in uniform as he leaned against the back of your car, a smile playing on his lips. The kid before you grumbled.

“I wasn’t flirting, Officer Rogers,” he mumbled, face flushed. “I was just returning some groceries she left.”

“Sure,” Steve mocked, making the kid’s face redden more.

You frowned at him, not liking the way he was embarrassing the teen.

“Thank you,” you told him again, throwing him a strained smile, trying to convey how sorry you were for the blond man’s behavior.

He nodded, throwing one last look at Steve before sulking away. You sighed, unlocking your car.

“You didn’t have to embarrass him like that, you know.”

Steve stepped closer, and you threw him a withering look.

“I was only teasing. Peter knows that. Here, let me help you-.”

“I’ve got it,” you interrupted, but he didn’t listen.

You huffed as he loaded your groceries into the backseat. When he was done, he stepped back, and he placed his hand on your waist to move you back while he closed the door, causing your eyes to widen. His fingers trailed from your waist to your stomach when he moved to push the cart away, and you stumbled back. The encounter happened so fast that you wondered if you’d imagined it to be something it wasn’t.

You were still stunned when he made his way back to you, and you made sure you were far away when he opened your door for you. Eyeing him, you tightened your grip on your purse and your keys before shakily sliding into the seat. You went to close the door, but he prevented you from doing so.

Your grip on the door handle tightened as he pressed one hand to the top of the door, stepping closer as he pressed the other to the hood of your car over your head. Goosebumps broke out over your flesh at his close proximity, and as you looked around, you realized that no one would think anything of it. Officer Steve Rogers, ever the helpful gentleman, was simply helping a woman with her groceries and into her car.

You looked away from him, staring through the windshield just as he spoke.

“I see you haven’t called the station in a few days. Does that mean everything’s alright?”

You swallowed.

No. Everything wasn’t alright. In fact, it was the opposite. The noises had never stopped, sometimes even escalating to knocks on your door. That never lasted long though. 5 to 7 minutes at the most, and each night you just had to force yourself to ignore it. What could you do? If you called again, and they found no one there, you’d be charged. Steve had said so himself.

“Yes,” you lied. “Everything’s fine, now.”

He hummed, leaning in, and you darted your eyes to meet his.

“I’m glad to hear that. I thought that maybe you’d heeded my warning. Either way, I’m happy. The last thing I’d want to see is you doing some minor jail time for a false 911 call. That’s a misdemeanor, you know,” he informed you.

You clenched your jaw.

“Yes, I know,” you bit out.

The arm that was above you moved, and paranoid as usual, you jumped, dropping your keys into your lap. Steve reached for them before you could, and your eyes widened, heart dropping to your stomach as his hand slid between your thighs. He was quick in grabbing them, hand grazing along the inside of your thigh just before placing them in your trembling hand.

He wrapped his own hand around yours as he did so, and you looked at him with glassy eyes, somewhat in disbelief of what had just happened. What was currently happening. His blue eyes sparkled as they bore into your frightened ones, and he leaned in.

“I’m glad you’re being smart about this. Believe me, I wish I could do more. I’d love nothing more than to protect you properly…”

His voice was scarily calm, and you attempted to pull your hand out of his grip, but he tightened his hold, the corner of his lips quirking upwards.

“…but the way…circumstances are right now, I can’t. But I am here if you decide to give it any more thought.”

You frowned, lips trembling when he finally let you go. You hugged your hand to your chest as he stepped back, refusing to look at him now.

“Drive safe,” he said, just before closing your door for you.

You immediately locked it, breath shaky and body trembling. You blinked back the tears that had started to collect, and it took you a whole 20 minutes to finally get your bearings and start your car. If you had doubts about Steve’s behavior before, they were long gone now.

~

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