#checking ao3 every five minutes in desperation!

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

what is up with the lack of commenting on ao3 in our modern age 😩

[smartkookiee]

Wounds We Never Show // Prologue: Before It All —jjk.

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❥pairing: Jungkook x Reader (she/they, afab) ❥genre/rating: 18 + explicit content, enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers, these two really do hate each other ❥chapter warnings: Fighting (verbal), swearing, mutual hate ❥word-count: 2.4k ❥Series Masterlist ❥ || Next Chapter fic is cross posted to ao3 send an ask or comment on post to be added to the tag list

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Your final together was tomorrow, after a month of painfully hard work it would finally be over. Except you hadn’t heard from Jungkook  this week at all. From what you can tell he seemed to finish all of his portion of the work. You on the other hand, due to some finals, were a little behind but you had no doubts that you would be able to catch up. 

Not hearing from Jungkook did have you somewhat concerned. 

You both were normal last week but this week radio silence. You had texted him just keeping him updated on the progress of your work. You choked it up to him probably being swamped with his own work, and his own projects for other classes. So you tried not too worry. 

You sent one more text, anxiety rising with each passing minute.

:hey sorry to text you again. I’m just checking in! I should be able to finish in the next hour or two, so don’t worry.

:we are going to kill this presentation in the morning.

May have been a touch late to texting someone, it was 1:30 in the morning. You didn’t care though, he had texted you at like two in the morning before. So, you figured he’d forgive you.

But the second you sent the text.

The lights and your laptop had switched off. You sat in completely darkness. Suddenly the emergency lights shown by your door. You turned on your flashlight. Your laptop was old so your power being out means that you don’t have a laptop to work on. You made your way to the hall where some others had gathered. Asking what had happened.

Your RA eventually came up to your floor and told everyone not to worry, they were going to have the power on soon and to stay in our rooms for now. That we would get some text updates. You decided to not panic yet, soon after you did get a text saying that their was a an on campus outage and the problem would be resolved soon.

“Seriously?” you muttered, going back into your room. You texted Jungkook again.

:hey sorry I swear this is the last one, power in my dorm is out.

:and you know how my laptop is, so I have to wait until the power comes back.

:still going to kill it tomorrow!

Forty-five agonizing minutes later, the power finally returned. You rushed back to your laptop, praying everything was still there. But when you opened your document, it was blank. Completely empty.

“No,” you whispered, frantically searching for any backup.

Your entire month of work was gone. You tried finding a previous version, but there was nothing. Not on your hard drive, not in your email, not even a single backup copy. Every word, every citation, every carefully crafted paragraph—vanished. Except... Jungkook might have a copy.

You grabbed your phone and called him, your fingers trembling. Voicemail. You called again, and it rang once before going straight to voicemail again.

“Jungkook, pick up. Something happened. I need you to call me back.”

Panic set in as you scoured every corner of your computer. Desperate, you even checked old drafts and random notes on your phone, but there was nothing. Your heart sank. You called Jungkook two more times, but there was still no answer.

You were going to have to start over.

You knew the material—you’d been working on it every day for a month—but rewriting it from memory was going to be a nightmare. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, and started typing. Every minute felt like an hour, but you pushed through. Tiredness clawed at you, and your eyes stung from the screen’s glare, but there was no other option.

Five hours later, you finally finished. The paper was nowhere near perfect, but it was something. A B, maybe a C at best, but it was better than nothing. Exhaustion overtook you the second you hit save, and you collapsed into bed.

It felt like only a second had passed when your eyes snapped open. You scrambled for your phone, the panic setting in again.

10:05 AM.

Ten missed texts and three missed calls from Jungkook.

“No!” You leapt out of bed, pulling on the first clothes you found, emailing the paper to yourself while sprinting out the door. You raced across campus, nearly tripping as you weaved through students, your breath burning in your lungs. By the time you reached the classroom, the hallway was filled with students leaving.

You pushed through the door, your hair a mess, sweat dripping down your forehead.

“Shit, no, no, please.” You spotted your professor leaving and tried to push your way forward, only to be blocked by Jungkook.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he sneered as you stumbled in, breathless and disheveled.

“Jungkook--” you began, but he cut you off.

“Where the hell have you been? Why weren’t you here?” His voice was icy, and he took a menacing step toward you, making you step back.

“I—I fell asleep!” You stammered, tears welling up. Your exhaustion was really hitting you, and you couldn’t hold them in, “Did you see my texts? My calls? My voicemails?”

“Texts and calls don’t mean shit if you’re not here!” he snapped. “You’re acting like you care, but you clearly don’t. You’ve been flaky this entire time.”

“Jungkook, that’s not fair—”

“Not fair?” he cut in, voice rising. “Maybe you did this on purpose! Maybe you’ve been plotting to screw me over!”

The accusation hit hard. “Are you seriously accusing me of sabotaging you? I’ve worked my ass off for this project!”

Jungkook’s eyes were cold. “And where were you when it mattered? You think your excuses are enough? Friends don’t disappear.”

The recent reconciliation between the both of you now dissolving on the ground between the both of you. You both had taken huge strides to become friends despite your resistance.

“Friends don’t accuse each other of being petty schemers!” you shot back, the anger surging. “I’ve been working all night to fix this, and you’re just throwing all my effort back in my face!”

“Maybe I’m tired of your games,” Jungkook retorted, his voice dripping with contempt. “Maybe David was right about you. Maybe he was right that this is something you do.”

David, your ex-boyfriend. Who had manipulated so many people into believing that you were crazy, when he had cheated on you multiple times. What hurt worse? Jungkook knew all of this, knew that David was an asshole. Knew that David was an awful person who lied every time he spoke.

Now he was throwing it in your face, what the hell was wrong with him?

The sting of his words was unbearable. “How dare you! I trusted you to be reasonable. You said you believed me when it came to what David said about me. How dare you throw that in my face! I came here ready to explain, ready to make things right. But you’re too busy being a jackass to listen.”

“I may be a jackass but at least I can be relied upon.” he said quietly, almost dismissively.

The words cut deeper than any knife. “You know what? I don’t need to defend myself to someone who’s already made up their mind. You’re not worth the effort, since you are so quick to blame others. You’re just like David after all.”

You turned away, feeling tears spill down your face. You walked away, not looking back. You had to save your grades, even if it meant cutting ties with Jungkook for good. Didn’t really matter, you two didn’t know each other that well anyways.

You found your professor, explained everything through your tears, and showed him the evidence. He listened, though his sympathy couldn’t override the rules. He allowed you to submit your rewritten paper but couldn’t let you do the presentation. He promised to grade fairly but couldn’t guarantee a good mark.

You received a D. It was lower than you hoped but enough to pass. Jungkook, however, failed, delaying his graduation.

You felt a grim satisfaction, but the bitterness lingered. The loss of the friendship gnawed at you, even if you hated him. You’d never see him again, and you were more than okay with that.

That was five years ago now.

The memory lingered as fresh and raw as ever. You had moved on, grown, and carved out a space where Jungkook’s existence didn’t matter. That was until you became friends with Melanie, who in every sense of the word was your best friend. Though, because fate is a funny thing, she fell in love with Namjoon. Namjoon’s closest friend was none other than Jungkook.

That relationship kept you and Jungkook in each other's lives for longer than either of you had cared for.

Forcing the two of you back into each other’s orbit. That also meant facing Jungkook repeatedly, each time resulting in fights so venomous you wondered how Melanie and Namjoon put up with it. So many clashes over so many years, so many attempts by mutual friends proved futile in bringing the both of you together. Eventually, everyone gave up and just made sure to never have the two of you in a room together.

Now with Namjoon and Melanie’s engagement, a wedding loomed around the corner.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, mind still reeling from the past. The fallout from that final class had changed everything. Every time you saw Jungkook since then, it was an instant—words turned to daggers, and every conversation became a battlefield. Neither of you ever backed down; pride kept you both locked in a bitter stalemate.

“Just a heads-up,” Melanie said, breaking you out of your thoughts. She hesitated, eyes flicking away as if bracing for impact. “I know how you two feel about each other, but he’s Namjoon’s best friend.”

You knew what was coming, but you still grimaced. “Don’t tell me.”

Melanie sighed. “Jungkook is his best man.”

You clenched your jaw, the anger bubbling up instantly. You had known this was inevitable, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. “Of course, he is.”

Melanie’s living room felt unusually tense, the soft glow of the evening sun doing little to warm the atmosphere. Melanie had always been the bridge between you and Jungkook—constantly trying to keep the peace, but it was becoming increasingly clear that this time was different. You couldn’t just show up, exchange a few biting remarks with Jungkook, and call it a day. This was her wedding. This was the culmination of everything she’d dreamed of, and she deserved your best effort.

Melanie took a deep breath, her stern expression softening just slightly. “I know it’s a big ask, and I wouldn’t push it if I didn’t have to. But Namjoon and Jungkook—they’ve been through so much together. He’s not just a friend to Namjoon; he’s like a brother. And I need you both to make this work.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of her words. Melanie was trying to keep the peace, but the sadness in her eyes was unmistakable. She had seen you and Jungkook tear each other down time and again. Seeing the tears you shed over the times he would hit the nail on the head, and say something that went too far. Held you back from starting a physical altercation with him.

Each encounter was more bitter than the last, and every argument chipped away at the thin veneer of civility you both clung to.

“I promise,” you said, your voice steady despite the resentment simmering underneath. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Melanie’s lips twitched into a small smile, but her eyes remained cautious. “Thank you. And I mean it, no half-hearted attempts. I need rainbows and kindness coming out of both of your asses.”

You laughed despite yourself, appreciating the way Melanie could still inject humor into even the most awkward of situations. “Got it. Rainbows and kindness. I’ll bring a whole damn unicorn if that’s what it takes.”

“Good, I don’t know what I would do if we had another new years situation.” Although it was years ago, that was probably the worst fight you and Jungkook had. The things that were said and the drink you dumped on him are very present in your mind. Made you laugh to yourself even but it definitely caused a bot of an issues in your group.

You shook your head, feeling a familiar pang of bitterness. “Yeah that was a really low moment for me. I think because of that things between us will never change. He’s still that same arrogant jerk who can’t own up to his mistakes. And I’m done pretending I care enough to fix anything.”

“People change,” she said softly, it was something she tried to convince you of many times. “But I get it. You don’t have to be friends—you just have to coexist.”

“That, I can do,” you said firmly. “I’m not going to let him ruin this for you.”

“Thank you,” Melanie said, squeezing your hand. “I’m so happy you accepted the role. I couldn’t imagine my wedding without you there.”

“For you? Anything,” you replied, your resolve hardening. You would hold onto your promise to Melanie, no matter how much Jungkook got under your skin. This wedding was about Namjoon and Melanie, not you and whatever animosity you harbored toward Jungkook.

The room lapsed into a comfortable silence, but your mind was racing, already plotting ways to avoid Jungkook’s inevitable provocations. You pictured the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, the reception—any scenario where the two of you would be forced to interact. You would keep your distance, smile politely, and not engage. If Jungkook’s presence was like a storm cloud threatening to ruin the day, you would be calm. You owed Melanie that much.

“When the wedding rolls around, I’ll keep up appearances and be civil and kind,” you said, trying to reassure not just Melanie, but yourself. “Jungkook might be the spawn of Satan, but as long as I don’t speak to him directly, everything will go perfectly.”

No amount of promises could erase the deep-seated anger you felt every time you saw his face. This time, though, you would have to bury it, if only for a weekend. You would smile through gritted teeth, hold your tongue when he inevitably said something infuriating, and pretend you were above it all.

You had months to prep yourself though. Plenty of time to make sure that nothing Jungkook could do could piss you off.

Nothing that weekend will surprise you.

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❥ || Next Chapter

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[steddieas-shegoes]

heaven and hell were words to me

for @steddiesmuttyseptember prompts 'soft and slow' and 'bruise'

rated e | 2732 words | 18+ only, minors dni | check ao3 for tags

🟣🟣🟣🟣🟣🟣🟣🟣🟣🟣🟣🟣

steve is somewhere between heaven and hell. is that purgatory? he thinks they read about it in school, but he didn’t think it would ever be relevant for him. he didn’t exactly believe in a higher power.

but the first time eddie munson kisses him, he thinks that god had to have something to do with his creation.

he’d never been kissed the way eddie kissed him. hungry, but reserved. soft, but with a promise of more. hands floating and finding every sensitive place to touch while their bodies are flush against each other.

and when he kept doing it, every day after school when steve picked up dustin and eddie was there waiting to see him, after visiting steve at work, after a date, steve started to wonder if all they’d ever do was kiss. and while he’d probably find a way to be content with that because this kissing was unlike anything he’d ever done before, he wanted more.

it took him two months to say anything. two months of tongues tracing teeth and lips, two months of wandering hands that never quite wandered far enough, two months of wondering if eddie didn’t want anything more from him.

they’re boyfriends, they’d had that talk surprisingly quickly after their first kiss.

steve just needs to know if he’s the reason they haven’t done more. that’s all.

this particular purgatory is the waiting. waiting for eddie to finish up hellfire, waiting for the kids to all be picked up by parents, waiting for them to be alone for the first time all week. he thought about waiting for eddie at the trailer, but he’s pretty sure wayne’s off tonight, and if the conversation goes the way he hopes, wayne shouldn’t be around to hear what they get up to.

finally, five minutes later than usual, the kids file out of the auditorium side doors, laughing and talking excitedly amongst themselves. it must’ve been a good campaign.

gareth and frankie exit next, heading to frankie’s car parked behind the auditorium. he gives them both a small wave from his driver’s seat, they wave back.

steve sighs as he checks the time on his phone a couple minutes later. eddie usually stays to clean up, but he rarely takes this long.

just as steve shuts off his car and opens his door to get out, the side door opens and eddie comes out holding his folders and bag of mini figures.

“eds!” steve calls.

“stevie! what’re you doin’ here?” eddie walks over to him with a grin. “thought we were meeting at my place.”

“i was actually hoping we could go to mine?” steve feels nauseous, worried that eddie will immediately sense what his plan is and tell him no. break up with him, even.

“sure, sweetheart.” eddie kisses the corner of his mouth. “i just gotta stop for gas and then i’ll be there.”

of course eddie wouldn’t say no. steve feels instant relief.

“okay. be safe.”

“always. you too. you seem stressed.”

“i’m okay. i’ll see you soon.”

****

they’re making out in steve’s bed when he finally gets up the nerve to say something.

eddie’s hands are holding his hips steady, keeping him from getting friction on his neglected dick, and he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t ask, he’ll combust.

“could we…like…touch each other or something?”

eddie pulls away and frowns. “we are touching each other.”

“no, yeah. we are, i guess. but i meant like, can i touch your dick and you touch mine? or can our dicks touch?”

eddie snorts. “did you really just as if our dicks can touch?”

steve groans. “yes! my dick is desperate! i get so hard when we do this and then i have to hide in the bathroom to take care of it because you don’t seem interested and that’s okay! like i don’t wanna pressure you or anything, but i just wanna know if that’s the route i have to take or if we’re ever gonna do more than this.”

he covers his face so he can’t see eddie’s reaction and so eddie can’t see how red his face is. at least his dick isn’t throbbing in his jeans anymore. the embarrassment seems to have made him go softer.

eddie’s hands pry steve’s away, and steve thinks that the look on eddie’s face is probably similar to how a lion looks before it tackles its lunch.

“i was waiting on you to make a move,” eddie explains. “robin said i should take it slow so you know i’m serious about you.”

“you won’t fuck me because of robin?”

eddie shrugs. he cups steve’s face in his hands and leans in to press a soft kiss to his lips.

“if you want me to have sex with you, all you gotta do is ask, sweetheart.”

“will you please have sex with me?” steve has literally never said those words before, but eddie gives him a lot of firsts, and this might as well be one of them.

“yeah, stevie. i’ll take care of you.”

it’s still slow, slower than steve’s ever done anything in bed.

eddie kisses down his neck, careful not to miss a single inch. he only pauses to take his shirt off, then continues kissing his shoulders and collarbone, across his chest, sucking on his nipples until steve is breathless and arching his back for more.

steve’s never felt taken care of like this. he’s always been the one taking care of someone, in bed, in life, in friendships. he’s not used to melting into sheets while a tongue traces lines between his moles on his stomach and sides. he could be, though, if this is what it’s always like with eddie.

“you okay with a mark?” eddie pokes a spot on steve’s side. he looks down to see the heart-shape patch of freckles under his ribs. he nods, feeling weightless and like he weighs a ton the moment eddie’s searching gaze rests on his eyes. “tap my head twice if you want me to stop.”

steve nods in agreement and his stomach does some kind of swooping maneuver that he didn’t think was possible outside of roller coasters and skydiving.

eddie’s mouth is hot and wet against his skin, his tongue darting out to taste him. he hopes he doesn’t taste too sweaty. unless eddie likes that.

teeth nip at his skin, tugging it further into eddie’s mouth as he sucks gently at first. steve moans. he thinks he could probably come like this if eddie doesn’t stop, which would probably be even more embarrassing than admitting he jerked himself off in the bathroom while eddie thought he was just taking a piss.

the pain gets sharper as his skin rolls between eddie’s front teeth. he knows he’s leaving a bruise now, and that makes everything blur a bit.

every time he sees the bruise, touches the bruise, presses the bruised part of his body against a counter or table, all he’ll think about is being under eddie.

this is heaven.

eddie pulls away what could be hours later, looking at steve with glossy eyes and red lips.

“good?”

steve can only nod. his voice has drifted far away and he doesn’t even mind if it never comes back. as long as he can have this, he doesn’t need to speak.

eddie unbuttons his jeans and slides them down, kissing down his thighs as he does so. steve’s shivering under his touch, his gentle care as he strips steve’s underwear off too.

steve’s leaking against his stomach, drops of precum adding to the light sheen of sweat across his waist and upper body. it’s not even hot in his room, it’s just the proximity of eddie’s body and the excitement of finally getting what he’s wanted.

“even better than i pictured,” eddie says against the inside of his thigh. his eyes haven’t left steve’s twitching dick since he finished taking his pants off. “can’t wait to get my mouth on you.”

“you’ve had your mouth on me all night.” steve’s being a shit, and eddie’s raised brow and shake of his head tells him eddie knows that.

“but i haven’t had you begging for me to let you come in my mouth, have i?”

steve feels heat blossom on his face.

“you’re gonna let me come in your mouth?” steve feels overwhelmed suddenly, too caught up in the thought of eddie licking the precum off his dick.

“if you’re good for me.”

“how can i be good for you?” steve dares to ask.

“oh, sweetheart. i’ve got so much to teach you.” eddie half-laughs, half-moans. “for now, as long as you stay still, i’ll let you finish once i’ve had my fill.”

steve can’t help but notice that eddie’s still fully dressed, but it doesn’t bother him the way he thinks it should. in fact, his cock jumps at the thought of being completely bare while eddie just stares at his vulnerability.

just as steve feels the blush on his cheeks shifting further south, eddie’s tongue licks a stripe up his length, from base to tip. steve clutches at the sheets, doing his best not to buck up and slap eddie’s face with his cock. he’s not sure eddie would be into that, and even if he were, now isn’t the time to test it.

“good. already so good for me,” eddie says before he takes half of steve’s length in his mouth and sucks.

is there something better than heaven? if so, steve’s there.

eddie was made to suck his cock. he’s gonna tell him that the moment he can breathe again.

eddie moans around him and swallows, and steve has never come in the first ten seconds of a blow job, but he thinks tonight might be yet another first for him. eddie does it again, and steve looks down to see him smirking up at him. he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“fuck, baby,” steve gasps when eddie takes him further, the head of his cock hitting the back of his throat. “need to come.”

eddie pulls off of him with a pop, spit dripping from his mouth. “not yet.”

his hand circles the base of steve’s cock, tightening around him until it’s almost painful.

“please, eddie.”

“i wanna enjoy this more. you can hold off for another few minutes, can’t you?” the way eddie asks feels like he’s teasing, and steve kind of loves the shame it brings him.

who knew he was a little bit of a freak?

eddie turns his head and bites down on steve’s inner thigh. it hurts, but his hot breath sends chills up steve’s spine. he throws his head back and moans.

“i’m taking my time with you, stevie. you’re getting cherished tonight.”

steve melts further into his mattress, and he hopes he can hold his orgasm off. he wants to give eddie what he’s asking for, and he wants to let eddie have his way with him, but his body is coiling up, ready to spring forward and end the night too quickly.

“i’m trying, i promise,” steve says softly, feeling tears in his eyes.

eddie looks up at his tone and immediately scoots up his body and covers his face in kisses.

“you’re doing so good for me, stevie. i know you’re all worked up and this is hard. i promise it’ll be so worth it if you can wait just a little longer,” eddie says between messy kisses.

steve giggles— he didn’t even think he knew how to giggle— and bunches his shoulders up. eddie’s breath tickles against his jaw and neck, but he doesn’t want him to stop.

he’s already thinking about calling out of work tomorrow so he can stay in bed with eddie for as long as possible.

“more?” steve asks, scared to make a demand, but happy to have found his voice.

“anything you want, stevie,” eddie says against his shoulder.

he kisses back down his body, leaving steve a trembling mess before he even gets his mouth around his cock again. steve’s fingers are tingling, his heart’s racing, and his stomach is fluttering at the attention.

it’s almost too much. it’s hard for him sometimes to see that he’s worth all this. he doesn’t understand how eddie can look at him like the sun shines from his pores, how eddie can spend so much time in his presence and not get tired of his needy behaviors.

he doesn’t see how eddie could want to give him everything when he hasn’t done anything to deserve it.

“you’re thinking too much,” eddie’s voice rumbles against the head of his dick. “what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

steve looks down at eddie and finally decides he needs to touch him. his hand settles in eddie’s curls, fingers gently scratching at his scalp.

“i just feel like you’re doing more than i deserve,” he admits.

eddie kisses the tip of his dick. it would be comical if his eyes weren’t burning with desire and he wasn’t opening his mouth to argue.

“you deserve the world, steve. and i’m gonna give you as much of it as i possibly can. i want you to feel so good you can’t think straight. is that okay?”

steve nods and watches as eddie does exactly that.

he’s never heard some of the noises he’s making, but eddie seems to like them. he’s moaning around steve’s cock every once in a while, eyes closing as he pushes steve to the edge.

“eddie. gonna come.”

eddie nods and pulls back so just the head is resting on his tongue, eyes watching steve intently. his fingers reach up to trace the bruise he left on steve’s side.

steve’s eyes bore into his as eddie’s fingers press into the bruise.

steve comes down his throat, shaking apart at the seams, quivering until he goes numb. the sharp pain of the pressure on his bruise, the overwhelming pleasure of his release, the warmth of eddie’s mouth, all more than he can handle.

he taps eddie’s head twice, hoping that will still be enough to get him to stop. he needs a second to wrap his head around what’s happened. he needs to focus on feeling human instead of like an angel in the clouds.

eddie pulls away, wiping the corner of his mouth.

“okay, sweetheart?”

steve laughs. “never better.”

eddie kisses over the bruise, lets his lips linger as he blows cool air against the wetness. steve shivers.

“kiss me?” steve breathes out, scared to break whatever moment is happening right now.

but eddie just smiles and kisses his hip before moving back up his body and kissing the corner of his mouth.

“a real one,” steve pouts.

“let me brush my teeth first,” eddie laughs as he tries to pull away.

“wanna taste though,” steve pulls him back down and smiles against his lips.

they kiss until there’s only the taste of them, until steve has to pull away for air.

he doesn’t know how long they’ve been here, and he doesn’t care. he could stay here forever. he hopes he gets this forever.

“oh,” steve’s eyes widen as it hits him.

eddie is surrounding him, the weight of his body and his gaze enough to keep steve anchored to the earth despite the sudden flight his heart has taken.

“i love you.”

he realizes the risk the moment the words leave his mouth, but he’s not taking them back. he feels safe.

eddie’s quiet, but steve isn’t worried, smiling up at him and letting himself feel it all. every ounce of love he has for eddie is there in bed with them.

“you do?” eddie finally asks.

“i do.”

eddie stares at him, opening and closing his mouth, probably trying to figure out how to let steve down gently. steve doesn’t think he will, though.

“you’re mine,” he finally says.

steve beams back at him. “i’m yours.”

eddie says i love you in a lot of ways that night, and the next day when he misses school and steve calls out of work.

steve’s covered in bruises for days after, for weeks, months. anytime one fades, eddie adds a new one to his skin, a temporary tattoo of possession.

but the love isn’t temporary, and steve thinks he’s lucky that he gets to have heaven right here on earth.

[harmonictechnicality]

*no rest for the wicked*

my teensy contribution to @thefreakandthehair's spicy six summer collection 💖 | word count: 3k | rating: T | ao3 link | also, this wouldn't exist if @chocoarts didn't send me a sketch that immediately set off sparklers in my brain so bless youuu ✨

Twenty-six hours. That’s how long Eddie has been up. Twenty-six hours and twelve minutes. The heaviness hanging in his eyes is medieval-level torturous, and the cramp in his left calf is probably permanent by now. 

A sane person who enjoys sleeping might be asking, ‘Why? Why put yourself through this when there’s a perfectly decent bed down the hall?’ And Eddie would be forced to reply back with two, simple words:

Concert. Tickets.

That’s right, Eddie is actively murdering his own brain cells to win two vip tickets on the radio. Twenty-seven hours ago, it seemed like a grand idea. Genius, even. It’s free and minimal effort - he just has to call the station every hour on the dot. No biggie, right?

Ha, sure. Tell that to the muscles in his eyelids.

“How much longer do you have?” Chrissy asks, snagging a magazine from the stack on the couch.

Eddie checks his watch. Huffs out a laugh. “Let’s just say, I could watch the entire Star Wars trilogy including the credits for each one.”

“Translating to...?”

“Seven-ish hours.” Robin quickly chimes. She pops out of her bedroom and joins Chrissy’s side, instantly threading their hands together. They share a look, one that makes Eddie believe in nice things, even in his state of misery. It’s their superpower, injecting their optimistic outlook into the atmosphere. Infectious in the best way. 

“I always forget that you speak fluent nerd.” Chrissy snorts.

“Ouch.” Robin gasps and pulls away, stomping off to their room. Too dramatic to be believable. “Get back to bed before I actually feel offended by that.”

Normally, Eddie is charmed by how hopelessly in love his roommates are with each other. But right now, they are his mortal enemies (well, tied with The Clock), because they get to sleep and he gets to stare at the lightbulb in the ceiling fan. Every now and then, it flickers, which never fails to startle him. 

Good. He desperately needs the extra alertness. 

Another forty-five minutes go by before anything noteworthy happens. Eddie’s other roommate gets off his night shift around one in the morning. The front door squeals as it opens, crackling all the adrenaline leftover in Eddie’s body. 

“Scared the shit out of me, man.” Which could’ve been a literal statement if Eddie hadn’t just taken a bathroom break.

“Gotta get this door fixed.” Steve says. That’s what he always says when it creaks. The reaction never changes, always skating his fingers over the door hinges, mouth twisting to the side. Hands on his hips in disapproval. Eddie has to look away before Steve breaks out his insufferably cute ‘foot tap’ routine. “Hey - why are you still up?”

Ah, yes. Just what Eddie needed. A reminder that it’s fucking late. He finds the energy (or common decency, who knows) to point at the phone. Then to the radio.

“You’re still doing that, huh?”

Eddie nods twice.

“Damn, I’ve never heard you this quiet.” Steve sounds genuinely surprised. A little too smug for Eddie’s liking. “Didn’t know your mouth could stay in a straight line for this long.”

There it is. The rich boy smartassery that will never die. Always lurking in the depths of his genetic makeup.

Eddie claps, total deadpan.

The conversation lulls while Steve messes around in the kitchen for a bit. He’s noisily opening cabinets and clanking dishes around in the sink. Eventually, he walks back into the living room with two beers. 

Both for him apparently. “Well, listen,” he starts out. Kicks his feet up on the coffee table. “I’m pretty wired after work, so if you need some company-”

“Six… hours… left.” Eddie musters out.

“Okay well, I doubt I’ll last that long. But I can give it a shot.”

Eddie smirks, raises both eyebrows. “There’s a dirty joke somewhere in there. Too tired to find it though.”

“Good to know the horny part of your mind is still awake.” Steve gives Eddie a small pat on the head. 

“Oh? That’s a good thing?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.” It’s too direct, Eddie hears it. And now it’s just Out There - his inability to flirt in a subtle way. And yeah, he could blame it on sleep deprivation, but he’s never been known for his mastery of ambiguity so…

The pause goes on long enough for the light to flicker again, the room growing darker with it. Steve takes a swig of his drink and smiles. “It’s good to know, Ed.”

The light flickers even darker.

Eddie is fully awake after that. Which could’ve been part of Steve’s plan - stimulate his brain with flirty comments and keep him up with those melty smiles. It’s no secret that Eddie turns into a hair-twirling loser around this guy. 

Even after living together for a year and seeing one another’s most disgusting habits, he still feels this way. Tight throat, stomach flips. Purely smitten in a way that would nauseate deadbeat poets.

In this moment, however, it’s a wonderful remedy to staying awake throughout the rest of the night. Much more effective than energy drinks and Tootsie Rolls.

Steve ends up on the floor, leaning against the edge of the couch. He sips another beer, recounting some bullshit that happened during his shift at the hotel. Eddie does his best impression of Listening to Steve’s stories, but the words are just buzzing around the glow of Steve’s hair and the shine on his lips. Nodding at seemingly appropriate times is all Eddie currently can offer.

“Sleeping with your eyes open, Munson?”

Eddie blinks hard. “Huh?”

“Creepy, but impressive.” Steve laughs, tapping his hand against Eddie’s leg. “You should add that to the Special Skills column on your resumé.”

“Bold of you to assume I have a resumé.”

They spend the next hour doing just that - adding useless skills to Eddie’s nonexistent resumé. It keeps them busy. Content. Steve smacks Eddie’s knee anytime he laughs, leaves his hand longer every time. Maybe that’s all in Eddie’s semi-dormant mind, especially since Steve shows casual affection to all of his friends. But the warmth of his palm is real enough to have Eddie fully committed to making Steve laugh as much as possible.

“What about… Expert Paper Clip Chain-Maker?” Steve suggests. 

Eddie stares at the chain in his hand, the one he was oblivious to creating. He whips it around like a lasso and then shrugs. “A bit wordy.”

“So you’re saying length matters?”

“Christ on toast, Harrington. You’re awfully quick to jump to that conclusion, aren’t you?”

Steve doesn’t answer, just starts laughing again. Eddie didn’t even need to tell a shitty joke this time. 

And when Steve’s hand hits his knee, sliding slightly up his thigh, Eddie laughs along with him. It’s the only way to cover up the heat rushing to his face.

Eddie enters the realm of delirium with three hours left in his challenge. He slumps onto the floor next to Steve, nudging his shoulder, staring into his sleep-heavy eyes. It’s four in the morning, inhibitions be damned.

“Do you think if you ever visit Europe, they’d call you Harring-metric-ton?” Eddie picks a piece of lint off Steve’s sleeve. Perfect excuse to reach out, move in closer.

Steve groans. “Yikes. But yes, that question keeps me up at night.”

“So that’s why you’re still awake. See, I knew it wasn’t because of my silly little concert tickets.” 

As soon as the words leave his lips, Eddie convinces himself that it’s the truth. Which is so dumb, so stupid. But this seed of insecurity keeps him going, fully projecting his assumptions onto Steve’s harmless comment. Somewhere deep down, buried underneath his exhaustion, Eddie knows it was a joke. But he can’t seem to shut up anymore.

“The riddle has been solved, folks! We finally know why Stevie here is still awake.” Eddie exclaims, flinging his arms out to the side. “Alert Scooby and the gang at once! Mystery Incorporated can finally pack up their magnifying glasses and pursue careers with better health insurance. Ones that covers vision costs this time. It’s what dear, ol' Velma deser-”

“Eddie.” Steve places a hand on Eddie’s arm, holding him still. Was he moving? Oh god, was he shaking? 

Fucking mortifying.

Steve’s thumb swipes across Eddie’s skin, tracing diagonal lines back and forth. “You’re rambling.”

“And you’re…” Eddie loses focus. He looks down at the hypnotic patterns that Steve is making. “There. Doing that.”

Steve stops briefly to flip Eddie’s hand over, starts tracing the lines in his palm instead. The pressure makes Eddie’s heart lurch up into his throat. He can feel it thumping in his neck, faster with every stroke of Steve’s fingers. All he wants to do is close his hand around them, keep Steve there for the rest of the night. Longer if he’d let him.

“I can stop if it’s weird.” Steve’s voice is so much quieter than it was earlier. 

Don’t stop. Eddie thinks. Can’t say it like that because gross. Humiliating and gross. “It’s not weird.”

Steve keeps his focus on the motion, Eddie does the same. They stay like this for a while, just watching. Intently staring over the invisible lines like pages in a novel. Eddie is pretty sure he’s breathing too loud, can hear it above the whistle in the air conditioner. Wonders if Steve can hear it too. 

Probably.

“That’s not why I’m staying awake.” Steve says, never breaking the pattern.

“No?”

“It’s who I’m staying awake for.”

Steve finally stops, right in the center of Eddie’s hand. The air in the room goes dense, weighted with acknowledgment. Something has changed and Eddie can feel it everywhere. 

He tilts forward, pulling his gaze away from his hand and up at Steve’s lips. If he weren’t stuck between half-awake and total-delirium, Eddie would just do it. Kiss Steve the way he’s always wanted to. Syrupy slow and deep. Savoring every second.

He could do it right now, right this second. But his focus starts drifting as he closes his eyes. “Did Chrissy tell you?” Eddie grumbles, almost unintelligible. 

“Tell me what?”

Eddie’s head falls, landing somewhere on Steve’s chest. He inhales the scent of laundry detergent (because Steve and Chrissy are the only avid laundry-doers in the apartment). It’s so soothing, drawing him further into a dreamlike place.

“Tell me what, Ed?”

“That I…” Eddie is nearly asleep before he can finish the thought. The confession:

‘That I’m crazy about you.’

Sunlight hits Eddie first, startles him so much that he jolts upward. Fully awake. It takes a few seconds of furiously rubbing his eyes before the dread kicks in. 

Morning.

It’s morning.

“Shit.”

Eddie fell asleep.

Steve fell asleep.

“Shitshitshit. So many shits!” He fumbles through the labyrinth of blankets and pillows around him, snatching his watch from the coffee table:

10:24 a.m.

“Goddamnit!”

Eddie sinks back down to the floor, clutching the phone that serves him no purpose anymore. All of those hours of waiting and calling for nothing. Even if general admission wasn’t already sold out, it’s not like Eddie could afford tickets on his own. He can barely keep up with his share of the rent. Chrissy had to cover for his grocery run last week and he still hasn’t paid her back.

It’s just so expected too - for him to fuck up like this. Always letting opportunities slip through the cracks, making careless mistakes. No one will be surprised that he failed at such a simple task like calling a fucking radio station.

Eddie sets the phone back on the table and cleans up the living room in a daze. Every now and then, he mutters under his breath about being a total moron. He stays relatively quiet for the most part though. No use in throwing a bitchfest while Steve is blissfully conked out three feet away.

Of course he looks good sleeping too, even in the midst of Eddie’s breakdown. Unfair.

Just before heading back to his room, Eddie hears that familiar door creak. Same one that always sets off Steve’s inner handyman tendencies. 

He looks back to see Chrissy padding towards him with a blanket wrapped around her. For someone who hasn’t had their mood-altering cup of coffee yet, she looks extremely pleased to see him. Maybe she knows about the fate of the concert tickets. Maybe this is an early-risers pity party.

Fucking yay.

“Chris, please don’t try to-”

His words are muffled by Chrissy throwing her arms (and blanket cape) around him. She’s so bouncy, the way she always gets with Robin whenever their favorite song comes on at the karaoke bar. He pats her on the back and clears his throat, still trying to piece together what this exchange could be about. However, Eddie is functioning on a few hours of sleep, so his cognitive skills are groggy at best.

She gives him one more squeeze and then looks up, positively gleaming. “I knew it! I knew it would finally happen!”

“That I’d screw up for the umpteenth time in my life? Gee thanks, Chris.” Eddie says.

“What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and Steve!” She whisper-yells back.

Was she snooping on them last night? He wouldn’t put it past her, snoopiness is the foundation of their friendship. Well, whatever Chrissy thought she saw, she’s wrong. Sure, Steve and Eddie flirted, both letting some potentially mutual feelings slip out.

But it was all cut short by Eddie passing out mid-flirt. God knows how Steve took that reaction. Probably assumed Eddie was so bored that he would rather sleep than makeout with him. Or worse, that Eddie was pretending to sleep to let him down easy.

Christ, he doesn’t wanna think about that right now. Not while he’s still mourning the loss of his precious tickets.

“Hate to break it to you, honeyjam, but nothing happened.” Eddie shakes his head, gesturing to Steve who hasn’t budged from the recliner. “It’s just me over here and Steve over there. No conjunction connecting us together in that way.”

He can already tell Chrissy isn’t buying it. She’s getting that little forehead wrinkle right above her eyebrows, just like an angry cartoon character. Her best attempt at intimidation. “You didn’t see what I saw.” 

“Gay desperation?”

“No, you jackass. Come here!”

Chrissy yanks Eddie into his bedroom, demanding for him to lock the door. He listens, mainly because the intimidation is starting to work a little. They sit at the edge of the bed and she begins to explain everything she saw:

Steve constructing a wall of blankets and pillows around Eddie to ensure he slept comfortably. Steve waiting by the phone, tapping his foot in that insufferably cute way that Eddie loves so much. Steve scoring the tickets, celebrating quietly to himself.

“How long were you standing at the door, weirdo?” Eddie teases her to avoid the way his stomach is twisting around her words. 

Chrissy shushes him and squeals. “And he kissed your cheek!”

“Liar.”

“He did, I swear! He kissed you on the cheek or the chin or the nose. I don't know which one for sure because my view was obstructed by all of your hair.”

Eddie instinctively combs his fingers through a few strands, undoing the knotted pieces. Not all of them, but enough to keep his hands busy while he thinks through this. Processing. “And you’re sure it wasn’t a dream?”

“Positive.”

“What about a hallucination? Didn’t Byers make a batch of those infamous brownies again?”

Chrissy gives a deep sigh. “Whatever. You’re hopeless.” She shrugs the blanket back over her arms and heads toward the door. More than a fair assessment, Eddie can’t argue even if he wanted to (he always does). 

He stares at the line of posters along his wall, letting Chrissy’s words replay over and over. Imagining what it might have felt like. If Steve’s breath was warm or if his lips were soft. Eddie wonders how it looked to have Steve dipping down to his level. Staying so quiet, so careful not to disturb him. The visuals swarm his head until there’s nothing left but Steve. 

Him and Steve. Connecting them together in that way after all.

So, Eddie gets up and walks back into the living room. He takes in the view of Steve curled up in the recliner, mouth slightly parted open. Chest falling with every sniffle, not quite a snore.

There’s so many emotions while looking at him. Eddie can’t just pin one down to fully comprehend what's going on. All he can do is repeat the scene that’s occupying his mind, settling in his bones.

“Here,” he whispers, placing another blanket across Steve’s lap. It’s feathery gentle, more than he intends for it to be. So gentle that Steve doesn’t shift or stir. 

Eddie takes a deep breath and bends down, close enough to notice all the little details. The ones he’s been too sheepish to indulge in before last night. 

The tiny hairs on Steve’s forearm. The creases in his t-shirt. The bit of dried toothpaste on his chin. None of it should make his cheeks feel this flushed, but they do.

He lets the rush of bravery wash through him as he kisses Steve on the tip of his nose. Just the way Steve must’ve done to him. It’s swift, lighter than he means for it to be. Barely touching. But it’s enough to switch his heart rate up a few notches, pulsing jumping in his wrist.

Eddie steps away, waiting to see if Steve wakes up. Not entirely sure if he wants that or if he’d rather keep this memory to himself. 

“Thanks… by the way.” Eddie adds, brushing the tips of his fingers over Steve’s hand. Wishing he could trace the lines in his palm. Rewind back to last night and pause it there indefinitely. “I’ll tell you again when you’re up, but yeah.”

“Thank you, Steve Harrington.”

[thestalwartheart]

La la la-la la la la, he's a little bit Alexis Bond.

For Mads, who threw this idea into the universe like it wasn't the most cosmic-brained crossover of all time, and for @non-compos-mentis-nimbus who sent me the prompt "a particularly interesting/weird ringtone." (I'm so sorry if you've never watched Schitt's Creek!).

Fic behind the cut. It's nothing but crack, I must warn you! And yes, you can read this on AO3, though I'm not sure it needs to be preserved for the internet's eternity!

“Christ,” Q groaned, in the panic of a morning rush. “Where the hell is my phone?”

Beside him in bed, with a pillow bunched under his head, looking every inch the layabout, Bond smirked. “Well, you were so quick to shed your clothes last night, darling—”

Q held out a hand to shush him. He was disastrously hungover. He didn’t need to be subjected to this sort of insubordination at seven in the morning.

“If you have something useful to say, say it. Otherwise, be quiet.”

Bond tutted. While he sat up, he subjected Q to a lecture on manners. Perhaps Q had been born too late for elocution lessons to be the done thing in his childhood, he said, but that was no excuse for a lack of common courtesy, especially towards a man who only last night had acquiesced to every filthy thought—

Q stopped listening. He rummaged around in his bedside drawer.

“— to call it?”

“Hm?”

Bond let out a huff of amusement. “Your phone. Shall I call it for you?”

“Oh, yes. Fine. Thank you.”

It would be fair to say that Q wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders. Perhaps if he hadn’t missed his alarm or drunk quite so much gin last night—martinis were never a good decision, least of all ones made by James Bond—he might have taken precautions. As it were, he was bleary-eyed, a bit stressed and, frankly, exhausted from a long night of Bond pummelling him into the mattress.

Without warning, Bond pressed the call button on his phone.

La la la-la la la la—

“Oh, shit,” said Q. The ringtone came blasting from his rumpled suit, which had landed in the doorway sometime last night. Hours ago. Hours and hours and hours—

Q made a beeline for it, stumbling over the bedsheets and then himself.

“Q.”

His hand delved into the wrong trouser pocket. “Oh, balls!”

—hide your diamonds, hide your exes—

“Q.”

The other pocket was empty, too. Q nearly tore his jacket apart searching. Its two external pockets contained a pen, three folded post-it-notes, an Oyster card, the key to his work desk and an errant Percy Pig. But no phone.

I’m a Prada handbag—

No, his phone was in an internal pocket (the second one he checked, naturally — when did anything ever go smoothly in a crisis?), and Q grasped at it with the desperation of a found-out mistress, declining the call with a quick couple of taps on its side button.

“What was that I just heard?” asked Bond, seeming far more awake than he’d been five minutes ago. “A naughty elf?”

Q winced. His headache was suddenly the least painful thing in the room.

“I’m not sure you want to know.”

“Oh,” replied Bond with a dangerous, only half flirtatious glint in his eye. “I think I do.”

[separatist-apologist]

The Sweetest Con

Summary: Nesta Archeron has been trapped in witness protection for the past five years, hiding a secret no one can ever learn. All she has to do is wait out the criminals back home determined to punish her and her sisters for a lie they told years before.

She can handle anything- even the new agent sent to keep her safe.

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Nesta Archeron had bread in the oven. 

It had been Cassian’s idea that morning. Why not check on the sourdough starter they’d been fermenting and try it in some bread? It was obvious he merely wanted to spend time with her in the kitchen and Nesta was hard pressed to think of a reason they shouldn’t. It was moody that morning—a thunderstorm had rolled through and showed no signs of relenting.

They were stuck inside and she’d reasoned it was better to do something rather than what they were usually doing.

And still, with twenty minutes left on the oven timer, Nesta found herself on her knees anyway, Cassian’s massive cock in her mouth. It started with a kiss that became two, became four, became Nesta up on the table while Cassian pressed himself between her legs. And then everything became frantic and desperate. She’d just managed to get his pants around his ankles first, but if she’d waited another thirty seconds, she’d be spread across the table.

Not for the first time, either.

She told herself just liked to watch him (a lie). Cassian was terrifying, a force to be reckoned with. He was an immovable object right up until Nesta was sliding her hands between his legs—and then he was as malleable as clay in her hands. Did he genuinely like her, she wondered? Or was she merely a distraction? 

There was only one way to find out. Nesta had been plotting for the same amount of time she’d been touching him to get her hands on his phone. Sitting next to him on the sofa the night before had revealed his passcode—0000—and now all she needed was to so thoroughly exhaust him, he wouldn’t notice her snooping through his messages.

She just wanted to know, once and for all. What was his plan for her? Had Rhysand instructed Cassian to kill her? And what of her sisters? Nesta told herself once she knew, she could better plan…but that didn’t account for her actions right then. Nor was it entirely true to act like this was merely all part of some brilliant scheme. Not when Cassian threw his head back, hand holding her jaw while Nesta struggled to take the rest of him into her throat.

“Fuck, Nes—just like that,” he panted, his grip tightening ever so slightly. Nesta could feel the bulging vein just under the head of his cock, a tell-tale sign that he was about to come. She braced herself, eyes fluttering shut, just as Cassian grunted with pleasure and poured himself into her mouth. 

The timer went off at the exact same time, thwarting Cassian’s obvious plans to reciprocate his pleasure. That was both disappointing and for the best, she decided. The night before, Nesta had passed out with her cheek stuck to his chest and woke to bright sunlight and the smell of burning coffee. 

Not this time. This time, Nesta intended to wear Cassian out and stuff him full of food and let the Georgia heat do the rest. While she made her way to the oven, Cassian hastily pulled up his shorts.

“Is it wrong that I want to know every man you’ve ever practiced on?”

Nesta bent over the steaming oven to examine her sourdough. “What are you going to do, shoot them?”

“Yeah,” Cassian replied, elbowing her out of the way. His hands were clad in bright pink oven mitts and his dark hair was a tangled mess around his otherwise handsome face. It was the exact kind of logic a mobster would employ—she belongs to me, so I’ll pretend no one else has touched her.

Like a toddler hoarding toys at the playground, she thought wryly. She’d grown up in this life and had always rebelled at the idea that men owned their wives. And yet…yet, Cassian’s possessive nature wasn’t awful, either. Maybe because she knew the entire affair was time limited. Either he’d try to kill her or he’d be discovered by the actual feds and wind up in a prison cell.

So what did it hurt to enjoy herself for now? 

“Looks good. Want me to grab butter, or—”

“We should let it cool down,” Nesta said, eyeing his naked, tattooed chest. “Want to do some yoga with me before we eat?”

The look on his face screamed no even as Cassian smiled easily and said, “Sure thing, baby.”

What followed was torture for them both. It was already miserably humid and insufferably hot. Nesta wanted to claw herself out of the clingy fabric she wore and hoped none of it showed on her face. She was one with the world, serene and unbothered. The sun could not hurt her so long as she slathered a thick layer of sunscreen all over her body. She’d bullied Cassian into putting some on, too—a careful ruse to run her hands up and down the toned muscles of his body though he needed it, too. 

They practically crawled back into the cold air, with Nesta flinging open the freezer to stick her head inside while Cassian drank straight from the kitchen faucet.  

“You’re a masochist,” Cassian accused, eyes squeezed shut as replaced his mouth with his entire face beneath the stream of cold water. 

“I didn’t think it would be so bad,” Nesta said, taking some frozen, bagged broccoli out to place against her bare stomach. Cassian watched with open fascination, though he didn’t move to touch her. 

“No more outdoor workouts. Lets go to a gym like civilized people,” he breathed, rising to his full height. 

“The gym is unairconditioned—”

“Nesta, I can’t live this way,” he half pleaded, half joked. “I’ll put weights in the basement and run at two am.”

Nesta bit her bottom lip, thinking of the life Cassian was proposing. It was so easy to picture—and dangerous, too.

“I’m gonna shower, and then we’re going to eat some of this bread,” Cassian promised, pressing a quick kiss against her cheek. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“You got it,” she lied, eyes snagging on his phone. It was exactly where he’d left it, tossed casually to the kitchen table along with all the mail she didn’t want to look at. Nesta waited unmoving, listening as the bathroom door clicked shut. A moment later the sound of water hitting the porcelain tub filled the silence. Nesta counted to ten before lunging, typing in the passcode.

There, pinned at the very top of his messages, was a group chat with no other descriptor than a bat emoji. She wondered the significance as she scanned the names.

Rhysand: I don’t care what you need to do—drag E back and lock her in a closet if you have to. 

Azriel: Easy for you to say while you’re playing house. She broke my fucking nose with that stupid bat—and she’s with a goddamn agent.

Cassian: How hard could it possibly be to keep track of one oblivious woman? 

Azriel: Eat shit. 

Rhysand: Are you tracking her? What does the agent know?

Azriel: He’s got family up in Appleton. Headed that way—as far as I know, they don’t know who I was. 

Rhysand: Take the agent out, no questions asked. Secure E through whatever measures necessary—do not kill her. 

Azriel: Wasn’t planning on it, but got it. 

Nesta’s heart hammered in her chest. E—that had to be Elain. She hadn’t spent much time thinking about Elain but now…fuck. A quick search of her phone told her Appleton was in Wisconsin. If Elain was headed that way, Nesta needed to find her and warn her. 

With shaking fingers, Nesta sent a text.

Cassian: Want help with a trace? Send me her number.

Please, please, please let them buy it, she prayed silently. Nesta’s heart was the loudest sound in the house, beating so violently she could barely hear the sound of Cassian’s shower over it. Her hands shook, holding his phone as she waited. The water cut off and Nesta was certain she’d been caught—Cassian would get the text later, realize what she’d done, and the entire thing would be blown.

Azriel: Sure. 555-201-9855. See if you can figure out where Vanserra is taking her. I’ll continue following behind. 

Cassian: Meet me in Chicago? I can help lure her home with Nesta.

Azriel: Will she cooperate?

Cassian: Got her eating out of the palm of my hand.

Azriel: See you soon. 

Nesta scribbled the number down on the back of an unopened bill before deleting the messages she’d sent. Nesta scrambled for her own phone, punching in the number to the sister she hadn’t spoken to in years. That ought to buy Elain some time, she reasoned, heart still pounding. Just enough for Nesta to get to her before anyone else did, anyway. 

Nesta: Elain? This is Nesta. Rhysand is after you—they’re tracking you. Hide and tell no one where you are until I can get closer. I’m on my way—we have to find Feyre. 

There. With that sent, and a clock ticking loudly in her head, Nesta all but ran to her bedroom and the gun she had hidden in her bedside table. Nesta had it in her hands, a small bag thrown together years ago slung over her shoulder, when she and Cassian met in the hall. His eyes dipped to the gun in her hand before he offered her a lopsided smile.

“Everything okay, Nes?” he asked, running a hand down his naked chest. The towel he’d wrapped around his waist was almost too small for him, accentuating the vee of his abdomen and the appendage hanging just between. 

“I know what you are,” she whispered, hating the waver in her voice. Cassian’s smile only widened. “I’ll shoot.”

“Put the gun down, baby,” Cassian murmured, his voice honeyed and sweet. “Let's talk about this.”

“I’ll kill you,” she warned, well aware that her words were a lie. She couldn’t—even knowing who he was and what he was capable of, Nesta knew she couldn’t kill him. 

Cassian advanced, unconcerned with the gun in her hand. She supposed he was used to seeing them, used to having them pointed directly at him. He was The Lord of Bloodshed, after all. That didn’t stop Nesta, who’d been going to the gun range long before feds ever dumped her in this swampy nowhere town. 

Kill him and be done with it.

“Then why were you on your knees this morning, Nes?” Cassian whispered, those hazel eyes glittering with amusement. “You had my cock in your mouth. I didn’t even have to ask.”

“What happens in the bedroom and what happens out here are two separate things, Cass,” was all Nesta could think to say in response. She really was sorry, in that regard. She knew he didn’t see it that way. 

Cassian shook his head, the loose ends of his wavy, dark hair brushing those muscular shoulders. “I’ll find you.”

“You’ll be dead,” she replied, willing the words to be true.

“You can’t kill me and we both know it,” Cassian told her. She hated that he was right, just like she knew that if she didn’t, he would hunt her down. This was personal, now—beyond the lies she’d told on her sister's behalf.

It didn’t matter. Rhysand had found them and Nesta needed to get to Elain before something horrible happened. Then they’d find Feyre and pray Rhysand hadn’t gotten to her first.

“I’m sorry,” Nesta whispered before she pulled the trigger. Cassian howled, crumpling to the ground. He wasn’t dead—just wounded. She’d shot him in the leg. 

Nesta turned, knowing she only had minutes to put distance between them before Cassian rallied, caught her, and did god knows what to her. He looked enraged as she made her way toward the front door.

“This isn’t over between us, Nesta! I’ll have you back by the end of the week!” 

She grabbed the keys to his jeep and made her way outside, fingers shaking. Nesta tossed the gun to the passenger seat before pulling her phone from her pocket. She had the car out of the gravel drive before she pulled out her phone, texting people she knew better than to drag into this mess.

Gwyn and Emerie were waiting for her when she pulled up to Emerie’s place.

“Start from the beginning,” Emerie ordered the moment Nesta swung from the blue vehicle while Gwyn held a shotgun in both hands, eyes pinned on Nesta. It was an odd moment, telling her friends—who were like sisters in a different sort of way—everything that had transpired half a decade before.

Gwyn and Emerie wouldn’t turn on her, though. Nesta didn’t know how she knew that, only that it was true. As Nesta drove, she told them everything they didn’t already know—starting from the beginning with the murder of their father. Nesta told them how she’d lied to the police for her sister, how it had been her idea to kill two birds with one stone and frame Rhysand. She hadn’t expected to be put in witness protection or she might have decided to take all the money their father had and flee the country instead.

One decision, made by a young, impulsive woman, had cost the three of them so much. Nesta couldn’t bring herself to regret anything that happened, a fact she told her friends while clenching her jaw. Let them see her, she supposed. Calculated and cold when necessary, and willing to make the hard decisions no one else would. Better they knew upfront than to find out later and decide they wanted nothing to do with her.

“So there’s a mobster after your sisters?” Gwyn confirmed, the shotgun now resting in her lap.

“Rhysand will kill Feyre if he finds her,” Nesta lamented, squeezing the steering wheel so violently her knuckles were bloodless. “I knew when Cassian came, but…I figured they hadn’t found her if he was still with me.”

“It sounds like they only have you and Elain,” Emerie reminded the pair, reasonably, sitting in the middle back seat so she could position herself between Nesta and Gwyn. “If we can get to Elain first, we could go to the police and tell them what we know.”

“Did you take his phone?” Gwyn asked.

Nesta sighed. “I didn’t.”

“That’s okay,” Gwyn reassured her, teal eyes hard with determination. “We’ll figure it out while we drive.”

“I’ve never been to Wisconsin,” Emerie added cheerfully. 

And that was that, Nesta supposed.

CASSIAN:

“What the fuck do you mean, Nesta Archeron shot you?”

Gritting his teeth, Cassian held a lighter over the wound in his thigh, having already poured alcohol in an attempt to sterilize it. He didn’t have time for a hospital nor the inclination to spend a night hooked up to machines while nurses fussed over him. 

“Don’t know how to make it anymore clear, boss,” Cassian snapped, his pain making him mean. “She fucking shot me, she knows who I am, and she’s on the run.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you and Azriel?” 

“Enough to fill a textbook probably,” Cassian mumbled, wincing as he rose to his feet. When he got her back he was going to teach her how to aim better. If she’d been going for his heart, she’d failed abysmally. Not that he wanted her to kill him, of course. Cassian wanted Nesta back in his bed even if he had to tie her up to get her there. 

“When Az and I are back together, we’ll have fewer problems.”

“You’ve got forty eight hours before to lock this whole thing down,” Rhysand warned. Cassian didn’t need to be told twice. Practically, if Nesta and Elain slipped their leashes, they’d go straight to the cops and it would be hard to deny his involvement this time. At least where their father was concerned, Rhysand was actually innocent—one of the Archerons had killed their father. Cassian’s money was on Elain given her use of the bat against Azriel, though in truth it could have been any one of them. Nesta had a penchant for violence that rivaled her bastard father. 

But more realistically, Cassian simply wanted her, reason be damned. If she’d just come to him, he could have reassured her that no one wanted to hurt Elain. Hell, for all Cassian knew, Azriel was in love with her, too. It seemed to be their current curse, after all.

He’d been down fifteen minutes—long enough to give her a moderate head start but not so long Cassian couldn’t easily catch up with her. She’d need to make stops…and she’d taken his jeep. Cassian could track its progress as he slid into Nesta’s smaller coup, leg screaming in pain. At least she hadn’t shot his driving leg, he reasoned before swallowing an ungodly amount of ibuprofen. It would have to do.

The last thing he needed was to get pulled over for being under the influence. 

What Cassian really needed was sleep, preferably with Nesta curled up beside him. As he drove, his mind wandered to the sight of her flushed cheeks and shaking hands as she held that gun between them. Was it deranged, he thought, to admit he’d been turned out?

Would she use it in the bedroom, he wondered? 

God, he hoped she would. Cassian intended to ask her when he had her back. With the location of his jeep tracking on his phone, Cassian set his course and tried to keep his mind off his leg. Azriel was after Elain, but had promised to help Cassian if they caught up with each other, and it was clear Nesta was headed toward them both. It had been easy enough to guess what she’d sent Azriel and Azriel, frustrated with the situation, hadn’t bothered to ask himself why Cassian would offer to help track Elain’s technology.

As if he knew jack shit about that sort of thing. 

There was more than enough time to ruminate on his failures. While Rhys waxed poetic about moving Feyre without her figuring out the truth, Cassian focused on catching up with Nesta. He caught her just outside Bowling Green, Kentucky. She’d brought her friends with her—Gwyn, with her vibrant hair and a shotgun tossed casually in the passenger seat and Emerie, her dark hair pulled off her face in a messy ponytail and flip flops on her feet. They could have been on a road trip.

They weren’t. 

Cassian could have dragged Nesta back and killed her friends if he’d wanted to. Watching her outside a truckstop, he weighed the pros and cons of the killings before ultimately deciding against it. Nesta would never forgive him and Cassian didn’t like killing people without a reason. Gwyn and Emerie were innocent—it didn’t sit right with him to take their lives.

Besides—Cassian wanted to see what was going to happen next, Rhysand be damned. Everything was a mess already—if the FBI agent hadn’t already alerted his superiors, well, he would before Cassian crossed into another state. Rhys might come up with some lie that explained what they were doing, but Cassian doubted anyone would believe them.

Might as well enjoy himself.

And trailing Nesta was immensely enjoyable. He liked the way her mind worked. She was logical, picking the most expedient routes and when she stopped, it was always somewhere populated. Somewhere people could hear her scream. Cassian might have liked that, but practically, didn’t want to sit in a holding cell for twenty four hours waiting on a judge.

She’d have to stop eventually, and stop she did a day and a half later in Chicago.

Cassian knew Nesta and her friends were exhausted. They’d traded driving, but he very much doubted any of them were getting quality sleep. Neither was Cassian, truthfully, but he reasoned that he was better at keeping himself up, his instincts sharper.

Azriel was waiting for him when he arrived, his face a mask of sharp, cold fury. “Give up?” “I’m not getting fucking arrested,” Azriel snapped, hands jammed in his well-fitted jean pockets. “What are you doing?”

“Watching,” Cassian replied, nodding his head across the busy intersection where Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn were standing. They hadn’t noticed him, laboring under the belief they’d lost him. 

“What happened to your leg?”

Cassian grimaced. “She shot me.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed as he ran a scarred hand through dark, mussed hair. “And she’s alive?”

“I’m bringing her home,” Cassian said, throwing a wink at his exasperated friend. “What’s Elain’s apartment like?”

“A death trap,” Azriel replied without emotion. “They can get in, but they can’t get out.”

“Where’s Morrigan?”

“Ahead of you,” Azriel muttered, whipping his phone out to make a call. It would be easier if they had a third person helping them, and unlike Azriel and Cassian, Mor was cold-blooded in a way that made even Rhys hesitate at times. Cassian watched from his spot behind a street cart selling tourist items as Nesta and her friends jogged toward the towering skyscraper and vanished inside.

Good girl.

Getting her out without causing a scene would be another thing entirely. It was a big city, he reasoned. He’d have Mor park right out front, flashers on, and just dump Nesta in the back before anyone could say anything. He doubted anyone would be racing to rescue her, besides. 

Mor arrived in tight jeans and a tank top, blonde hair pulled in a thick, deceptively messy ponytail. Cassian knew her well enough to know she labored over it, every wispy strand placed by Mor’s own immaculate hands. 

“What needs cleaned up?” she asked, flashing them both a perfect, white smile. 

“Upstairs,” Azriel muttered, beckoning for Mor to follow after him. She was Rhys’s second in command and even Cassian didn’t know everything she did for her cousin. Only that she was called in when shit went south. Things were so far south that they might have been at the equator. Could Mor drag the missing Archeron back, too? 

That was Azriel’s problem. All Cassian needed to worry about was Nesta. Trailing behind Mor, the three made their way into the immaculate lobby and Cassian was struck at the incredibly elegant life Elain Archeron appeared to have been living. While Nesta was holed up in rural Georgia, Elain got to live in screaming civilization. It irked Cassian, even as he recognized the solitude had served him well.

Azriel pushed the number thirteen, staring anywhere but at Mor, who was too busy examining her nails to notice how awkward things were. Cassian said nothing because it was none of his business. Something must have happened, though—Azriel wasn’t standing too close, wasn’t shooting furtive glances. And Mor wasn’t using Cassian as a shield like she often did. 

Had they talked, then?

Cassian didn’t ask. Instead, he followed Azriel down a blue carpeted hall that smelled like someone's two day old cooking. Azriel pulled a keycard from his pocket and opened the door to find a shotgun waiting for him.

“Not another step, pretty boy,” Gwyn said in that southern drawl of hers.

Behind Az, Mor rolled her eyes.

“You think I’m pretty?” Azriel asked casually, unconcerned with the danger he was in. 

“That ain’t a compliment,” Gwyn snapped.

“Sounded like one to me,” Azriel replied smoothly. Cassian and Mor exchanged a glance. Since when did Az engage in witty repartee? “What else do you like?”

“Shut up,” Gwyn ordered, but it was too late. Azriel had the upper hand and they all knew it. With the speed of a man used to being threatened, he wrenched the barrel of the shotgun out of her hands and yanked, pulling both the weapon and the woman into his waiting arms. Gwyn yelped, arms pinned to her side as Az tossed the gun behind him for Mor to pick up.

“Quickly,” she ordered as Cassian swept in. Az hadn’t lied—Elain’s apartment was turned upside down, furniture shoved against the walls for his little traps and cameras. Nesta and Emerie had clearly walked right into one, legs tied to the floor in some contraption that shouldn’t have fascinated him as much as it did.

“Hey, Nes,” he said with a grin.

“Fuck you,” she replied, sweet as ever. 

“Are you gonna come with me nicely? Or am I going to have to carry you out?”

“Don’t you touch me,” she warned, answering Cassian’s question all the same. Just beside him, Mor was pulling rags from her bag like they were mints, handing one to Cassian before making her way toward the flailing, fighting Gwyn. Cassian let Nesta watch Mor smush the rag over Gwyn’s face so she knew what was waiting for her.

What he’d do if she didn’t agree to come like his good little girl. 

Gwyn went limp against Azriel, who merely scooped her up like she was nothing. 

“What do you want to do with the two of them?” Mor asked Cassian, eyes finding a silent, but furious looking Emerie. God—this plan was so off the rails it was almost embarrassing. There was only one thing they could do.

“Take them home,” he said. 

“Their home? Or our home?” Mor clarified.

“Ours, for now.” Cassian turned back to Nesta. 

“Cass,” she tried, the pretty little liar. “You don’t understand. My sisters, they—” “It’s too late for them,” he said. He wasn’t even a lie. “Rhys has Feyre and Elain is on her way back home. The only hold up is you.”

She shook her head. Nesta was smart not to believe him, even if it irked him deeply. Cassian made his way toward her, trapped by Azriel and unable to do anything but watch. 

And slap. The moment he crouched in front of her, Nesta slapped him hard. Her nails raked down his cheek, wounding him just enough to rankle him. He shook his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Let me go.”

“I can’t,” he replied with some regret. 

“Make a decision, Cass,” Mor said as she leaned beside Emerie. Emerie didn’t hit, grimacing as Mor brought that rag to her face. “I don’t have all day.”

“You’re a cunt,” Emerie hissed at Mor, who only grinned back.

“I’ve been called worse.”

Mor held the rag to Emerie’s face as Nesta watched, face pale and eyes wide. “Cass,” she whispered. 

“Come with me,” he urged, knowing she wouldn’t. Nesta couldn’t. She’d fight him until she decided this was her decision, and then she’d likely fight him a little more. The rest of his life would be a fight—and Cassian wanted it. 

“It’s time to go home, baby,” Cassian murmured, pressing a kiss to Nesta’s temple as she tried to wrench away. Putting the rag over her face felt like a betrayal and Cassian had to remind himself that she’d shot him not two days earlier. Mouth to the shell of her ear, he murmured, “We’re even now.”

Hardly, though. Cassian hadn’t held it against her to begin with. Nesta never took her eyes off him, holding her breath until she couldn’t, only to suck in a gasp of poisoned air. It went faster after that, leaving her limp in his arms as Mor undid the traps. 

“You’re a bastard for these,” Mor said, looking down at Emerie with an expression Cassian couldn’t quite place. 

Azriel onlys shrugged, still holding Gwyn in his arms. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Come on,” Cassian interrupted, not interested in another argument between the pair. “I’m fucking tired and I want to go home.”

Cassian’s leg was killing him, he was bone weary, and a little afraid of what was coming for him. Either the US government or Rhys—and Cassian didn’t know which scared him more. For now, Cassian was resolved to get her home and hope that Feyre wasn’t far behind.

Elain was already lost. There was no getting her back. The best they could hope for was utter silence as Rhys hunted them down, killed the agent hiding her, and brought her into the fold, too.

But it would take time and right now they were nearly out of it. 

And it was time to go home.

[skyward-floored]

Febuwhump collab day 12 — semi-conscious

This one’s been on ao3 for a bit I just sort of forgot to put it over here XD This one was suggested by @zeldathusiast, I hope you all enjoy!

No specific warnings apart from a mentioned kidnapping/being held captive, and a bad headache.

Today’s lovely art

Ao3 link

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“He has to be here somewhere, right? That tip we got said he’d be here, but maybe they were wrong, Dad kept being vague on where he got it so I don’t know if we can totally trust it, and we should be prepared to get out of here if it’s a trap and if it was wrong we should plan to check that other—”

“Green, we’ll find him, alright?” Twilight reassured for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Don’t worry.”

Green’s mouth clicked shut, and he gave Twilight a tiny nod.

Twilight watched him turn away, the shadows under his eyes more prominent in the harsh artificial lighting they were sneaking past, and felt a familiar squeeze of worry at the similar expressions on the other colors’ faces.

Four had been split almost a week now, and with Red gone missing during a fight, he couldn’t reform.

Four had never been apart for so long, and that along with the panic of not knowing what was happening to Red, he was acting more and more strange, the remaining pieces of him veering more sharply towards what they represented.

Green had been getting more jittery, obsessing over Red’s whereabouts, and acting overly protective over the other two, which was driving them both crazy. Vio had turned to research and often closed himself away, poring over what information they had, and Blue would blow up at even the smallest slight, face red with tears in his eyes.

Twilight could only imagine the state Red was in.

The behavior grew more severe with every passing day, and while nobody said it, as they watched the colors fall apart they all silently wondered how long Four could even be split.

Did he have a limit? Was he nearing it?

And if he reached it..?

Nobody wanted to find out, and their efforts towards locating Red had only gotten more desperate as the days ticked by. All of them were worried and frightened on Four’s behalf, and Twilight knew he wasn’t the only one who was thinking back to that first terrifying week when Sky had gone missing, and stayed missing.

But Time had finally gotten some information that narrowed down where Red could be, to only a few places as compared to the entire city they’d been scouring before.

Which is why Twilight was now sneaking down a harshly lit hallway with a handful of his brothers, trying not to be consumed by worry while they searched.

“We close?” Twilight asked, and Legend nodded, gesturing to an upcoming split path.

“He should be in one of these hallways somewhere, but they’re pretty long. It might take us a while to actually find him,” Legend said with a frown. “...With time we don’t have. We should’ve brought Wild.”

“Well it’s too late now,” Blue snapped from beside him, his hands tightening into fists. “Why didn’t you think of that before we left?!”

“Well sor-ry, Wild’s checking that other place with Dad and Wind, twerp, I didn’t know we’d need him,” Legend snapped back.

“Guys, knock it off,” Twilight said sharply. Good grief, we’re all running on way too little sleep. “We’ll just split up into groups of two.”

“There’s five of us,” Vio pointed out.

“I know that Vio, I meant you and Legend and Green and Blue can pair up, and I’ll go by myself.”

“That seems like a bad idea,” Vio continued with a raised eyebrow. “Aren’t you always saying it’s better we stick together?”

Twilight took in a steadying breath at his snarky tone, ignoring the urge to be sarcastic in return. “Yes, but not in this case.”

“Why don’t we three just go together, and you and Legend team up?” Green suggested, and Twilight and Legend exchanged short glances.

“...No. Better we do duos,” Legend said, and jerked his head towards a hallway. “C’mon. Let’s get going. Come with me Blue, Green and Vio can check the opposite end from us. Twi can check the other hall.”

Twilight nodded when nobody argued, and they all split off, Twilight grateful that Legend would be able to see all of the colors from where he was.

There had been an unspoken rule as of late not to leave any of them alone. Not with how they’d been acting.

Twilight ran down his assigned hallway, peering through every door that had a window, and opening the ones that didn’t. They’d “borrowed” a keycard to use to get into the facilities, and managed to make copies so they could all get past the doors.

Twilight methodically checked every door, working steadily down the hallway. His worry grew the longer he didn’t find any sign of Red, and he picked up the pace, looking more frantically. He was nearly at the end of the corridor, and there’d been no sign anybody was down this way.

Are we sure that info was real? he thought as he approached the very last window in the hall. Mom hasn’t contacted us yet, so her group hasn’t found him... or maybe it was all faked just to give us false hope...

Twilight looked inside, and relief washed over him, intense and thick.

A little figure sat huddled against the wall inside, red clothes bright against the dull color of the room. His blond head was pressed to his knees with such an air of sadness that Twilight’s heart ached, and he quickly ran to the door.

It slid open with a quiet swish, but the figure didn’t move even with the sound, or when Twilight stepped inside.

“Red?” he called.

That made his little brother’s head snap up to stare at him, eyes wide and startled. His gaze landed on Twilight’s face, and his expression turned even more surprised, Red letting out a gasp as he jumped to his feet.

“Twilight!” he shrieked, and bolted, throwing himself into Twilight’s arms with a sob.

Twilight hugged him back just as fiercely, Red crying into his shoulder, and he quickly clicked a button on his radio four times, the signal they’d all agreed to use for “I found him”.

“We found you Smithy, you’re okay now, I got you,” Twilight soothed, his shirt steadily growing damp. “It’s okay. Are you hurt at all?”

“N-no,” Red hiccuped, face still pressed to Twilight’s shirt. “Th-they mostly left me alone, I d-don’t think they even wanted a-a hostage.”

Twilight squeezed him tighter. “I’m so sorry Red.”

Red didn’t reply, aside from another hiccuping sob.

Twilight knew they should get going, but he couldn’t bring himself to make Red move just yet, so he held him a little longer and just let him cry. Red’s louder sobs eventually petered out, and Twilight gave him a comforting pat on the back as Red finally sat up a little, still sniffling.

“Twi, is e-everyone else here?” Red finally asked, letting out a hiccup. “I-I don’t want to be separate anymore.”

“Yeah they came, they’re close by,” Twilight reassured, and Red visibly relaxed, though he still looked upset.

“It was awful being away from them so long,” he whimpered. “It felt...”

He swallowed and didn’t continue, and Twilight gave him a squeeze.

“Well if we want to get you back together, we should get going,” he said, and Red eagerly nodded, wiping his sleeve over his face.

Twilight helped him up, and then turned into a wolf, gesturing for Red to hop on. He gladly did, and they ran went back the way Twilight had come, opting less for sneakiness and more for pure speed. Twilight didn’t want Red to have to wait a second longer than necessary to be back with the other parts of himself, and he loped down the hallways as fast as he could without slipping on the shiny floors.

Red in turn clung tightly to his fur, his head not quite buried in it. Twilight could just barely feel Red’s tears dampening his fur as he sniffled again, and his stomach clenched, even with the relief pounding through him.

The part of Twilight, the more wolffish part of him that longed to protect had been going haywire all week, and even now that he had Red secure on his back, it still bayed for justice.

Twilight ignored it. He was pretty sure Red’s captors were long gone, and going after them now wouldn’t be productive in any way. Even if he wanted to demand answers as to why they’d grabbed a nine year old and locked him in a room for a week.

No. Red safe and secure on his back was plenty for now, and as he firmly told himself that, the wolf began to calm.

Though he knew it wouldn’t completely settle until they were all back together and safe at home again.

Twilight turned a corner near where he and the rest of the group had split up, and Red sat up and shouted, pointing excitedly down the hall. The rest of the colors were already making their way towards them, but they all zeroed in at Red’s shout, relief on all three faces.

“RED!” Blue yelled, and all three of them bolted, Red leaping off Twilight’s back and crashing into them with a happy cry.

All four of them began chattering simultaneously, asking questions and crying and in Blue’s case, giving Red a punch on the arm that wasn’t as hard as it could have been.

Twilight smiled in relief as they huddled together, turning back into a human, and realized that the rest of the team they had brought was coming up behind them, Legend Hyrule and their mother all looking extremely relieved.

“Red— never do that again,” Green said as they hugged, and Red nodded rapidly.

“I won’t! I won’t, it wasn’t even on purpose, they just grabbed me, a-and I couldn’t get away, and nobody heard me yell,” Red said in a watery voice, and Vio gave him a soft pat on the head.

“Well you’re okay now, you don’t have to cry,” Blue grumbled, but his arm didn’t leave Red’s shoulder.

The colors didn’t talk any longer after that, only hugging a few moments more before they began to glow, unable to wait a second longer to reform. A pulse of multicolored light shone around the hallway, bouncing off the pale walls, and Twilight had to look away until it began to dim.

Four stood alone, his eyes closed as the last of the glow faded away.

Then he doubled over with his hands clenched to his head, face twisted up in pain. Twilight darted forward and caught him before he fell, and Four whimpered in his arms, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Four, hey, what’s wrong?” Twilight asked, trying not to panic.

Four flinched at his words, and the sound of the others running up as well, and tried to curl into a ball, still clenching at his hair.

“What’s wrong with him?” Legend asked with wide eyes.

“Four, are you okay?” Hyrule asked, and Four only let out another whimper.

“Give him some space,” Malon said, and they slid back a bit, giving her room to kneel by Four. She placed a gentle hand on his back, and rubbed it as Four let out a pitiful groan. “Four? Honey are you okay?”

Four only groaned again, and Hyrule scooted over and set a glowing hand on his head, eyes closed in concentration. But he withdrew after a moment, gaze slightly bewildered.

”His head is fine, I didn’t see anything,” he said, and Twilight frowned.

“Did they do something just to Red then?” Twilight asked, trying to keep his voice calm and only partially succeeding. “That would hurt him when he merged?”

“I don’t... think so?” Hyrule said. He sounded uncertain though, and wrung his hands a bit.

“Seriously? We would have noticed if they’d done something,” Legend shot at Twilight.

“How do you know?” Twilight answered just as sharply. “It might not be physical!”

“Well maybe he’s just—”

“Boys shh, you’re hurting him,” Malon said a bit sharply, and they went silent, another quiet whimper from Four the only noise. “Four? Can you tell us what’s wrong?”

Four dragged his eyes open, and Twilight stared, the normal blue of his eyes completely overrun by jagged swirls of red, green, and purple, blue scattered throughout. As he watched, the red got larger, and Four flinched, once again slamming his eyes shut and falling mostly limp in Twilight’s arms.

“Four, we can’t help unless we know what’s wrong,” Twilight tried, running a hand through his hair.

Please Four, can you give us something?

A few long moments ticked by, Four’s shaky breathing the only sound in the bright hallway. Finally Four breathed out, the noise hitching in the middle, and his fingers tightened in his hair.

“T-too— much,” he finally bit out, voice hitching and wavering. “M-Memories, different—”

Four pressed his head tighter against Twilight’s chest, his breathing trembling. He let out another small groan, and Twilight ran a helpless hand over his hair as he tried to curl himself up even tighter.

“Oh. I get it,” Legend said quietly, and they all looked at him inquisitively. Legend sighed. “Look, he was split all that time, right? Normally getting back together is no big deal for him, even if it’s been a little while. But his experiences as Green, Blue, and Vio this time were so vastly different from Red’s that when he reformed...”

“...all of those stark different memories got put in one head,” Malon finished, and ran a gentle hand through Four’s hair again. “Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry.”

Twilight wasn’t sure if Four even heard her, with the way he was curled up in a ball, hands still clenching at his head, face screwed shut in a wince.

“Can we help him?” Hyrule asked, and Malon looked uncertain.

“I don’t know, hon. It looks to me like he’ll just need some time to adjust,” she said, gently running her hand through Four’s hair. “Is there any way we can help, Four?”

Four didn’t say anything in reply, but he gave a tiny, pained shake of his head.

“We should get him home then, right?” Twilight spoke up, trying not to sound overly worried despite how fast his heart was still pounding. “If he just needs to adjust. He’ll be able to rest better there, and we need to get out of here anyway.”

Malon nodded, and Twilight scooped Four up into his arms, relieved his brother was fairly lightweight. Four curled into his hold, face still drawn with pain, and Twilight held him tight as they worked their way back towards the exit.

Somehow zero alarms had been triggered by their presence, and Twilight was starting to suspect the place had been abandoned what with how silent and empty it was. The fact that that meant the people who’d kidnapped Red had basically abandoned him here all alone was enough to reawaken the protectiveness in Twilight’s chest with a snarl, and this time he only half-heartedly reeled it in.

For their sakes, they had better not show their faces again anytime soon.

“Tw-i..?”

Several minutes of the trek had gone by before the whisper came from Twilight’s arms, and he looked down at Four, still limp in his hold.

“Yeah bud?”

“Thanks,” Four whispered into his shirt, and though he didn’t elaborate, Twilight knew what he meant.

“You’re welcome,” Twilight replied gently, and Four tucked his face against his neck, the pained creases on his face slightly eased.

[httpsserene]

𝐡𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐟𝟏 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥

𝘂𝗽𝗹𝗼𝗮𝗱 𝟳: 𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗿𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝗮𝘀𝗹𝘆 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 | 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗳𝘁

📖𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: witch!reader and potions master!pierre run a cute little shop to fulfill anyone’s magical needs. it’s nearing valentine’s day, and the shop is bombarded with desperate humans looking for love charms & potions, even though there’s no magic spell strong enough to replicate true love. oddly, news travels from a few villages over that there’s a potions master who managed to make a real love potion. pierre has to get his hands on it—for the bit, obviously. there’s no way it will work.  📖𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴: 18+ only. explicit. not beta read. witchcraft. familiars. cunnilngus. aphrodisiacs. inherent dubcon. vaginal sex. unsafe sex. sudden orgasm? desperation. coming inside. vague structure and explanation of magic. 📖𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 5k words. 📖𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: pierre gasly x fem!black!reader 📖𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: oneshot. 📖𝘀𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗸: need to know • doja cat

𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲: inspired by amortentia. what can i say at every fanfic writer's core, they’ve read an unhealthy amount of hp ff’s, i don’t make up the rules. we know pierre is a fiend, but uh, i do not even feel like i truly tapped into his true unhinged power with this. n joy, loves !!!

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cross-posted on my ao3, htppsss

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the shop has been open for fifty-five minutes and it’s already been overwhelmed by desperate humans. valentine’s day is tomorrow; and every naive soul is scrambling to get a love charm or potion. the problem with that is: there’s no magic spell or potion able to mirror true love. however, nobody coming into the shop appreciates that answer. 

after the third time a customer hysterically screamed at you for saying there’s no such thing as a ‘love spell,’ you made a slight tweak to the doorbell. now, every time the door opens a bass-boosted audio of you screaming, “LOVE POTIONS, CHARMS, OR SPELLS DO NOT EXIST” echoed through the shop. unfortunately, that message did not seem to help. you had to change the way you welcomed customers when they stepped up to the counter.

“good morning! welcome in to runes and brews; if you’re looking for a spell of true love, it doesn’t exist. nor does a potion or charm. the most i can offer is a hyperfixation charm, which makes the subject pay more attention to you for twelve hours. this charm doesn’t affect their emotions, you still have to make them attracted to you with your, hopefully, natural charm. are you interested in one, they’re buy-one-get-one free for valentine’s day?”

your customer service grimace smile is stained across your lips as you parrot the same words to each customer. you’ve become an npc. the customers try to interrupt your spiel, but you act as if it’s a piece of unskippable dialogue. if they’re going to come here and harass you over their inability to rizz somebody up—they’re sure as hell going to listen when you speak. at this point, you’ve adopted the ‘it is what it is’ mentality. you’re selling a record number of hyper-fixation charms, you think you might run out of your entire supply hours before the store closes. 

at first, you felt a little guilty about selling these charms to the desperate souls. all they want is true love and you can only offer a temporary fix. but after you’ve been screamed at countless times for telling these non-magiques that you can’t supply them with what they’re asking for, the guilt quickly transforms to ‘idgaf.’ with a twitching eye, you kindly told the customers inside the store to wait just a few seconds while you adjusted the door’s charm. 

you grab the outer doorknob with a hand covered in lapis powder, and imbue it with your aura to edit the current protection spell. thankfully, you remembered to meditate this morning, so casting comes easily. you breathe deeply, before releasing the handle and you make your way back towards the customers. and suddenly, the amount of people entering the shop decreases dramatically.

you have such a manic grin on your face that the customers inside the building stare at you in mild terror. one of the humans swallows their fear, and asks the question they’re all afraid to hear the answer to, “w-what did you do to the uh- to the d-door?”

the lights brighten around you as your grin grows larger, and you nonchalantly answer, “the door reads your intentions before you step inside. if a customer plans to come in and harass me over what is magically impossible, they get cursed.”

the humans gasp in fear, and you’re eyes widen in realization, “oh! no-no, don’t worry, it’s nothing bad! it’s just a floating rose that screams out ‘i have no rizz’ to every person they talk to for the next forty-eight hours. they’ve ruined their own valentine’s day with their terrible manners,” you state proudly.

the mass of customers inside thins out pretty quickly after that. 

thankfully, the door charm seems to do the trick with keeping out unruly folks. you’re able to start working on requests from your usual customers—the barkeep needs her rune for a bottomless keg replenished, the butcher needs his new set of utensils charmed with sharpness, the baker’s assistant needs your help working on the heating charm for the warming-tables, and so on and so forth. you get a new vampire customer today, requesting a sunshade potion—they indulge in telling you that they’re planning to spend valentine’s day outside with their human partner as a surprise. you coo at the vampire adorably as you check them out, and you see their cheeks faintly tint with pink—they must have fed recently. this is why being open for valentine’s day is worth it to you; customers like this remind you that true love still exists.

you wish him luck with his surprise, and hand over the potion, which was made by your true love, pierre. who was supposed to be helping you in the shop about thirty minutes ago. he claimed to have to run out and get a few extra supplies to be able to fulfill all of his orders, but that he’d be back before the shop opened. when he shows his face, the true love between you two may not exist anymore. because you’re going to kill him for hanging you out to dry. you sigh, and make your way into the back storage closet to get a fresh box of dried peonies for the new batch of hyperfixation charms, when you hear the doorbell scream the warning message.

you call-out, “give me one moment and i’ll be right up to help you out! feel free to look around in the meantime!” you summon the box of peonies forward, and spell it to float after you as you make your way out.

turning the corner, you automatically begin your npc introduction, “good morning! welcome in to runes and brews; if you’re looking for a spell of true love, it doesn’t exist. nor does a potion or charm. the most i can offer is a hyperfixation charm—oh, it’s just you—ohmygod—how did you pick up my door curse??”

pierre stares at you in a mixture of bewilderment and amusement, as the rose screams “I HAVE NO RIZZ,” at you. you can only laugh, and summon your phone to your hand to take a video. pierre laughs in reflex, still not sure what’s going on, and suddenly he’s being climbed over like a cat tree by your familiar.

“aha!” you exclaim. “i’ve been looking for you all day, ma’am. what pocket of the universe were you hiding in? you always disappear when the non-magiques come around instead of defending me, cat. what kind of familiar are you?”

pierre struggles to wrangle cat off of his head from where she’s fucking up the rose hanging over him. he side-eyes you heavily when he still sees you recording the whole interaction, and you put the phone down before you step over to get cat off of his head. “madame catalytic converter!” you yell with the force of your ancestors.

yes, you named your familiar catalytic converter, cat for short. it makes perfect sense, she improves your efficiency and decreases the chance for any harmful side-effects when you do magic; just like the car part. pierre says that’s why she never listens to you, for giving her a terrible name. when you asked him what he would’ve named her, he said, “probably, escargot, or something.” you said that’s probably why she hates him more. 

you remove the curse from pierre with a quick touch of your hand to his forehead, and the rose poofs away. madame catalytic converter, hops away quickly, uninterested in either of you again, and struts away to sit on top of the box of peonies you brought up. you narrow your eyes at your familiar, “oh—so you’re not even going to explain yourself? where were you?”

cat stares at you dead in the eyes, before she looks away and starts licking her calico fur clean, dismissing you. you scoff, rolling your eyes, and turn to pierre, “and where were you, monsieur?” you ask, poking a finger to his chest. 

pierre presses a kisses to your cheek in greeting, and raises the one bag he has in his hand as part of his answer, “i told you i was running errands, remember?”

you purse your lips at him, and he smiles at you, wrapping an arm around your waist to try and pull you in for a kiss. you smack your teeth disapprovingly, gripping his jaw with your hand, and holding him back, “yeah, you told me you were getting extra supplies. plural. and, that you’d be back in time to open the shop.”

pierre avoids your eyes, chuckling anxiously. 

“i’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but, you’ve only come back with one item, and it’s well past the time the shop opened,” you pause, letting pierre simmer, “explain yourself.”

“okaysoilied,” pierre rushes out, and you hum in shock sarcastically, gesturing for him to continue, “but—but! mon amour, i’ve come back with something that could potentially level up my potion making skills!”

you stare at him unamused, “oh ok—well, show me, what is this wonderful thing?”

pierre shifts on his feet, and you are suddenly afraid to know what he’s bought. if his confidence is faltering, you know whatever’s in that bag cannot be good. 

“so, you remember how people were saying the potion shop a few towns over has actual love potions,” pierre starts eagerly, you nod in resignation, already knowing where this is going, “i bought one! well, two actually. i tried to bug the potion maker into telling me what he put in it, but he was so shifty about it. which is completely understandable, if i made a new potion as great as this, i wouldn’t tell anybody my secrets either.”

“okay, pierre,” you sigh, rubbing a hand across your face, disappointed, “why did you buy two of them?”

“oh,” pierre begins, his usual ludicrous smirk returning to his expression, “one for me to study, and one for me to take! the best way to see if it works is to test it out myself.”

you tug his hand off your waist, and step away from him, pointing at him in vindication, “that’s why my curse worked on you! you’re harassing me with this goddamn love-potion shit—you snake, we both know it’s not real!”

pierre groans, following after you as you storm back to the front counter, the peony box floating over as well, cat yowling at the sudden movement. 

“oh, come on, mon amour,” pierre pleads, brandishing the love potion at you, “where is your hunger for magical breakthroughs? aren’t you curious to learn how it works?”

“pierre, babe, it doesn’t work! that’s why i don’t care! and, why would it work on you? we’re already a true love’s match. we’re soul-tied!”

“so, there’s no harm in me taking it,” pierre claims, like he’s found a loophole. 

“pierre, you shouldn’t,” you warn him. the potions master deflates at your words, and you sigh at the sight of his point. you take a few steps to press your lips to his in a sweet kiss, and your aura swells with pierre’s love passing to you.

“if you do end up taking it, which you probably will anyways, at least take the time to properly study it. you don’t know if they’re any weird side effects,” pierre perks up, his blue-green eyes losing their saddened look immediately. he happily presses a few more kisses to your lips, and pulls away before pressing a kiss to your hand.

“i will! i’m going to go to the back now and start studying it—“

“uhm, no you are not! you still have to help me run this store, sir! i have plenty of things for you to do. starting with cleaning our cauldrons!”

pierre groans in disgust and whines like a child, “mon amour! please, you know i hate doing that. you can do it with a snap of your fingers, why do i have to do it with manual labor?”

you arch a sharp brow at him, and gently remind him of his behavior, “you shouldn’t have lied to me then, hm?” pierre sulks, and moves towards the back to get started on cleaning the cauldrons.

“don’t look so sad—i could’ve had you collecting the eyes of spiders!”

pierre cringes when he accidentally slams the drawer of his desk closed, pausing cautiously to listen for any movement in the house. it’s late, and you’ve gone to bed hours ago; he’s stayed up trying to identify what exactly this so-called love potion is made out of, and what order of processes it was created with. the frenchman is certain that there are at least seven ingredients in the brew: mature peonies, smashed pearls, crushed dates, powdered rose thorns, rose water, and a potion base of moonstone and lapis. it’s odd, because to pierre the potion smells like warmed vanilla, shea butter, a dash of espresso, and a brush of peppermint—but with every extraction he makes from the potion, there’s no sign of those ingredients. in addition to that mystery, he can tell that this potion took a few weeks to prepare and that it needed constant stirring. he can figure out when ingredients were added to the potion based on how much affect the cooking and heat had on them; the dates and pearls were first, followed by the rose thorns, and it seems like the peonies were added last—he just can’t figure out how they were integrated in the brew. were they added in batches, all at once, did they need changes in stirring motion, etc.. 

putting aside all the unknowns, there is one thing that pierre is sure of: none of the ingredient combinations in this potion would cause any harmful side effects. the powdered rose thorns and crushed pearls are a rare sight in potions but, they create the base of hyperfixation charms and he hasn’t heard of any reports of strange or harmful reactions from these two ingredients. so, the only responsible option for the potions master is to drink the concoction and see if it lives up to be the ‘true love’ potion everyone is claiming it to be.

pierre knocks the draft back quickly and hums pleasantly at the taste, a curious eyebrow raised at how it doesn’t mirror the scent at all. the flavor is sweet and tangy, with a lingering dash of saltiness—it’s delicious. he finds himself wishing he didn’t waste the first potion with experiments so he could taste it again. 

the potions master rocks back and forth on his feet impatiently, he expected the brew to take immediate effect, alas, he feels nothing. pierre shrugs, the potion may take longer to kick in if it’s replicating one of the strongest emotions. he leaves his study and makes his way to the bedroom, and right before he enters the bedroom, he stumbles over cat. your familiar looks at him reproachfully, before she pauses and comes over to sniff at pierre. in the dark, he can see the calico’s eyes shrink into pupils and suddenly she hisses up at him, before she apparates into thin air. pierre scratches at his scalp in a confused manner; cat hissing at him and then disappearing, is not out of the ordinary (it reminds him of the you first brought him home and he tried to charm her with a laser pointer—the familiar stared at pierre like he disparaged her family name), he doesn’t know if that was a reaction just because of him, or if it was a reaction to the potion. 

he continues with his usual nightly routine before he joins you in bed, dressed in a pair of old sweatpants alone. you pout in your sleep, pierre can feel your aura calling to him, unhappy that he’s not curled up against you. he tucks you into his chest when he settled comfortably on his back. he feels your magic calm, the air relaxing when the force of your influence fades. 

the potions master tries to stay up for as long as he can to see if he notices an effect from the brew, but deflates when he doesn’t feel any changes. he knows the chances of this potion working was slim to none, however, he kind of hoped it at least had some effect on him. pierre’s eyes flutter shut as he drifts to sleep, and his last conscious thought is that you were probably right, the potion may not have an effect on true love’s matches.

you squirm awake. it’s boiling hot under the sheets and it shouldn’t be, you placed a cooling charm on the bed. as the fog of sleep unfortunately fades from your mind, you notice that the heat is radiating from pierre. turning around in worry and slight annoyance, you check in on your boyfriend, and the annoyance disappears when you examine his state.

he’s still asleep, but he’s drenched in sweat. his brow is furrowed in what must be pain, and his body squirms across the bed in discomfort. you press a hand to his forehead and hiss at the burning heat from his skin. you groan, already knowing what happened to your dumb potions master—he should be stripped of his title after this. he was working on the damn potion before you went to bed, and he fucking drank it, ignoring your warning, and now, he’s suffering the consequences. you take the same hand that was on his head, and bring it to his shoulder to gently shake him awake. pierre, on the other hand, awakens dramatically, jackknifing upright like you’ve poured water all over him.

the man pants desperately, chest heaving with his stuttering breaths, tongue swiping at his upper lip to clear the sweat gathering there, his teal irises swallowed by enlarged pupils, and his hair is matted and curling against his forehead from the mixture of sweat and heat. his eyes are glazed over, you can tell he’s not quite aware of what’s going on—that’s probably thanks to the incredible fever he’s running—but there’s a hidden glint to them that you can’t puzzle out. 

“oh, pierre,” you lean forward, hands coming to grasp at the sides of his face, steadying him, “you fucked around and found out, didn’t you? there’s no chance you’re capable of telling me the antidote to this, it seems. maybe a spell can alleviate the effects briefly enough…”. as you ramble on, mostly to yourself, you fail to see the look in pierre’s eyes change. the hidden intentions you weren’t able to make out are as clear as day now. the haze over his stare is still present, but the confusion has disappeared. only hunger remains.

you startle when pierre’s trembling hands grasp at your waist. you quirk a brow at him in question, but don’t receive an answer, a verbal one at least. you’re suddenly knocked flat on your back and pierre bodily shoves himself between your legs, hovering over you. and the intense look in his eyes is made aware to you; you’ve seen it before, but it’s never felt this ravenous. you press your eyelids closed and whimper under your breath at your revelation: the ‘true love’ potion is a fucking aphrosodiac.

pierre is so hot. he feels his body shivering dramatically as he holds himself on his hands above you. his muscles weaken from the strain of the fever, and he collapses on top of you. his head lands in the valley of your neck, and he moans at the cooling feeling of your brown skin against his face—he needs more of it, he needs you naked. reinvigorated, pierre attempts to wrangle your clothes off, but he’s unable to do much with his shaky limbs. he begins to anger when your sleep shirt fails to disappear, and tries to rip it down the center. you force his hands away, and tug the shirt up and away before tossing it aside, leaving you in just panties. his anger dissipates, and he presses his body against yours again, and a choked groan escapes him at the relief your naked torso gives him, he goes boneless. 

the relief lasts for less than a minute, before he starts squirming desperately again—he needs to be closer to you. he suckles marks into your neck, moaning lewdly when he feels your hand tangle in his hair, pulling at it firmly. he fights your grasp, unsatisfied with his unfinished claim on your neck and chest, but he submits when he notices you’re guiding him to your lips. 

the meeting of your lips is messy, he can’t manage to find any of his usual finesse. he pants into your mouth in between sloppy, wet kisses, if you can even call them that. his tongue fights against yours, and his hips buck forward at the feeling, which reminds him of the fact that he still has sweatpants on and you have on panties. pierre jerks away, resisting the urge to continue kissing you when you whine out for him so prettily, chest arching upwards, nipples perky and egging him to bite, the bruises on your neck blossoming with reds and purples—he shakes his head erratically, and focuses enough to tug his sweatpants off; he’s never been so happy that he’s not wearing underwear. the skin contact must have done him well, because his hands aren’t shaking anymore as they grasp at your panties. he may not have torn apart your shirt, but the cotton undergarment doesn’t stand a chance, he rips through it like water.

the sound of your shriek at his actions is muted in his ears, and he barely registers the feeling of you shoving at his shoulder in irritation. pierre can only see your pussy. a broken whimper escapes him as he stares; his eyes tunnel to your throbbing hooded clit, the way your entrances tightens and relaxes, like you’re taunting him to fill you up, and you’re soaked for him, lips shining with your wetness—he should just get a brief taste, before he fucks you. he lays between your legs, hands coming around to grip at your thighs to firmly hold you against his mouth, and he’s eating you out like he’s never had a meal before.

the potions master vaguely hears a pleasure-filled scream burst from your chest as he broadly strokes of his tongue against your vulva to collect any wetness you’ve spilled. he muffles his moan into your pussy at the taste, and shifts downward to prod his tongue inside of you to coax more of your juices out. he feels your hips try to buck him off of you, and he growls into you, tightening his grip on your thighs to allow you no escape. you leak steadily into his mouth, even as you try to run from the constant barrage of his lips, tongue, and teeth. pierre’s brow furrows with the effort he puts into eating you out—your taste is addicting. it’s a mouthwatering combination of sweet and tangy, with lingering saltiness. he has a small lapse of deja-vu at your flavor, but it’s quickly dismissed at the drag of his cock against the bed. 

pierre whimpers into you at the pleasure flaring behind his eyelids, as he begins to hump against the bed. he switches from forcing his tongue inside of you and moves his attention to your clit, suckling and twirling his tongue on the button. it sounds like he’s making out with your cunt. your thighs to clamp shut around his head, your hand scrambles to tug at his hair and hold him exactly where you want him, and you start rubbing your pussy against him. fuck, how did he not realize how hard he is. pierre sobs into your pussy overwhelmed, he wants to keep eating you out, and the friction of his cock against the bed feels so good. he knows being inside of you would be better.

the frenchman breaks free from the grasp of your legs, and scrambles back upwards, not giving you time to register the change in position before he breaches your entrance. when the head of his cock pops inside of you, he throws his head back and moans erotically at the feeling of your cunt fluttering around him. he starts to burn hotter. pierre struggles to hold-off from thrusting into you in one smooth motion—he’s usually cautious when he fucks into you for the first time because he’s well aware of his size and how you struggle to take it all in one sitting. he whimpers hotly, and picks his head up to look at you—and all sense of waiting for you to adjust leaves him head. a line of drool has slid down your cheek, your eyes have rolled back in pleasure, and the sounds of your squeals of pleasure from just the tip of his cock break his restraint.

the man drives his cock deep inside of you in one smooth thrust, and he shudders on top of you, humming in satisfaction at the pulsing grasp of your cunt. pierre feels how he forced the air out of your lungs, your corresponding scream still rattling in his eardrums, but he can’t help how he grinds his cock into you, one, two, three times. he groans out, and starts making proper thrusts into you—he needs to fuck you properly. one of your hands sneaks between your joined bodies and presses at his navel in a weak attempt to halt his movements. pierre knocks it out of the way, before he brings both of his hands to tighten on your waist and starts fucking you with a purpose. it’s selfish and dirty; in a way pierre usually isn’t. he uses himself as a tool to make you cum first all of the time, but you can tell tonight, this is all about him—your orgasm is just a byproduct. he gathers you up in his arms, making sure there’s no gap of air in between you, and starts pumping his hips into you deeply, not pulling out of you any more than a few centimeters.

it’s feels so pleasurable that it could be torture. he’s applying pressure against that spongy spot on your walls so consistently, that you’re legs have already started shaking. he’s fucking you up the bed with the force of his thrust, and he’s conscious enough to place a hand on the headboard to make sure he doesn’t shove you up to hit your head. pierre’s making these sweet, whiny, whimpers, that he attempts to muffle into your neck as he feels himself start pulsating inside of you, dancing along the edge. he feels your nails claw into his back, and it’s like his senses are suddenly returned to full strength from where they were clogged with fuzz. he can hear you try and moan out for him, but his thrusts are so powerful that you keep choking on your words.

he catches the ending of your warning, “pierre-oh—m’ gonna cum! oh, fuck!”

the clenching of your orgasm pushes him into his own, and it’s the most intense crash of pleasure he’s ever felt. his vision whites out and it feels painful in a way only too much pleasure can give. his whole body shakes through each wave of pleasure, and he feels lightheaded at the feeling. pierre can’t even do anything more than jerk his hips forward to pump through the aftershocks, he falls limp on top of you, pinning you under him. his skin feels raw and blown open, and there’s a ringing noise in his ears. he whimpers against your neck, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, and then he’s pretty sure he faints for a few minutes.

when he comes back to the present, you’re humming underneath him, hands rubbing up and down his back in a soothing motion. pierre brokenly moans against your throat, oversensitive. you shush him, and scratch at the nape of his neck, just the way he likes but won’t admit to. his breaths slowly even out against your skin, and in a croaky voice he starts talking, “the potion—it smelled like the shea butter of your lotion, the vanilla and coffee of your perfume, and the peppermint of your aura.”

you pause in your motions, and softly ask, “really?”

pierre shifts, hissing at the jostling of his cock still inside of you, and settles again, raising his head up to make lazy eye contact with you, “yeah,” he whispers quietly, before carefully pulling out of you and falling onto his stomach next to you.

you nuzzle up to his side and press kisses against his shoulder, before you offhandedly mention that his fever’s gone down. pierre’s fighting the call of sleep, and mumbles something into the pillow that you can’t make out, and he turns his head to the side so you can hear him, “i dunno how, mon amour, but it tasted like you too.”

you stare at him with wide eyes, neither of you are aware of an aphrodisiac of this caliber. pierre falls asleep, and you close your eyes in a quick prayer—this potion better have run its course, you won’t survive another round of that.

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© httpsserene 2023

[veronicaphoenix]

the unmaking of a warrior | part five

Pairing: samurai/ronin!noah x fem. reader | Words: 5.4k | Cross-posted on AO3. 

THE UNMAKING OF A WARRIOR 

PART V

A finger traced the contours of my jaw tenderly. 

I blinked, adjusting to the shadows, and lifted my gaze to meet Noah’s, finding comfort and warm in the soft curve of his smile. He was propped on an elbow, staring down at me. 

For a while, I thanked the darkness for enveloping us in a blanket that shielded us from the realities waiting beyond the walls of the room. 

Despite the tranquility and safety of being tucked against his chest, my legs tangled with his under the sheets, Noah’s quiet words pierced through the serenity I wanted to desperately cling to.

“It’s time.”

As much as I wished to stay in that moment, in his embrace, soaking in the slow morning with the one I loved, I acknowledged our necessities. I hummed, relishing in his touch, cuddling closer to him. Time was running against us, and despite how much that instant felt like freedom, it wasn’t. 

We wouldn’t be free until we were far away. 

In silence, we slipped out from beneath the soft sheets, the fabric whispering against our skin as we prepared to face the day ahead. 

Right outside the bedroom door, I found a pile of neatly folded clothes. With a furrowed brow, I looked towards the end of the corridor where my grandmother’s room was. No sign of her being awake, and yet, I knew that she had been the one to get those clothes for us. I didn’t know how she had managed to prepare the outfits, but I appreciated it, nevertheless.

Noah and I got dressed in silence. I tied my hair in a ponytail and stared at myself in the mirror, my features softened by the dim light in the room, until Noah’s presence behind me came to offer some comfort, his lips finding a spot on my shoulder and kissing it softly. When his lips were replaced by his hand, he massaged my shoulder for a few seconds before asking if I was ready. 

I was as ready as someone in my shoes could be. 

With no destination in sight, we had decided to abandon the safety of my grandmother’s little house at dawn, right before the sun came up. We didn’t know where we would head to; we just knew that we would keep moving until our feet and legs gave up. 

We descended the stairs in silence, each step a reminder of the weight of our circumstances and that I might never get to set foot in this house again, this place where I had spent so much time of my childhood, running from one room to another, laughing, listening to my grandmother’s bedtime stories, and then, falling in love over and over again every time Noah and I met clandestinely in that room, where he made love to me so many times after I waited for hours by the window, looking at the dark sky and the stars adorning it. 

Every inhale was deep and slow. The only reassurance Noah’s figure in front of me. With the light from the only lamp on in the entrance of the house, I caught into his tall, slender figure. His stance never failed. Yet, I felt that I was losing energy by the minute, thinking about the obstacles that still lay ahead. I envied Noah’s demeanor, the way he managed to keep his emotions in check and push his body to its limits without necessarily having to face the same struggles my body did. 

It didn’t matter if he had been stripped of the title. He was still a Samurai, and he would always be my Samurai. 

A sudden figure materialized in the dimness, in the hallway that led to the kitchen, and I contained a scream, stumbling with my back against Noah’s chest. 

Grandma stood before us, a diminutive figure bathed in the faint light. 

“You should eat something before you depart,” she said, her voice gently reminding us of the practicalities that might elude us once we were out of the shelter of her house. 

With her arm extended, she pointed towards the tearoom. 

We found out she had prepared a modest breakfast —if you could call it that, given the time. We silently accepted it and devoured as much as we could with the tranquility not typical of two lovers who are on the run, being hunted for something that shouldn’t be a crime. 

As I swallowed the last morsel of bread, I glanced up to find my grandmother watching us with a mixture of concern and affection from the threshold, her hands clasped before her. 

Noah’s brown gaze met mine from across the table, his expression guarded yet filled with a quiet determination. He was seizing me from the other side of the small wooden table, his short strands of hair falling over his eyes. He had a cautious look on his face, as if he was troubled about our next steps. He definitely was, how could he not? 

He had been eating slower than me. When there were a few bites left on his bowl, he nudged it towards me. I hesitated, rising an eyebrow, a flicker of protest rising within me.  

“Eat,” he urged. 

“But, what about you?”

“You need it more.”

I was about to complain, his concern bothering me a little, but the most rational part of me realized he had a point. He was a Samurai —a Ronin now— and he had fought in battles before, starving for days and going without water. His concern was obvious. I was smaller and less trained to resist what we would have to endure. He just wanted to make sure I was okay. It was the same reason why he had checked my feet in the room before putting on my socks, making sure I didn’t have any blisters or pain that would make it hard for me to walk. I was fine. Just feeling a bit groggy yet due to the lack of sleep and the cold that swept through my bones last night, but regardless, I was doing fine and I was sure I could manage. For him, I would manage. Whatever trials lay ahead, we would weather them as long as we stood together.

Moments later, we were back in the entrance of the house. Our boots were still damp when we wore them again, but we would have to do with it. Noah tied his katana at his side, securing it tightly. 

Without uttering a word, Grandma handed Noah a backpack. She indicated that she had stored some food and water inside. We both nodded in gratefulness. Then, she took one more step forward to us. 

There was something in her old eyes. 

“There is a place for you,” she said, her eyes moving from me to Noah. “It’s a sacred place, but I trust that you will find it. You will be welcomed there.”

I looked at Noah in confusion. He had the same expression on his face. 

In the night and under the dim lights of the little cozy house where she resided, my grandmother looked older and wiser than I had ever seen her. With a drop of her shoulders, she proceeded to tell us about a place that not many people knew about: a secluded village in the mountains, hidden in a valley, nearly a two-day walk from where we were. It was a place where we would be safe to let our love run freely without being hunted for the crimes inscribed in the Code. The place had no name, as it remained a location for those seeking only freedom for their true feelings. Grandma knew about it because her own grandmother had told her, but neither of them had chosen to escape there, being too scared and too tied to the royal family they belonged to.

That dawn, I got to know that grandma had liked a boy from a lower class during her teenage years. She had dreamed of a life with him, perhaps allowing herself to fall in love with him, but she hadn’t been as brave as I was. She didn’t want me to suffer her same fate, so she trusted that Noah and I would make it there, that we would find our way through the towns we would have to cross and the perils we would encounter in the forest.

“When you cross the mountains of Sumire, find the oak forest. Then, follow the river upstream. It will take you to a dead end. On the right, there should be a single red rhododendron plant. Wait there.”

I memorized the instructions in my head before nodding, aware that Noah was doing the same next to me as he adjusted the straps of the backpack on his shoulders. 

“I pray that you will find the happiness you’re seeking there, and that you will be able to build your family.”

When she said those words, her eyes navigating from Noah to me back and forth, I felt the tears prickling at my eyes. While I wanted to build a life with the man standing next to me, my grandmother was my family, too. She had always tried her best to raise me as a noble woman, capable of differentiating right from wrong without being self-righteous like my mother and father. This strong personality of mine was probably a result of her care throughout my childhood. On top of that, she had known about my feelings for Noah before I even myself did. She was a wise creature, filled with knowledge obtained from her painful experiences as a woman in a man’s world and being born in a royal family, expectations already upon her from the second she was born. 

She put a hand flat on Noah’s chest. He remained as still as always. I looked at both, my eyes brimmed with unshed tears. 

“You’re a good man, Noah. You have my blessings to take my granddaughter’s hand.”

I nearly choked. I could tell Noah’s heart skipped a beat, too, for his eyes widened at my grandmother’s words. 

We had never talked about marriage, but it was obvious, wasn’t it? 

“Protect each other.”

The sun would miss our sad farewell. I could see the glittering tears in my grandmother’s eyes, too, when she looked back at me. It comforted me to know she understood how much I loved Noah, and how much he loved me, and that despite all of it, how much I loved her, too. 

With an impulse, I hugged her, and I shed a tear or two. I contained my sobs. Her words, ‘my little girl’, spread through me like a symphony that would accompany me forever. 

“I have one more thing for you.”

As she spoke, a ripple of anticipation coursed through me, mingling with a sense of curiosity. What more could she possibly have to give me, I wondered, already feeling overwhelmed by the depth of her help and affection.

With a tender smile, Grandma gently withdrew from our embrace, her eyes sparkling with a mysterious determination. There was a fleeting glint of something indefinable in her gaze, as if she carried a secret burden.

She turned away from me, her silhouette momentarily swallowed by the shadows that danced upon the walls. 

Then, as swiftly as she had departed, she reappeared before us, her hands clasping something precious and ineffably sacred. 

She held a katana in her wrinkled hands. My breath caught in my throat as I beheld the weapon, its presence imbued with an otherworldly aura that whispered of forgotten legends and untold stories.

“This is…” Noah started saying. 

"This belonged to your grandfather," Grandma murmured to me, her voice trembling with emotion. "It was thought to be lost forever, but fate brought it back to me. And now, I am giving it to you.”

I reached out tentatively, my fingers trembling as they brushed against the cool metal of the katana. A surge of reverence washed over me, mingling with a profound sense of gratitude for something that I felt I didn’t deserve.

"This is a reminder of who you are and where you come from. Let it be a beacon of strength and courage in the face of adversity, just as it was for your grandfather. But use it to fight for what you love, not for what your greed wants."

As I held the katana close to my heart, its weight a tangible reminder of the legacy I carried within me, I felt a surge of determination coursing through my veins. Each inch of steel whispered stories of the past, imbued with the essence of resilience. My grandmother’s words echoed like a solemn oath in the corridors of my mind, a testament to the path I had chosen, despite the rules I had dared to challenge. 

Love is not a crime.

While I marveled at the weapon’s craftmanship, a question popped in my head, making me knit my brows. Before I could articulate my thoughts, my grandmother’s voice rose again. 

"I know that Noah has been training you for a while,” she said, her eyes searching mine with a depth of understanding. "He's taught you well, and I have every confidence that you know how to handle this katana with the same skill and grace that your grandfather did. You’re a warrior princess, after all.”

Her words dispelled the shadows of doubt that threatened to engulf me. 

I tightened my grip on the sword, feeling its power coursing through me like a current of pure energy. As I looked into my grandmother's eyes —a reflection of mine— I knew that I carried not only the legacy of my ancestors, but also the strength and wisdom of those who had come before me. And with their guidance and Noah by my side, I would face whatever challenges lay ahead, secure in the knowledge that I was never truly alone.

In another gesture of goodwill, as if she trusted that everything would be okay, she reached into the pocket of her apron, taking out a tiny daruma doll, its vivid red hues a vivid contrast against the subdued atmosphere of the room.Daruma dolls were a token of good luck. She extended it towards Noah, her expression a mixture of understanding and acceptance of his trials and choices. 

It filled my heart with warmth to know that she accepted our love.

Noah hesitated, a flicker of emotion crossing his features before he nodded grateful towards her. Though his silence said enough, I sensed the weight of unspoken words lingering between them, a silent exchange of gratitude and respect that transcended the need for verbal communication.

He kept the little figurine in a side pocket of the backpack. 

As my grandmother turned her gaze back to me, her eyes held a depth of wisdom. With a final embrace, I bid farewell to her, feeling the weight of her love and guidance like a comforting cloak wrapped around my shoulders. As Noah and I stepped out, I carried with me not only the gifts she had blessed us with, but also the unspoken promise to honor our shared heritage and forge a path of our own making.

“May I see you again someday, grown into the beautiful and strong woman you are meant to be,” she said from the porch. 

I smiled. Then Noah’s fingers intertwined with mine, and under the ethereal glow still filling the town, we continued our journey. 

The winding streets stretched out before us, a labyrinth of shadows and secrets that whispered of the countless souls who had walked these paths before us.

With each step, I clung to Noah's arm, my heart pounding in my chest as we navigated the maze of cobblestone alleys and narrow passageways. My knowledge of the town was limited, gleaned from the few times I had accompanied my grandmother on her trips to the market. Now, those fleeting memories offered little comfort as we ventured into uncharted territory, our only compass the pulsing beat of our intertwined hearts.

As we left the town behind and ventured into the wilderness beyond, the first light of dawn began to paint the sky with hues of pink and gold. 

Three hours after leaving the village behind, exhaustion began to settle heavily upon me, and doubts crept in as I questioned my ability to keep pace with Noah and reach the secluded place my grandmother had told us about and that now wouldn’t leave my thoughts. 

Would we be able to find it? And if we did, would it be the place we hoped it would be? A corner where we could live freely, loving each other without fear? Could we build our life there?

Noah's hand tightened around mine, as if sensing my anxiety, his touch always a reassuring anchor in the sea of uncertainty that surrounded us. 

We made a short stop not long after, finding a place to sit beneath a tree, where we eagerly devoured the sandwiches my grandmother had packed for us. If it hadn’t been for it, I wondered how we might have managed to afford any food along the way. 

When Noah asked me how I was coping, I nodded, reassuring him with a faint smile. My princess’ looks where long gone. I was sure if I could see myself in a mirror, I would hardly recognize the young woman standing in front of it. After all, I was no longer the person I had been two days before. 

Taking another piece of bread between my fingers, I placed it in my mouth; a small bite to enjoy the food for longer. 

“Hey,” he took my chin in his fingers, tilting my face towards him. 

His forehead was covered in a thin layer of sweat and some strands of brown hair were stuck to it. I dreaded for the moment we would find a place to call home and we could enjoy another bath together. I wanted to wash his hair and run my hands down the lines of his face. He was tired, I could tell, even if he refused to admit it. 

With a tender gesture, he brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch gentle yet filled with an unspoken promise of devotion and protection. 

How lucky I was, despite everything. 

"We'll find a safe place to rest after we walk a bit more,” he murmured, his voice a soothing melody that calmed the storm raging within me. “We’re headed in the right direction.”

Perhaps his words were as much for his own reassurance as they were for mine. Regardless, I accepted them. His perseverance was contagious, and with tired and bleeding feet or not, I would always walk beside him. 

I finished my food and drank some water, assessing our supplies and contemplating the necessity for rationing during our two-day trek. Standing up I brushed the dirt from my black leggings and secured my ponytail before fastening my grandfather’s katana at my waist. Noah had been admiring it in his hands after he completed his food and expressed his contentment at the fact that such legendary weapon had been placed in my hands. 

“Are your feet holding up?” Noah asked, his concern evident as he glanced back at me.  

“They’re fine,” I lied. “No need to worry. I can manage.”

I did feel a certain discomfort that was accentuated by the dampness of my boots, but it wasn’t anything to stress too much about. I had hopes that once we reached the place we were headed to, I could tend to them. 

As the day wore on, fatigue gradually tightened its grips, our weary bodies protesting with each new step. I heard Noah sighing a few times, specially at those moments when we stopped to look around and make sure we were moving in the right direction. Glancing upwards, I tracked the sun’s descent, mindful of our path ahead. It would set soon, and we had yet to climb a steep hill. 

 Yet, despite the physical strain, I was sure that the bond that united me and Noah only grew stronger with each of our steps, fueled by the shared determination to carve out a future together against all odds, having defied death the morning before and having escaped my parents’ kingdom unharmed. Sometimes we walked hand in hand, while at other times, we walked apart. Conversations ebbed and flowed, interspersed with Noah’s occasional lighthearted jokes to make me laugh and relieve my mind from the stress we were both carrying. In those moments when his smile broke through, a sense of reassurance flooded me, whispering that everything would be okay eventually.  

With the setting sun casting a golden glow upon the landscape, we stumbled upon a tranquil clearing nestled amidst the trees after staggering up the hill for twenty exhausting minutes, the soft murmur of a nearby stream providing a soothing backdrop to our exhaustion. I wasn’t sure how we would make it the rest of the way the next day, but all I could think about was laying down and giving my body a rest.

"Look," I whispered to Noah, a sense of urgency guiding my finger as I pointed towards a weathered cottage nestled amidst the dense foliage to our left. Its timeworn structure stood as a solitary sentinel amidst the wilderness, a refuge amidst nature. Its wooden frame bore the scars of time, with walls weathered by seasons and a roof bearing a small, ragged aperture.

"That will have to suffice," Noah declared, his gaze scanning the structure before turning to me with a hopeful smile.

As we stepped inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of decay, proof of the passage of time and neglect. The dampness of the floor seeped through the soles of my boots, but the alternative of bedding down in the damp earth didn’t hold much more appeal to neither of us. With trembling limbs, I sank to the floor, exhaustion filling every inch of my body. 

Noah's eyes softened as he watched me sink to the ground of the cabin, after making sure the floor would break under our weight. He knelt beside me, leaning against the wall. I felt his gaze even as I kept my eyes closed, relishing in a deep breath after enduring the past four hours. Despite my efforts to keep my hair tied, it was now a tangled mess, adorned with dry leaves and debris.

It escaped my knowledge how Noah was able to let out a laugh in those circumstances as his fingers removed a couple of leaves from the crown of my head. Then, he touched my chin, his touch gentle as he brushed away the dirt and grime that clung to my skin.

As I struggled to remove my boots, a low moan escaped my lips, the ache of our journey etched into every fiber of my being.

Opening the backpack Noah had placed on the floor in front of us, I unzipped it, instantly greeted by the aroma of food, a welcome change from the scents of nature. I offered a sandwich to Noah, only to have him decline. 

I glared at him. 

“Don’t you even think about sacrificing your food for me. You need it as much as I do. You might be a Samurai but you’re still human, so eat,” I admonished, dropping the sandwich onto his lap. 

He regarded me with surprise before relenting. “All right.”

Relaxing my posture and observing the food in my hands, I acknowledged the reality of our situation. "We should ration, though," I conceded, checking our remaining water bottles and sandwiches. "There won't be enough to last until tomorrow night."

“Then we better make sure we reach our destination in good time to be served a good hot bowl of stew,” Noah replied optimistically. 

We ate in silence, listening to the unique symphony of sounds provided by the forest around us. 

“Why don’t you try to sleep for a while? I’ll keep watch,” Noah suggested once the dark started enveloping us. He had retrieved the Daruma doll from the backpack and was cradling it in his hands, admiring its detailed paintings. 

“There’s no need. This place looks quite safe to me. You could try to sleep, too,” I countered. 

“I’d feel better if I keep an eye out,” he insisted. 

“Hmm.”

“No sulking, come on.” Grabbing the backpack, he placed the doll inside, making sure it was safe. He sat back with his back properly leaned against the wall and patted his thigh. “You can lay your head on my lap if that makes you feel any more comfortable.”

I did, nudging my nose against his tummy. 

For a while, I was alone with my thoughts. 

The distant howls of nocturnal creatures echoed through the dense forest, serving as a haunting reminder of the perilous journey we had embarked upon, which was not only filled with the dread of being lost but also being hunted. Memories of my former life danced before me like ghostly apparitions, intertwining with hopes for a future free from the constraints of my duties as the Shogun’s daughter. 

“Noah,” his name tasted like honey in my lips. 

“Yes?”

“Is this how you imagined things? I mean, we never really discussed how we would do it, how we would… run away, and we never talked about how we saw ourselves in the future. I’m curious now.”

“Curious if my mind has changed?”

“I guess.”

He sighed deeply, his gaze lifting as if seeking clarity in the starry night sky above us, beyond the hole in the roof. 

“Everything has happened so fast…” he began. “I had more than enough time to dream the life I wanted you to have, everything I wanted to give you despite my position, but everything felt like a dream,” his fingers found my neck and traced a path that sent shivers down my spine before moving to my hair, gently tucking lose strands from my ponytail behind my ear as I looked up at him from his lap. “Now everything feels real. Whatever I dreamt for you —for us—, I’m on my way to get it.”

“We are,” I corrected him. 

He looked down, his brown eyes lingering on mine before drifting to my lips and back again.  

“What do you think we will find there?” I asked. 

“I don’t know,” he truthfully answered, “but I have a feeling that whatever it might be, we will get a chance, you and I.” 

His words soothed the turmoil within me. Nestling closer to him, I began to let my mind wander to dreams where Noah and I had our own sanctuary, our own shared life, and a bed to fall asleep in each other's embrace.

“What my grandmother said…” I murmured, a bit shy, “would you marry me if you could?”

He furrowed his brow.

“Why are you asking that?”

I shrugged, suddenly aware that my fear was irrational. Noah had never had eyes for anyone but me. His devotion had been for no one but solely me.

“You know the answer to that. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I always had to go to bed thinking that I might never be able to make you my wife because of our different social status. Trust me, the moment I get to put a ring on your finger, I will.” 

A content smile spread across my face as I embraced the knowledge, envisioning what it would be like to marry him—the boy I'd always loved, now grown into the man he was. My warrior.

"Try to rest, love," he whispered, his voice a gentle caress, his fingers continuing to weave softly through my hair.“And don’t be scared.” 

As I closed my eyes and drifted into the realm of dreams, I felt Noah's presence beside me like a guardian angel, his arms around me, his unwavering vigilance a testament to the depth of his love and devotion. 

The next day arrived with radiant clarity, the morning sun enveloping the landscape in its golden glow. Undeterred by the challenges of our journey, we pressed onward through the forest, guided by the distant echoes of my grandmother's voice and the promise of sanctuary that called us forward.

Before reaching the oak forest, we stumbled upon a mountain village. Comprising only a handful of houses, its rooftops still glistened from the previous days’ rain. The tranquil and secluded atmosphere led Noah and me to chose not to hide amongst the little buildings, reasoning that our presence would seem less conspicuous in plain sight. Yet, an unsettling sensation of being watched loomed over me as we traversed the main street. A pair of elderly women, occupied with tending to their chickens, offered us kind smiles as we passed. We reciprocated with respectful nods before continuing on our way. Despite our efforts to appear inconspicuous, I couldn't shake the feeling of being observed from the shadows, with added to my overall unease. 

"Noah, I think someone is following us," I whispered as we neared the final house.

"I have had the same feeling, but it could just be our nerves getting the best of us. Perhaps we shouldn't have been so bold in passing through this town," he mused.

"What should we do?" I asked anxiously.

"Nothing," he decided firmly, tugging at my hand. "We continue onward. The oak forest can't be far now."

As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, we stumbled upon the ancient oak forest that my grandmother had spoken of, its towering sentinels reaching towards the heavens like silent guardians of a forgotten realm.

Though the oak forest could have spanned vast distances, we were fortunate to locate the river within twenty minutes of passing through the first oak trees. Having left the small town behind us hours ago, we had eaten our last sandwiches and biscuits, and our water supply was dwindling. However, our fortunes improved when we found the river, allowing us to refill our bottles and quench our thirst for a while longer.

As the hours passed, the feeling of being watched that we shared in the village faded away, the trees soothing my anxiety and fears. I would love to find a place among the trees where I could build my life with Noah. It would be lovely, to live among so much nature and raise our children, surrounded by flowers and such vibrant colors. I wondered again what would become of us. Were we destined to spend our days escaping from the crime of loving each other?Forever on the run from those who sought to tear us apart? Or could we dare to dream of a future where we could live in peace, free from the shackles of duty and obligation?

With a sense of awe and reverence, we followed the river upstream, the sound of rushing water mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves overhead.

And then, right when I was about to ask Noah for a break —my feet were paining so much— at long last, we found it – the rhododendron plant, its vibrant blooms a splash of color amidst the verdant greenery that surrounded us. With trembling hands, I reached out, tempted, and plucked a single flower, its petals soft against my skin as if whispering secrets of the forest. 

“It’s so beautiful,” I mumbled to myself.

Noah called my name. The way he said it wasn’t the usual gentle way. There was a warning this time. I looked over my shoulder to him. 

“Stay back,” he said. “Come here.”

He extended his arm to me, and I took his hand without hesitation, a small question appearing between my brows, but before I could muster the words, another voice shattered the tranquility of the forest, its command ringing out with chilling clarity.

"Drop your weapons and step back."

I wasn’t sure where it came from, but I sure dropped the rhododendron flower, which fell at my feet, next to my worn out and dirty boots that had crossed lands. 

Noah's grip tightened around his sword, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow in search of the unseen threat.With a silent nod, he motioned for me to stand behind him, his stance firm and unwavering as he prepared to defend us against whatever danger may be waiting for us, lurking in the shadows of the forest. 

Readers tagged: @thescarlettvvitch | @girlfromrussia-universe | @kankuurohs | @somebodyels3

[eiflawriting]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨

(✧) ─ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 quick lovemaking after a long day at work...

(✧) ─ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔! black woman who uses she/her pronouns. established relationship (husband!wife), chubby!reader, non sorcerer modern au. usage of profanity, masturbation, spooning position, mating press (towards the end) praise kink, spit kink, breeding kink, squirting, creampie, terms of endearment — sweetheart, angel, dear, baby, my love, etc. a quickie, but very soft and sensual. kento is just a very h*rny man who craves his wife's touch. this has slight plot but it’s pretty fast paced! 2.6k word count.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀(✧) ─ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔

hey y'all. this will be my last fanfic of the year, and of course it's my husband kento. i was inspired by this five second clip. don't even know who that is, but i was like whew. ART CREDIT — ilameys via twitter. be prepared for this to be a husband!wife series. who knows? hehe. don't have much to say, but i hope y'all enjoy. HAPPY NEW YEAR. 🥂 interactions would be greatly appreciated. ♡ eighteen plus only. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. available to read on ao3

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ click here to check out my masterlists. ♡

𝑾𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑨 𝑳𝑶𝑵𝑮 𝑫𝑨𝒀 𝑨𝑻 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑲 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻 𝑪𝑨𝑼𝑺𝑬𝑫 𝑵𝑨𝑵𝑨𝑴𝑰 𝑻𝑶 𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑵 𝑯𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑳𝑨𝑻𝑬—again. It was probably the fourth time this week doing so. Being a salaryman wasn't easy. Long shifts. Lack of sleep. Barely having the time to tend to his personal life. This was a lifestyle that Nanami was used to and ultimately okay with. However, that all changed when he met his beautiful wife, Y/N. She was his joy. Everything he did was for the sake of their future together, but along the way, he couldn't help but feel as if he was neglecting her. 

Although work can be crazy at times, this week was busier than usual, causing his time with Y/N to be limited. He missed her dearly. The most time he had with her this week was fifteen minutes in the morning while eating breakfast or when she would bring his lunch to him at work. Whatever time spent, he was sure to cherish. But the personal joys they did together, such as reading books, going to museums, or a stroll in the city, is what he really wanted. 

Nanami looked forward to the weekend because he knew he would use off time to make up for lost time with Y/N. 

He returned home, and to his surprise, a plate of food was on the table, wrapped up and awaiting his arrival. He cursed himself for allowing this to happen again. Eating meals were his staple with Y/N, especially dinner since it would just be them talking about how their day went. 

After heating up the food to eat, which tasted just as good as if it was freshly made, he went to shower in the guest bathroom downstairs so he wouldn't wake up Y/N. As he was showering, his thoughts got the best of him. 

What if she leaves me? I wouldn't be surprised if she finds someone else to give her the attention she deserves. 

Why was Nanami thinking this way? He didn't know. But his thoughts soon became lewd. Fuck, he desperately needed Y/N. It's been almost a week since they had sex. Her pussy was his home, and he yearned for her comfort. 

He missed the taste of her arousal lingering on his tongue. How she wrapped around him, moaning his name. He was deprived of Y/N's touch and only wished it was her who was currently stroking his cock for him. She did a much more suitable job. The two-hand twist combo she does—yeah, he needed that. Nanami knew he wouldn't be able to control himself the next time he had an opportunity fucking his wife. 

His strokes increased with the thought of Y/N in mind. Her beautiful full, saggy tits that he enjoyed putting his dick in between. He took his time to cherish her thick body with kisses, outlining every stretch mark with his tongue. Her ass, decorated with cellulite and waves resembling the ocean, would form when she took him from the back. His favorite place to hold was her love handles. She was slightly insecure about them, but Nanami vowed to handle them with extra love. 

She was simply perfect. 

Seeing her kneel before him to suck him off, pretty plush lips parting around his cock. Gosh, why were these thoughts flooding his mind? Maybe that was why he was moaning Y/N's name low enough so only he could hear. He needed to fuck her. His dick was aching for her pussy. It only took Nanami thinking about how ethereal she looked while cumming before a spray of his bitters hit the shower wall. His grunts were low yet harsh, nearly gasping for air. Such a satyromaniac he was. 

Once Nanami was done with his shower and masturbation session, he went upstairs to join Y/N in bed. Before doing so, he stood in the doorframe to watch her peacefully sleep. She was so damn beautiful. Living in a high-rise condo had its perks, and witnessing how the moonlight descended upon her dark brown skin was one of them. Even nature was captivated by Y/N's beauty. Sometimes Nanami even questions how he was so blessed to marry a woman like her? 

He watched Y/N a bit longer before walking to the dresser to grab briefs to wear. Nanami's preparation for bed included moisturizing his skin and spraying Y/N's favorite cologne that she gifted him—Bleu de Chanel. After doing his quick routine, he quietly slipped into bed to give Y/N a kiss on the cheek and have his arms find her waist to take comfort. Spooning her was a feeling Nanami would never grow weary of. 

As he slowly intertwined his fingers with Y/N, he felt her bringing his hands to her lips to place delicate kisses. 

"Hi, Ken. You're home," Y/N said softly in her sleepy voice. Even so, she sounds sweet. 

"Hi, my love. I'm sorry for waking you."

"No, it's okay, baby. I was waiting for you anyways—" She yawns, "but I kind of dozed off."

He sat up a bit to look at her while talking. "It's only my own fault for returning home late. However, I told you not to wait for me, sweetheart. I don't want you to lose sleep because of me."

"It's okay, Kento—I want to." Y/N rested her hand on his cheek to gently brush her thumb on his bottom lip. Even through heavy eyes, she looked at him with such tenderness. Nanami held Y/N's wrist to lean into her touch. This is what he looked forward to when coming home. 

She continued, 

"How was your day?"

"It wasn't too bad. I have no complaints about how I'm ending it," he replied with a small smile. 

"Did you eat the food I left on the table?"

"I did. It was delicious. Thank you, dear."

"Anything for you." While massaging his bottom lip, she puckered her own to ask for a kiss, which Nanami happily gave. 

The first few smooches started innocently, becoming familiar with the sweetness of her raspberry-flavored gloss that she always wore to bed. But Nanami's urges tempted him to do more. He left gentle kisses on Y/N's face before trailing down her neck. The kisses were filled with libido, nipping on her flesh to pull those faint whimpers from her chest. The sound alone had adrenaline rushing to his cock. 

Nanami reached under the covers to ascend his hand up her nightgown to massage the plushness of her ass, slowly creeping his fingers between her folds. She pulled off the covers so he could have better access to feel her pussy, opening her legs up. 

Y/N's wetness caused Nanami to curse against her skin, yet he felt selfish for waking her up for his sexual desires. So he began to pull away. 

"I'm sorry, my love. You're tired. We shouldn't be doing this."

She pulled him back to her lips. "No, Ken, please. I need you, baby. Just a quick one from the side, okay?" 

How could he say no to that? 

He kissed her passionately, immediately forcing his tongue to the back of her throat. In between smooches, Nanami told Y/N how much he loved and missed her, pulling down his briefs to give himself a few strokes. He lifted her leg up to swipe his dick along her heated wetness. She moaned into his mouth, which he devoured while aligning himself with her entrance to push his way through. 

Y/N nipped on his bottom lip to let out a lingering whine upon feeling her pussy split open. A week feels like forever since they were engulfed in each other's warmth. However, for Nanami? He just knew he would bust quickly.

Being inside Y/N felt like sitting on a cloud. No worries. Just peace. Her juices produced heat that could keep his cock warm on a cold day in the city. Nanami continued to slide in her walls until his tip met with that sweet spot that made her a mewling mess. Upon the meeting, he began thrusting. 

He hooked Y/N's leg over his forearm as he pounded her pussy. The tips of his ears burned red due to hearing those soft sounds of pleasure airing past her lips. The gushing of her pussy acted as a harmony that resonated with the moans she was already producing. She croaked, no begged Nanami to fuck her harder because she was just as deprived of him. 

Nanami had no complaints about working his thigh muscles. Hearing Y/N desire him always motivated him to deliver her climax sooner. There was something about fucking her wet fat pussy that made him hornier than usual. Perhaps thrusting past Y/N's puffy folds decorated with strands of hair had something to do with it? He couldn't explain it, but the hair on her pussy added an extra pleasure that he loved. 

He gave her a sensual smooch, then ghosted his lips over hers to watch her eyes light up in great delight. 

"Ken—this feels so good," Y/N purred. 

"No, you feel so good. I miss you so much. You've been such a good girl keeping this pussy nice and warm for me. You're squeezing me perfectly."

"I love you."

His dick twitched. "Fuck, I love you, too, sweetheart. My perfect angel."

His drive now resembled a wild animal. He didn't know where to place his hands. One minute they were rubbing her tits, the next it was toying with her clit. Nanami was fucking Y/N as if there was no tomorrow, balls slapping against her ass. The sounds of her pussy gushing began to heighten in volume. Anyone listening would think it was a steamy porno video, but it was just two lovers making sweet love to each other. 

If Y/N was tired before, she was definitely awake now. Despite that, she knew this quick fuck would put her to sleep. She loved his dick. So long and girthy, every inch filling her insides to feel the veins engrave her walls. Y/N wasn't the one to boost a man's ego by saying her pussy was theirs, but she would scream at the top of her lungs to let the world know it was Nanami's. 

Being a good husband and good dick will definitely have you this way. 

Y/N pulled her tits out of the nightgown she was wearing. Without asking, of course, Nanami swallowed her breast to suck while fucking her. With every thrust he took, her nerves increased. It would only take a few more until she came over his cock. Her moans were breathy yet clear. Lips held agape while droplets of drool coated the side of her mouth. Her pussy clenched and unclenched Nanami, stuck between not wanting to let go and almost ready to let go. 

After sucking on her tits, Nanami detached from them with a pop to look at Y/N. How could someone look this beautiful while being stuffed with cock? He was close to cumming from just watching her, but feeling her? Pussy painting his dick white? The juices leaking between her thighs and remnants on his balls, their sheets? His eyes rolled back at the sensation. If Nanami didn't know any better, his toes were also curling. 

"I'm sorry for being away from this for so long, sweetheart. Fuck, I can't stress enough how amazing you feel. How are you this wet?"

"It's okay, baby," Y/N whimpered. Why does she sound like that? It's like her voice was filled with honey. 

He nodded, giving her soft smooches. "Yeah, it's okay? Hm?"

"Y-Yes, Ken. I-I'm so close. 'M want more."

He slammed into her pussy at full force while rubbing mercilessly at her needy bud. He began moaning her name and calling her a good girl for taking him so well. Their brown irises were blown with pure lust as they held contact with each other. Y/N placed her hand on the back of his neck to pull him closer. She stuck out her tongue, and Nanami never expected he had a spitting kink until he met Y/N. He allowed a long string of spit to drip into her mouth before meeting her lips again. 

The kiss was sloppy, loud, and obnoxious. The power in his thrusts was beyond him. Y/N's pussy just felt too good not to fuck like this. Pussy like this was bound to make him a satyromaniac. Pussy like this makes him want to breed her. 

"This pussy is so good, angel. I want to fuck my cum deep inside you and make you a mommy. Would you like that?" Nanami rasped.

"Oh God, yes. Yes, Kento. Please cum in my pussy. Make me a mommy." Y/N's hand trailed down his spine, stopping at his lower back to pat repeatedly. She was there. She was—"Baby, keep fucking me like this. I'm cumming."

"Fuck, Y/N."

He quickly pulled out to turn Y/N on her back to pin both her thighs back as far as they could. Before Nanami slid back in, he slapped his cock on her clit to hear that pretty sure of her pussy gushing. The feeling of returning inside her was even warmer than before. Nanami pounded into her at a steady pace but ensured every thrust was passionate. Hearing Y/N scream out his name only gave him more motivation. 

She gripped the sheets beneath her doing her best to take this deep fucking from Nanami. To have the energy to fuck like this after a long day at work was mind-blowing to Y/N. But not as blown as her pussy. She whimpered through every last thrust until her vision blurred and tears pricked the corner of her eyes. She stared at Nanami. He always fucks her well. However, this? This was more than usual. What's gotten into him? Why was he fucking her like this? 

"Ken…" came out as a faint whisper. 

She orgasmed. 

While looking into his crisp brown eyes, she saw stars. Her walls were contracting uncontrollably around him. Seven minutes of being fucked into oblivion of ecstasy. Words couldn't even come through due to them tangling in her throat. Just breathy moans that were hitched. She repeatedly mouthed, "Thank you, I love you," because that's how she truly felt. Fucked and in love. 

And it didn't take a while for Nanami to follow behind. 

As he continued to fuck Y/N through her orgasm, squirt splashed between them and leaked down their sheets. Heat rushed to the center of his face. An overflow of his cum shot through the tip of his cock to flood her pussy. Harsh curse words sinfully slipped through Nanami's lips as soon as his release came, but his powerful thrusts didn't stop. He wanted to ensure he milked every last bit of his seeds in Y/N as deep as possible. Nanami was very serious about making her a mother.

The coiled moans finally unravel in Y/N's throat upon feeling his heated cum ooze in her pussy. She continued by expressing gratitude for the long-needed orgasm she yearned for. 

Nanami eventually halted his thrusts to allow his cock to get cozy in her pussy. He unpinned her thighs to let them wrap around his waist, and she did the same with her arms to pull him into a passionate kiss. While swirling tongues, Nanami slowly pulled out, to which they shared a final moan. 

Y/N felt complete with the amount of cum marinating in her pussy. And when remnants attempted to leak out, Nanami would swirl his finger inside of her to push them back in. She knew this would definitely be enough to get her pregnant.

After a few more kisses, Nanami rolled on his back to let out a heavy breath. He pulled Y/N onto his chest to kiss her forehead softly.

"Was I too rough with you toward the end?" 

"Hm, kinda. But honestly—I loved it. I wouldn't mind if you fucked me like that from time to time," Y/N answered. 

He chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind."

𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙚 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙. ♡

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 ── @dejwrites @maydayaisha @ayyy-pee @beniswife @babykaz @maginxlia @sexbob-ombbeck @softimgyu @sunnytalia3 @violxtbxbyy @potofstewie @aiyaaayei @aizensballsweat @diamondoidxx @abbarattion @kentovana @blackfangedreaper @sirenh4ll @adorabubblesblog @succubusonthedoorstep @zyettemoon1800 @wang-lizard @arminlator @jellymantra33 @si00p @carriesblenders @6kuna @cienakim @510hz @doumalove

[thelikesofus]

ring the bells

9-1-1 on Fox | Buddie | 5k words | Coffee Shop AU | alternative first meeting, fluff, getting together, first kiss, meet-cute

Written for @ronordmann's Reverse Prompt Challenge. Thank you so much Ro for inspiring me to try writing something out of my comfort zone with this fic <3

"Order for Evan!" 

If ever Buck was to die of happiness it would be in this moment. For hours he has been craving, yearning for some sort of hot, sugary drink. It started with a call to a chocolate factory and ended with an empty milk carton in the firehouse refrigerator and an apologetic look on Chimney's face. 

As soon as Buck got off his forty-eight-hour shift he had made a beeline for the nearest cafe. It was not his usual, he would typically stop at the coffee shop closer to his apartment on his way to work, but this place wasn't busy and Buck is desperate for a sugar hit.

It's because he's so desperate that Buck is taking the first mouthful as he's walking out of the store. 

He anticipates the smooth cream and sweet syrup, the spice of cinnamon to balance it all out but the mouthful slides over his tongue like hot, bitter tar and lands in the bottom of his stomach like a rock. 

"God–what the?" He sticks his tongue out and tries to rid his mouth of the taste. That is definitely not the coffee that he ordered. 

For a brief moment, Buck considers that maybe the universe just knew that he actually wanted black coffee but then decides that that's stupid and the universe is wrong this time because he definitely really wanted the drink he thought he ordered. 

So, against every ex-hospitality worker fiber of his being, he turns back to the counter and gets the attention of the barista that served him 'his' drink. 

"Hi there," he starts as brightly as he can for seven o’clock in the morning. "I'm so sorry to do this but I think you've given me the wrong drink. I ordered a caramel latte with cinnamon but this is, well, black."

"Oh!" The barista looks shocked for a second as he checks the order dockets on the counter in front of her. "I'm so sorry, I must have–."

"Given him mine." An unfamiliar voice sounds from next to Buck and when he turns he finds what is potentially the most beautiful man in all of the greater Los Angeles area. 

The barista nods. "Yes, I'm so sorry. I will remake them both right away."

The man eyes Buck's outstretched hand oddly before saying, "No need." He looks at Buck and Buck's sleep-deprived brain almost gets lost in the chocolate of his eyes. "Do you have any diseases I should know about?"

Buck stops short. "I'm–. What?" 

"Diseases." The man says—like that it is a normal thing to ask a stranger. "Are you contagious or anything? I'm in a rush."

"Ah, no. I don't think so."

"Good. I'll just take this one then." And then he reaches for the coffee that is not Buck's coffee but is in Buck's hand and Buck is too baffled to do anything but let him take it. The man disappears from the cafe and Buck is left standing at the counter with his arm still outstretched towards the barista who looks just as confused but shakes herself out of it faster than Buck does.

"I'll remake yours now." He says briskly. "Won't be a minute."

"Ah, yeah. Thanks." Buck mumbles dumbly and turns to see the man's retreating back disappear around the corner. 

The barista hands him a new cup a few moments later along with a five-dollar bill, obviously intending to refund him for the mistake, but he tucks it straight into her tip jar, thank you kindly, and then leaves, the bell ringing behind him as he goes.

Continue on AO3

[trekscribbles]

The Bushwhack Job: Chapter Twelve

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven

(Disclaimer: This is a relatively rough draft and subject to change when I post to AO3. I'm just overly excited and want to share what I have.)

The server room was in the basement, and Spencer followed his own advice to take the stairs. He took a few moments to clear the floor he was on first, making sure there wouldn’t be any guards to tail Nate and Sophie, and then jogged down the steps to the basement with an excuse ready on his lips. He’d keep it simple and direct, clean and quick—as long as the hacker didn’t blow the story by reacting to his presence the way Sophie had.

Hardison. The name didn’t elicit any kind of emotional reaction, but then, neither had any of the others. It had taken seeing Nate’s face and hearing Sophie’s voice to bring back the vague memories of their presence in his life—feelings, mostly, and the desperate need to get them out of the building. Spencer would have to lure the guards away before Hardison saw him if he wanted to avoid a fight, and if he only had twenty minutes—fifteen, now—that would be the quickest way to do things.

The security guards had reported up to Lancaster the moment Hardison reached the basement. Per Spencer’s directions, they’d stayed out of sight until Hardison was inside the server room, and then they’d simply closed the doors behind the hacker and left him trapped in the glass-walled room. He’d be safe there—Spencer’s orders were not to engage Ford’s team beyond capturing them—but his anxiety rose with every step he descended. It was almost over. Once he got Hardison and Parker free of the building, they could regroup, figure out a new plan, and then... And then what? Would he go back with them, or to Sunny?

Could he go back with them? Would they want him? Nate and Sophie had seemed glad to see him, but that was only because they didn’t know what he’d done. What would Parker think when she found out he’d left the LanCast building while believing she was inside? The fact that she wasn’t was irrelevant; if it was his job to protect them, he’d failed.

What good was he to them if he couldn’t do his job?

The door to the basement loomed at the bottom of the stairs, and he shoved down his misgivings and focused on the task at hand. He hadn’t been in the basement himself, but he’d studied it on the security tapes; the layout was mostly open, giving anyone in the server room a visual of the hallway leading to the stairwell. If he wanted to avoid Hardison’s attention, he’d have to call the guards toward him and hope they didn’t think it was suspicious.

And if they did, he’d handle it. Either way, he was getting Hardison out of that basement.

Spencer blew out a breath at the bottom of the stairs and pulled open the door, standing out of sight of the server room. “Hey,” he called, drawing the attention of all three guards stationed in the hall. “Why aren’t you answering your radios?”

One of the men moved toward him. “What do you mean? We haven’t heard anything.”

Spencer opened his mouth to answer, but movement over the guard’s shoulder caught his attention. Two more men were crouched by the support beam outside the server room, their backs to the stairs.

Unease clawed at Spencer’s gut. “Who are they?”

“Contractors,” answered the first guard. “Something about checking the foundation. What about the radios?”

Spencer spoke without taking his eyes off the men. “Come here. Let me check your frequency.”

The nearest guard came over, but the others stayed where they were. Spencer reached out a hand to take the man’s walkie-talkie and switched the frequency. “Ground level,” he said. “This is basement level. Radio check, over.”

“Basement level, this is ground level,” came the reply. “Roger that. Over.”

“Standby,” Spencer said.

“Roger.”

Spencer lowered the walkie-talkie.“You were on the wrong channel,” he snapped. “You two, get over here so I can fix it before Lancaster comes down here himself.”

He backed up, inviting the first man to follow him through the door and letting it close behind him. He didn’t have the time to choke him out, so he resorted to a quick, sharp blow to the side of his head, catching him when he crumpled and easing him to the floor beside the stairs.

The other two were at the door before he could do much more than straighten up. One shouted before Spencer’s elbow silenced him; the other reached for his walkie-talkie, which only gave Spencer an easier opening.

He took their radios and clipped them to his own belt, then stepped through the door and made his way across the hall toward the men. There was a strangled sound from inside the server room, but Spencer kept his gaze on the threat.

And they were a threat. He could feel it in his gut, and he wasn’t about to second-guess that now. Not if they were doing what he thought they were doing.

One of them lifted his head, setting his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Problem?” he asked.

Spencer nodded at the support beam. “What are you doing?”

“Routine maintenance,” the man said.

“With C4?” Spencer asked.

The man stood, cracking his knuckles while the other rushed to finish attaching the explosives to the beam. Spencer came closer, close enough to draw a punch—and the man obliged, swinging wildly—Spencer caught his fist and countered with his own, and the man dropped. The other shot to his feet, but Spencer danced back a step, his hands raised.

“Who sent you here?”

The man threw a punch, but Spencer dodged and stepped around him. “Was it Lancaster?”

“Shut up,” the man growled. He swung again, missed again, and stumbled when Spencer drew back.

“How many of these did you plant?” Spencer asked. The man tried to hit him again, and Spencer pushed him away. “Come on, man, think about it—when I knock you out like I did your friend, you’ll be inside when the building blows.” He waited a moment, giving his words a chance to sink in, and pressed, “Are there any other charges?”

“You won’t find ‘em,” grunted the man, leaping forward with a sloppy jab.

Spencer hit him in the jaw, letting him land at his feet and jumping over him to crouch beside the beam. An empty duffel bag confirmed Spencer’s fears—there would be more explosives in the building, probably set at different levels to make sure the whole thing came down. It was the LanCast site all over again, only this time, Lancaster would make sure all of them were inside. Then he’d pin the attack on Ford, collect the insurance money, and move on to his next high rise.

The C4 on the beam was set with a cellphone detonator. He disconnected it and stuffed the charges back into the bag, but that only solved one problem. He didn’t know where the other charges were, and he didn’t know when they were supposed to go off. Searching the entire building would take too long—he had to find Parker and get her out, get everyone out, before Lancaster could give the order to bring the building down.

First things first.

He turned to face the server room.

The man inside was tall, and though his face seemed faintly familiar, Spencer was disappointed not to feel an instant rush of recognition. Hardison was watching him, one hand raised to cover his mouth, and when Spencer tossed the hair out of his face, he let out a deafening whoop and slammed his hand against the glass.

“I knew it!” he yelled, punctuating his words with another slap. “I knew it! I knew you weren’t dead—no weak ass explosion gonna take you down—I told them! Whoo! Man, you had me worried, you had me—nah, man, I ain’t gon’ cry again. Open the door, man. C’mon, open it up.”

He’d repeated himself another dozen times before Spencer got to the door to punch in the code, and he practically fell through it when it opened. This time, at least, Spencer expected the hug—everything in Hardison’s stance warned that it was coming—but he wasn’t ready for the intensity of it. Deceptively strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, crushing their chests together as Hardison launched himself through the doorway.

“Where the hell were you, man?” he said, his voice breaking. “Why didn’t you call?”

Eliot locked his arms over Hardison’s back, holding him so tight that he couldn’t take a full breath and feeling like there was still too much space between them—and Hardison was shaking, clutching at his shoulders like he was afraid to let go—and Eliot didn’t want to let go, not until he could make him understand how much he’d missed him. God, he’d missed him—all of them.

He wasn’t himself without them.

“What happened?” Hardison asked, without letting go, without even loosening his grip. His fingers dug into the scrapes and cuts on Eliot’s back, but he didn’t care—he pressed his forehead against Hardison’s shoulder and shook it, fighting for control over himself.

“I forgot you,” he managed, his voice muffled. “All of—all of you, I forgot you, and—”

Hardison pulled back, and Spencer turned his face, pretending to look at the stairwell, checking for more guards—and Hardison shifted to put himself in his line of sight. “You hurt?”

Spencer looked the other way. “I went into the LanCast building, but when it blew, I was thrown clear. Mostly. I hit my head.”

Hardison ducked his head, forcing Spencer’s eyes back to his. “What, you—you lost your memory?”

Spencer nodded.

“And you found us anyway?”

He nodded again.

“Dammit, Eliot,” Hardison said. He pulled Eliot into another hug, this one even fiercer than the last, and burst into tears.

They stood like that for a long minute—Hardison crying and Eliot trying not to—before a crackle from one of the walkie-talkies made Eliot pull away. “Basement level, this is ground level,” said the voice on the radio. “Come in, basement level.”

Hardison let go, and Eliot tried not to miss the contact. He pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and cleared his throat. “Go ahead, J.B. Did you find them?”

“I got ‘em right here,” J.B. answered. “They came out the side door like you said. Did you find the hacker?”

“He’s here,” Eliot said.

“And the thief?”

Eliot looked at Hardison, who shook his head. “We split up when we got inside. I haven’t seen her.”

“Not yet,” Eliot said into the walkie-talkie. “But we’ve got a bigger problem. I just stopped a pair of Lancaster’s guys from planting C4 in the basement. Looks like they may have put some on the other levels, too.”

J.B. swore, and Hardison held out a hand for the walkie-talkie. “Hey man—uh, Hardison here, or whatever—can you put Nate on? Over?”

There was a pause, and then Nate’s voice came over the radio. “Go ahead, Hardison.”

“I found some stuff on the server,” Hardison said, his eyes finding Eliot’s. “Lancaster definitely means to blow this place up, along with a bunch of his other properties. I found some more threatening letters drafted up in his files, and guess who they’re from.”

“Okay, so he wants us to take the fall,” Nate said. “We’d already figured that much out.”

Hardison nodded. “Right, but what we didn’t know is that he’s also been talking to some pretty hinky people. And he’s given them a new target.”

“June?” Nate guessed.

“He must’ve accelerated his timetable,” Hardison said. “He’s done waiting for her to sell.”

Eliot took the walkie-talkie. “J.B., get back to Sunny’s. Tell her to find some place to lay low until we can get this taken care of.”

“She won’t do it,” J.B. answered. “But I’ll call to give Miguel a head’s up.”

Eliot nodded. “All right, fine. Then we just need to make sure we get everyone out of the building. Hardison, pull the fire alarm when you go out, and let the firefighters know there are guys down here and in the office on the fourth floor. J.B., I’m sending Hardison out to you now.”

“Roger that.”

Eliot pressed the walkie-talkie into Hardison’s hand and pulled another from his belt, switching the frequency before handing it over as well. “Take these—give one to Nate. I’ll get Parker.”

“Hang on—” Hardison grabbed his arm, holding him still when he tried to move toward the door. “She could be anywhere. We have no idea—”

“She’s going after Lancaster,” Eliot said.

Hardison frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because that’s what I did.”

“Eliot, wait.” Hardison kept his hold, his eyes still red and wide with worry. “You’re—you’re hurt, right? And if you don’t remember… It’s too dangerous. Let me go after Parker.”

“No.” Eliot’s voice was low, distracted as he tallied up the time he’d already lost. “Lancaster’s guards will find him any minute now. You have to be outside when that happens.”

“I can help, man, I can—”

“You have to be outside,” Eliot repeated desperately. “I have to know you’re outside. Please.”

Hardison hesitated, setting his jaw as he searched Eliot’s eyes, as the time ticked away.

“I won’t lose her again,” Eliot whispered.

Hardison swallowed. “All right,” he said, gripping Eliot’s hand and then releasing it. “I’ll head outside. You go find Parker.”

Eliot went.

[rainytrashh]

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Stop worrying so fucking much

Fic type-> Hurt/ comfort + angst

Warnings*-> Anxiety/ panic attack, PTSD

Word Count-> 1931, a short story

Please check out my other drabbles either on here or on my AO3, the link is at the end <3

~Masterlist~ | Most popular post

*I’ve written Marc’s anxiety/panic attack off of mine that I’ve had in the past but I don’t have PTSD so if there’s anything I wrote wrong please tell me so I can fix it and improve my own understanding of it, thx and enjoy!

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You and Marc were working in the museum together, just chatting, not doing much of anything really. Well except when Donna was watching, which was more or less every five minutes or so because no matter how much you two tried to convince her that you were, in fact, cleaning the floors she just wouldn’t fuck off.

“Steven!”

They haven’t told her about their DID, they don’t think she’d react too well. They’re also glad she hasn’t been bothered to ask about the occasional shift in accents; she hasn’t cared enough to ask anyways.

“Donna-“

“Steven…”

“Donna, I’m cleaning you’re watching me do it.”

Daggers, right into his eyes. You can practically see them.

“Ma- Steven has the mop in his hand?”

-Is your attempt at defending him.

“Really?”

-Is her sarcastic reply.

You turn to Marc and give him a downwards smile, he side-eyes you pretending not to see but he can’t manage to suppress a grin of his own.

“And- I don’t see any mop in yours!”

She snaps, putting her hands on her hips.

“Don’t forget to do the bathroom, y’know the one someone managed to fuckin’ implode-“

“Yes, ok Donna.”

“Water literally everywhere! How does someone even-“

“We’ll. Be. Right. On it. Donna.”

You say stiffly cutting her off once more knowing their sensitivity around the subject, around what happened that day. Wouldn’t you still be a little freaked out if a massive demon dog chased after your alter and left you both just a little shook afterwards; finally making that alter finally aware of you? You know, big plot point in someone’s life to be honest.

Of course him and Steven are cool now, the whole ‘protecting the travellers of the night’ thing being over helps too. What doesn’t help is being able to remember all the bloody, action-packed, I’m-gonna-die moments that came along with it.

You give her the best ‘I’m being as polite as I can to you right now given that you’re my boss and I need this job, desperately’ smile that you have before she slowly turns and walks off.

“Could she’ve gone any earlier?”

“Yes, definitely.”

You catch his gaze after he glanced behind him in the direction of the bathroom.

“You… want me to do the bathroom?”

“No, no you don’t have to. I’ll help just like I’m helping now.”

You smile softly at him.

“Ok, I’ll take the mop. Do you wanna get the rag and spray bottle?”

He hands you the mop, swiping it from him letting the wheelie bucket it’s in trail behind.

“I’ll be back.”

He walks off to the cleaner’s closet.

You make your idle way over to the bathroom, fumbling a bit with your wired earbuds and phone to blast some music while you clean.

—

You see Marc in the corner of your eye, not being able to hear what he’s saying while waving frantically to get your attention. Taking one earbud out, you put the mop in the bucket and turn to face him.

“Sorry what?”

“I’ve got the rag and shit.”

He holds them up so you can see, he’s also oddly far away.

“Oh, ok yea. Just be careful the floor’s wet still. You… good?”

You glance down noticing he hasn’t stepped fully into the bathroom yet.

“Yea, of course.”

Your gaze clings to him worriedly before putting your earbud back in continuing to clean. You know better than to not trust his own judgement, who are you to tell him he’s not ok when he says he is…?

—

Alright Marc, time to do Steven’s job some more.

“You insisted on fronting today!”

As if on cue, an annoyed Steven from the back of his mind.

“I just wanted to talk to Y/n, I didn’t want to do your damn job.”

Marc snaps back almost instantly.

He looks up from the counter he’s wiping down and sees Steven looking back at him, he seems uneasy. A glance is shot in your direction to check you didn’t hear his sudden outburst.

“Marc…”

“What, Steven?”

“Your hands are… all trembly, maybe you should… take a step back from the situation mate.”

He sighs shakily, gripping the rag tighter in hopes to stop the shaking.

“I’m fine, stop worrying so fucking much.”

Steven scoffs. He throws his arms out and furrows his eyebrows obviously confused at how stubborn Marc’s being.

“I can quite literally read your bloody mind, you’re not fine!”

In turn Marc just hangs his head, closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths blatantly ignoring Steven. Eventually, he pries his eyes open and turns his head to face you, happily bobbing your head to your music trying to get a particularly stubborn mark out the floor- completely oblivious, as you should be.

He tries to focus on you, on grounding himself, as memories of that night weave their way into his head.

“It wasn’t nice for me either, please at least just tell them?”

There’s a sense of urgency to Steven’s voice now.

“Shut- shut the… shut up Steven.”

They both notice his voice beginning to falter despite Marc’s efforts to hide it. Him in particular notices it’s getting harder to speak because of his throat starting to close up, stupid adrenaline.

“Marc, you can’t be in here any longer…”

A plea from Steven- ever so soft, ever so tender, ever so endearing.

He tries to reply but nothing comes out, he ends up just pitifully mouthing Steven’s name. Everything is going so fast somehow, his breathing is getting heavier, sounds seem oddly muffled, and his body feels like it could topple over any second.

“Tell them.”

Marc tries to swallow but can’t get it down, he leans over the sink resting his forearms on the counter. He simply shakes his head and rests it in his hands.

As if Steven had managed to tell you from the mirror something was wrong, you turn around to see how Marc’s doing. Not so well obviously.

“Shit Marc, you ok?”

No reply although you see his shoulders tense up.

You yank your earbuds out and let them hang down from your pocket, the loud music swiftly reduced to a faint hum in the background. Jogging over to him you lean down a bit to try and see his face. He looks so… vulnerable like this. Your nerves begin to build up rapidly as you hear his raspy breathing.

“Marc? Please talk to me are you alright?”

He reluctantly turns his head just so he can see you out the corner of his eye, he’s crying now as you see tears drip down into the sink from his nose. He opens his mouth trying to speak again.

“Ok… come on, let’s get outside, give you some fresh air.”

He takes short gasps of air trying to catch his breath, and half the stuff you’re saying is getting drowned out by his heartbeat rapidly drumming in his ears.

You put a hand on his back as you pry him away from the sinks and lead him out the bathroom and through a backdoor, you have to hold onto him to keep his knees from giving out.

He immediately sits himself down against the wall with your help, you can feel his hands shaking against you.

“It’s gonna be over soon, just hang in there and… do what you need to do.”

You sit down next to him, God you really hope he’s gonna work himself through this. You know he will. You just care about him, a whole lot, and can’t help when you get scared for him whether he likes it or not. Seeing him like this is just so out of character, he’s always so confident and… shielded.

You start to pick your nails anxiously, glancing over at him regularly hoping for any kind of signal that he wants you to help more, that he’ll let you help more. In these situations you know he wants to be left alone, so even though you don’t feel like it you’re doing everything you possibly can.

He brings his knees up and rests his forehead on them, he digs his nails into the back of his head as he tries to calm his breathing down like Steven’s telling him.

“Focus on my voice Marc, don’t think just focus on my voice I’m here ok?”

“Breathe in, breathe out…”

“Don’t think about it think about what’s around you. What can you see, what can you hear, what can you smell…“

He’s trying, he’s really trying and so is Marc but he doesn’t seem to be calming down any time soon. His heart’s getting louder, his breathing’s getting choppier and everything is way more blurry than it was a few minutes ago. He doesn’t know what to do, and everything’s getting worse.

After what feels like forever you check your phone and see it’s barely been two minutes, while doing this you pause your music having forgotten completely about it letting it turn to white noise.

You let your head fall back onto the brick wall behind you. You sigh trying to calm yourself down now, you let the crisp wind hit your features and fill your lungs.

Unexpectedly you hear Marc’s breathing slow down, you whip your head around to face him and watch the grip on his hair let up.

“Marc?”

After a few tense moments you watch as he raises his head and faces you, tear stained face and red puffy eyes meet yours.

“Marc…?”

You furrow your eyebrows confused at his sudden shift in demeanour.

He shakes his head and gives weary smile, he taps his name badge- Steven.

“Oh…”

You nod your head, giving him a weak smile of your own.

“Well, you two good?”

He signals to his throat and nods instead.

Ah, it’s clicked in your head, they may have switched but all the physical things going on with the body would stay the same.

“Good…”

You both sit in a comfortable silence for a while, just letting the tension settle down. Ultimately one of you speaks up.

“Sorry-“

He clears his throat and stretches his legs out on the concrete staring down at his feet.

“Sorry you had to be around for that…”

“No don’t say you’re sorry, it’s not your fault.”

“But, we could’ve prevented it, easily!”

“It’s not Marc’s fault either Steven-“

“No no that’s not what I meant- I just… I could’ve done something. Take control of the legs or something and walked us right out of there, I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t, was I scared? Why was I scared to if I was scared? I just don’t bloody understand-“

“Steven.”

Your eyes meet, the calm in yours seeps into his before you look away. You reach to his hand and caress his knuckles comfortingly, oddly rough for someone who should be working in a museum.

“It’s ok now, what’s happened has happened, so try not to think about all these would’ves, could’ves, and should’ves. Just, think about what you’re gonna do about it in the future. Even better, focus on the now.”

Steven exhales weightily and lets his lead fall limp on your shoulder.

“You should tell Marc that.”

—

“Steven! Y/n! Where were you? No, I don’t want to hear it. You’re both getting inventory duty for a week. Yes a week, starting fucking today. Now finish cleaning that sodding bathroom, how long does that take you anyways I’d have it done in half this time already. No, I told you, I don’t want to hear it I’ve got more important things to do—“

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My AO3

[livsoulsecrets]

Call and I’ll rush out - BuckTommy fic

@bucktommyweek Prompt: Emergency (Day 2)

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Trigger Warning: Hospitals

Summary: Buck gets hurt on the job and doesn’t expect Tommy to show up for him.

He does.

“He gazed over Tommy, still in his uniform, with his sleeves rolled up and a concerned frown in place, and mused, “You’re here. You’re really here.”

“Of course I am. Where else would I be?” Tommy answered, baffled.”

Read on AO3.

Buck had been hit by many things in his lifetime. Fists, woods, roofs, a fire truck, a tsunami, and lighting. Somehow, he had expected a concrete brick not to hurt as much.

There was a fire in a residential building. Nothing too out of the ordinary, and they had been lucky that most of its residents were not home. Buck was supposed to be out of there in five minutes when one of the garage columns crumbled down.

When the structure broke completely, a fragment of the debris went flying towards him.

It wasn’t even that big of a piece—nothing close to what had fallen atop Bobby and May during the dispatch fire—but it still sent him staggering back.

It was a miracle it hadn’t plummeted him, or maybe he had just run out of bad luck.

The last thing he saw was Hen’s face above him, her hands sinking into his chest to check for injuries as horrible pain shot through him.

“Hold on, Buckaroo,” she told him, “stay awake.”

He tried, really tried, but Hen dissipated from his vision as his eyelids grew too heavy for him to keep them open.

When he woke up again, he opened his eyes to a white, sterile ceiling and the familiar feel of a hospital gown against his skin.

“Hey, Buck,” Maddie’s voice sounded very distant, even as her face came into view atop him. “It’s alright, I got you. You’re in the hospital.”

He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out. Every muscle on his body was lead, dragging him back down.

“Just rest,” she soothed him, and her voice was kind and quiet as she lured him to sleep again.

The second time he woke up, Maddie wasn’t there. He opened his eyes and found only the same white ceiling staring back at him.

He blinked and tried to call out for someone—a nurse, or one of his friends, anyone at all—because he desperately needed water to wash away the dry lump on his throat.

Before he could even try, a cold plastic cup was pressed to his hand, and he felt his neck being lifted by strong, deft fingers.

“Here, drink this,” Tommy said, “you must be thirsty.”

He stared dumbly at his boyfriend, unsure if he was real or some type of hallucination. Tommy seemed to take the hint that Buck was too dumbfounded to move any time soon and picked up the cup himself to bring it to his lips.

Buck drank the first cup, then the second and the third, until he felt the lump shrinking and then finally disappearing.

He could speak again.

He gazed over Tommy, still in his uniform, with his sleeves rolled up and a concerned frown in place, and mused, “You’re here. You’re really here.”

“Of course I am. Where else would I be?” Tommy answered, baffled.

Buck reached out to place a hand against his cheek, and his ribs protested painfully, but he took the pain in stride if it meant he could touch Tommy again.

There was a moment in there, amidst the debris and the fire, that he thought he would never get the chance to.

“Weren’t you supposed to be working today?” He asked stupidly.

It was a dumb question. Tommy was still in his pilot gear, so obviously he was supposed to be working.

Still, no admonishment came. Tommy smiled sweetly at him, the cleft on his chin more prominent than ever.

“And you were supposed to have all your ribs intact,” he pointed out, then shrugged, “but life gets in the way.”

“I’m sorry you had to miss work.”

The ‘because of me’ was implicit, and Buck truly felt bad for it.

Tommy shook his head. “You didn’t ask to be hit by a flying concrete block.”

“A small one,” Buck pointed out, trying to get his voice to stop slurring. Whatever they had given him for the pain was pretty strong, making his vision blurry at the edges.

“When my boyfriend’s best friend calls to tell me he’s in the hospital, I come—no matter how big the concrete block.”

Buck felt something warm gathering in his chest, and he was pretty sure his eyes must have been watering up with the sheer fondness of Tommy’s words.

“I meant it, Evan. I wanted to see you,” Tommy reassured him, tracing a hand through his collarbone above the bandages that covered his ribs. “Where did you think I’d be?” He asked hesitantly.

Buck would blame it all on the meds for what he said next.

“I thought you’d be gone,” he answered. “I thought you’d leave.”

Because this is the part that is scary, and when I’m vulnerable. Nothing good happens when I’m weak—nobody wants to be with me when I’m weak, is what he didn’t say.

But understanding still softened Tommy’s brow. There was a flash of kinship in his eyes when he told Buck, “It takes more than a few broken ribs to scare me away.”

“I’ve got a lot more than that in store,” he chuckled, and the pain sparkled through his torso again, a lot stronger.

“Then I guess I’ll call myself lucky that today was just a broken rib day.”

Tommy bent over to press a kiss to his forehead, then another to his cheek, and a last one against his birthmark.

Buck didn’t think anyone had ever kissed him there other than Maddie, but the gesture always brought him comfort—a sense of belonging that came from someone who knew all the things that made him who he was and still decided he was worth loving.

Buck knew he was no longer the scared child who felt like he didn’t belong to anyone other than Maddie. He was still hers—would always be hers—but he was also Bobby’s, Hen’s, Eddie’s, Chris’, and Chim’s.

Amidst the haze of the drugs and the pain, Buck realized he wouldn’t mind being Tommy’s, too.

He ought to tell Tommy that another time, when his head didn’t feel so heavy and he wasn’t drugged out of his mind.

“Stay,” Buck asked, fighting the sleep that was coming for him. He struggled to keep his eyes open as he felt his consciousness slipping into slumber.

“I will,” Tommy agreed. It sounded like a promise, and Tommy never broke his promises.

Buck slept.

[cyberhopper]

Wet Floor Sign

Characters: Luigi, Daisy Genres/themes: Minor injuries, early friendship Also posted on AO3

--------

From the moment they first met, right in the middle of the Spring Tennis Tourney at Peach’s Castle, Luigi had known that Daisy wasn’t someone who often listened to reason. Her thoughts were like a wild river twisting and turning through an unexplored forest, every new idea like a splash of water hitting whatever unsuspecting person happened to be closest. As for the woman herself, he wasn’t sure whether “tornado” or “fireball” described her better.

Daisy was someone who did whatever she liked, and Stars forbid anyone try to stop her. Of course, this led her into trouble more often than not. Nothing serious ever came from her shenanigans - until one day, Luigi saw her slip and hurt herself because she chose to dash through a bathroom in wilful ignorance of the very noticeable wet floor sign.

She went over backwards and smacked her head on the cool tiles, and Luigi, who had been behind her at the time (it was a unisex bathroom, alright, he wasn’t a creep), only had time to suck in one sharp breath before panic set in.

He’d always hated having to be responsible in scary situations, preferring to let someone more suitable - like his brother or Princess Peach - take charge. His tendency to flail and flounder aside, he hated the idea of something going wrong because of his decisions. But when it came to Daisy, he wasn’t sure if he could consider her the responsible one between them.

And there hadn’t been anyone else in the room at the time.

He waited all of five seconds, desperately hoping that someone would materialise out of nowhere and take charge, before his instincts began to push him forwards. Daisy might have a head injury; she wasn’t moving; she could be unconscious; if he didn’t act now she might--

His knees hit the floor and his hand carefully slipped beneath her head, both to cushion it and to check for open wounds. Auburn hair, damp with sweat, caressed his fingers. He found himself idly wishing that he wasn’t wearing gloves.

Her eyes fluttered open, but didn’t seem entirely focused. They aimlessly wandered the ceiling for a moment before forcing themselves to settle on Luigi’s face with what looked like obvious difficulty.

“Woah, woah, woah, don’t move,” he said - not because she’d tried to but because he knew the idea would enter her mind soon enough.

“Weegee?” He was relieved to hear her voice sounding normal - if a little dazed - but more relieved to hear the familiar nickname falling from her lips. She recognised him. Good sign.

“Don’t move,” he repeated. “You just, ah, fell and hit your head. I need to call for the medics.”

Her head rolled in a feeble imitation of a nod, pushing against his hand. He wondered if she was in pain. “Yeah, OK. I’ll just... stay here, I guess...”

Despite not wanting to leave her, Luigi propelled his wobbly legs into action, got outside, and managed to wave down a group of Toad medics within five minutes. He dithered in the doorway like a spare part while they clustered around Daisy and piled her with questions (“Do you know what day it is?”, “Do you remember what happened?”); to his relief, she was able to answer all of them with only a moment’s hesitation. The Toads put her on a stretcher and took her to the hospital anyway, despite her insistence that she was fine.

“Head injuries should be taken seriously, Miss!” one young Toad squawked. “You might have... internal bleeding!!”

The next day, Luigi was sitting at the edge of one of the tennis courts, watching the sky fill with clouds and wondering if today’s matches would even be able to go ahead, when he saw a familiar yellow and orange shape approaching out of the corner of his eye.

“Weeegeeee!”

Compared to the last time he’d heard that word, it was spoken in a tone of utter confidence. He instinctively got to his feet (was it rude to stay sitting while a princess addressed you?) and was promptly pulled into a hug vigorous enough to be considered a form of attack.

“Uh, hi, Daisy...” he said meekly. It came out muffled because his mouth was being pressed against her upper chest. He tried very, very hard not to think about this.

She pulled back far enough to look into his eyes, but her hands remained firm upon his shoulders. He had never seen her grin so widely, and that was saying a lot.

“Thanks!”

“...What for?”

“For helping me out, obviously! I remember everything that happened. I slipped and fell in the bathroom, and you were the only one there, and you got the medics for me!”

“Oh. Well... you’re welcome, but you don’t need to thank me. Any decent person would have done it.”

“Yeah, but not everyone is decent,” she said, nodding wisely. “So thank you for being a decent person, Luigi.”

And that was pretty much where the conversation ended, because right at that moment, people started showing up for the tennis matches. For the rest of the day, Luigi’s interactions with Daisy consisted mostly of her hitting balls at him as hard as humanly possible while he flinched and let them fly by unchallenged. His doubles partner, Birdo, gave him a lot of peeved looks that day. But Luigi didn’t even care, because he had Daisy’s praise playing on repeat in his brain.

They had never exactly been friends before, but after that incident, Daisy never let him believe they were anything else.

[ladyeyrewrites]

Feelings Hurled Like Hand Grenades

Read from Chapter One

Chapter Four: I Have a Life

Rated M

4,435 words

Gina fidgeted with her phone, which was not like her at all. She was not a fidgeter. She either took action or she waited patiently for things to happen in their own time. None of this flitting from one unfinished task to the next checking for a notification that had yet to come every five minutes.

Except, today, apparently, she was a fidgeter.

Today: the day Michael and Anthony were meeting Thomas in Los Angeles.

Gina had stopped believing in God a long time ago, but this itching under her skin made her want to pray for a positive outcome. That hope for her nephews to have what she’d never had with her siblings clutched at her heart with such a desperate grip that Gina wasn’t sure if she could stand it if they failed. If they came away from this meeting with more baggage between them than when they’d started.

But she couldn’t sit on her lovely green velvet sofa fiddling her rings and checking her phone on a loop all day, so Gina put an audio book on and set about deep cleaning her kitchen while she waited for news of the outcome of the three brothers’ meeting.

Michael was the first to call. It was Sunday morning before their flight back from Los Angeles.

“Michael?” she answered the phone. “Are you at the airport?”

“Yeah, Auntie. Sorry if it’s a bit noisy,” said Michael and there certainly was a lot of background noise filtering through over the line. “I just, wanted to talk to you as soon as possible.”

“Did it not go well?” Gina asked, heart sinking.

“I don’t know,” said Michael. “I mean. It wasn’t terrible, but it was awkward, like we really don’t know each other anymore.”

“Well, you don’t,” Gina pointed out as she filled her tea kettle and set it on the stove. “You’re virtually strangers at this point.”

Read the rest on Ao3 or after the cut.

Michael laughed ruefully. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

“So, did it go well or not?” Gina asked. Michael generally needed a certain amount of guidance to stay on topic and Gina wasn’t feeling patient enough to let him go rambling off onto one tangent or another before he finally found his way back to the reason he’d called.

“I guess,” said Michael. “We’re going to meet up again sometime, and Tommy wants to introduce us to Evan.”

“Who is delightful, by the way,” said Gina. “But why am I sensing that you wished things had gone better?”

Michael sighs. “I don’t know, Auntie. I guess I don’t know if I really got across how sorry I was for everything I said to Tommy back then.”

“But Thomas wants to see you again and he wants to introduce you to his fiancé,” said Gina. “That seems like it went well.”

“Maybe, Auntie,” said Michael. “But he didn’t say he forgives me.”

It was Gina’s turn to sigh. “Your brother is under no obligation to forgive you, Michael,” she said. “You caused him real pain and that isn’t something that will go away just because you’re remorseful.” Before Michael could jump in, Gina added. “Thomas doesn’t have to forgive you for the two of you to move on. He knows you’re sorry and he still wants to have a relationship with you. Take the victory, Michael. Even if it’s a small one.”

“I don’t know, Auntie,” said Michael. “I’m not feeling awful victorious right now.”

There were times when Gina wished she had less patience. That she was the kind of person who could give into her impulses and smack a loved one upside the head until they saw sense. But she’d never had that sort of temperament. Still, Michael was fraying her patience. “Did you honestly think this would be a one and done, say you’re sorry and let bygones be bygones situation, Michael?” she asked. She didn’t mean to raise her voice, but she had a rare moment where her control slipped, and her tone turned shrill.

“No,” said Michael, “but—”

“No buts.” Gina also didn’t like to interrupt but Michael needed his head pulled out of his own behind and she didn’t mind doing the dirty work. “What the three of you are doing, it’s hard. It’s brave. It’s not the sort of thing that most people have the courage to do, me included. But you have to keep doing the work. It’s the same as trying to stay on the wagon. You have to keep showing up, keep going even when it’s hard and it hurts, and you just want to scream at the world. There are no short cuts and maybe some days it will be agony, but other days will bring you more joy than you ever could have hoped, but only if you keep trying.”

There was a moment of silence in which Gina wondered if she’d gone too far, but then Michael laughed, nothing riotous, just a little mirthless thing probably accompanied by a head shake if she knew her nephew. “You’re right, Auntie,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Any time, Michael,” she said. And then they said goodbye and Gina stared at her kettle willing it to boil faster.

What was she doing?

Gina shook her head and turned off the stove. She called Tabitha.

“I sincerely hope you’re calling as my friend and not as my boss, Gina Kinard,” said Tabitha. “It is Sunday.”

“I need to get out of the house,” said Gina, already grabbing her purse and keys.

“That doesn’t really answer the question,” said Tabitha.

“Friend,” said Gina. “My nephews are driving me crazy.”

“I’ll get the coffee going,” said Tabitha.

#

True to her word, Tabitha has an espresso ready and waiting for Gina by the time she arrived at her friend’s single story craftsman nestled in a quiet neighbourhood not far from the newspaper office.

“So, do you want to talk about why your nephews are driving you crazy?” Tabitha asked.

Gina sighed – she seemed to be doing a lot of sighing since her mother’s death – and launched into the briefest version she could. “I’m worried about them,” she admitted. “I just want them to be able to live happy, healthy lives and what if this isn’t the way? What if I’m pushing them in a direction that will make things worse? I mean, we’ve seen all these stories in the advice column about people going no contact with their families and it really does seem to be the best option for some people and clearly Thomas is doing well enough on his own. He doesn’t need us. Doesn’t need me pushing him.” God, she’d been talking to Michael too much too often these days, hadn’t she? She was starting to parrot his speech patterns.

Gina took a sip of espresso – it was perfect, strong and bitter just the way she liked it, like her mother had liked it. How did Thomas take his coffee?

“Gina,” said Tabitha in the tone she used when she was about to say something Gina probably wasn’t going to like. “I say this as your friend, as someone who loves you dearly and wants what’s best for you: you need to get a life.”

Gina was so shocked that a laugh forced its way out of her throat before she’d even fully processed what her friend had said. “I have a life,” she protested.

“No,” said Tabitha. “You have a job.”

“A job I love and that I’ve worked hard for,” said Gina.

Tabitha took Gina’s hands in hers, cupping them gently to avoid giving Gina any pain. She fixed Gina with her unblinking gaze. “When is the last time you did something for your own sake, Gina?” she asked. “Not for your mother or your nephews or your employees. When’s the last time you dared to be selfish?”

Gina tried to think of a response but couldn’t. Not one that would satisfy Tabitha anyway. All her selfishness was reserved for little luxuries: wine, coffee, chocolate, buying herself flowers. But while those were all lovely little pleasures, one could not base a life on them. They did not sustain. Grief seized Gina. “If this is about me putting myself back out there, don’t bother, Tabitha,” she said. She snatched her hands away. “I lost the love of my life a long time ago.”

“Almost twenty years,” said Tabitha. “It breaks my heart to see you so lonely.”

“I’m not lonely,” said Gina. But that was a lie. People who weren’t lonely didn’t try to fill every waking moment with work and noise and other people’s problems. People who weren’t lonely didn’t deep clean their kitchen cabinets while waiting for a phone call that might not ever come.

Tabitha raised her eyebrow.

“Fine, I’m lonely,” Gina admitted. “But I’m too old to be getting back into dating.” And her walls had grown too thick for anyone sane to climb over them and into her heart.

Tabitha chuckled. “You’re fifty-two, Gina. That’s hardly old. You could have another forty years left on this earth if your mother is anything to go by. Do you really want to spend another forty years alone? Is that what Siobhan would have wanted for you?”

Gina flinched. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” said Tabitha. “And I’m sorry if it hurts, Gina, I really am but I am so tired of seeing you wallow.”

“I do not wallow,” said Gina. “Warthogs wallow, pigs wallow, elephants and rhinoceroses wallow.” Was that the plural of rhinoceros? Or did they get the octopi treatment? “I resent the implication that I bare any resemblance to such creatures.”

“Oh, get over yourself,” said Tabitha, and Gina doubted it was intentional, but Tabitha used the identical tone and wrist flick Siobhan had used every time she’d told Gina the same, which had been often enough.

And for a moment, Gina was catapulted back in time.

1995

For twenty-two years, Gina had avoided the inevitable: admitting to herself that men held zero appeal to her, that she wasn’t going to get married just to satisfy her parents, and that she wasn’t going to live the sexless life of a nun.

When she heard about Club Q – a once-a-month dance party for women – Gina was initially hesitant to go. She wasn’t exactly a clubbing kind of girl. She wasn’t really a dancer. She hadn’t even gone to her high school prom, though she had been asked.

But curiosity was a stubborn thing, a growing thing – consumptive. Every month on the first Friday, her thoughts wandered to the Tenderloin where a sea of women danced, free to look and lust and love and every month her curiosity reached a higher peak until the first Friday in December, Gina put on a shimmery halter top and a short leather skirt and chunky heels. She did her make-up in a way she never would have done at home with a liner several shades darker than her lipstick – a way that would have raised her mother’s eyebrows and her father’s fist, but her mother was miles away, an hour outside of the city and her father was dead. They’d never know.

Curiosity roared louder than nerves, louder than doubt as the woman at the door stamped her wrist.

Wide-eyed, Gina took in the scene, let the music flow over her – not her taste, but there was something in the electronic rhythm that made her want to lose herself or perhaps to loose herself, to unchain her inhibitions and live freely. At least for one night before she folded herself back into the shape of the good, studious daughter she was supposed to be.

Gina waded into the thick of it, into the swirl of women – so many women of every size and shape and colour. Butch women, femme women. Women in tube tops with belly button rings. Women in flannel shirts and combat boots. Shaved heads and butterfly clips. Naked faces and caked on makeup. Cargo pants and short shorts. Every kind of woman in between.

For the first time in twenty-two years, Gina felt like she could breathe and then the breath was knocked from her lungs when she saw her.

Red hair shining under the disco ball. White tank top. Baggy jeans. A lip ring. Tattoos wrapping over her shoulders like a shawl.

And Gina only meant to look. To admire. To yearn and then to find someone safer, someone who wouldn’t consume her more thoroughly than her own curiosity.

But the red head had other plans.

And a wicked grin.

And a kiss that scorched away every fear Gina had ever known until she was reborn.

And that was it for Gina.

No more pretending to be the nice Catholic girl. No more denying herself pleasure.

They danced.

They kissed.

Gina let herself be led away. Let herself be devoured and ate hungrily in return.

“Slow down,” said the red head, putting a steadying hand on Gina’s head, making Gina pause her ministrations. “Take your time.”

“Sorry.” Gina blushed, breathless. “I’ve never done this before.”

“That’s okay,” said the red head – Siobhan. “The key is to get over yourself. To give yourself over. To stop thinking.”

“I’m not very good at that,” said Gina.

“I’d say you’re doing just fine,” said Siobhan and she smiled, and Gina may have fallen in love with her right then as she lay between Siobhan’s thighs staring up into that open, smiling face.

2025

Gina gasped, dragging herself out of the memory before it could twist from their first days together to Siobhan’s final days when Gina wasn’t even allowed to see her. Wasn’t even allowed to know she’d died.

Things were different now that people like her had better protections. That Gina might never again have to go through what she went through when Siobhan was dying. But there was always an off-chance. “I can’t go through that kind of pain again,” she said. “I think it would kill me.”

“You’re letting your fear control you, Gina,” said Tabitha. “You’re letting it diminish you.”

Tears slipped down Gina’s cheeks. “I know,” she gripped Tabitha’s hands as hard as she could arthritis pain be damned. “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

Tabitha pulled her into a hug – one of her signature Tabitha hugs, all softness and warmth and reassurance. “It’s okay to be afraid,” she said. “But you need hope too. And who knows maybe you’ll find a hot young thing to take care of you in your old age.”

Gina laughed even though all she wanted to do was cry.

#

Anthony waited for her when she got home. He lounged against the left column of her front porch as though it was his sworn duty to keep it from falling.

“Have you gone home yet?” she asked.

Anthony shook his head, adjusted the backpack slung across one shoulder. “I got an Uber here from the airport.”

Gina strode past him and unlocked her door, beckoning him inside with a tilt of her head.

“Have you been crying, Auntie?” Tony asked, always too observant for her liking. He took off his boots at the door, placing them neatly side-by-side next to the umbrella stand. His socks were purple and blue stripes. There was a hole in the big toe of the left one which she very magnanimously did not point out.

Gina shook her head. “You’re not here to talk about me,” she said. “Do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

He shook his head. “I don’t do alcohol or caffeine. They mess with my meds.”

If Gina had been in a prying mood, she might have followed that up with a question, but it was a rare thing for Anthony to come to her and he was easily spooked. She didn’t want to scare him off before he’d gotten what he needed.

“I have chamomile,” she said, making her way to the kitchen. “No caffeine in that.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll give it a try.”

Gina shook her head. “Your best friend since high school is a lesbian and you’ve never had chamomile tea?”

Anthony laughed just like she’d wanted him to. “Pretty sure that’s a stereotype, Auntie,” he said.

Gina shrugged as she returned this morning’s still-full kettle to the stove. “I’ve known a lot of lesbians,” she said. “I’ve yet to see it proven false.” Why she didn’t come out and tell her nephew that she was one of those lesbians, she didn’t know. He’d be accepting. He wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. But would he be able to understand her in the same way Thomas had?

Probably not.

They stood in awkward silence as they waited for the tea to boil, but the silence was likely less awkward than the conversation Anthony had come here to have and awkward conversations were best had while drinking tea rather than waiting for water to boil, interrupted by the shrill whistle of the kettle letting off steam.

“I haven’t seen you since the funeral,” Gina said once they were settled on her sofa. Siobhan had always wanted one just like it, but they’d never been able to afford it. It was the first thing Gina had bought once she’d been promoted to editor: a monument to the love of her life planted firmly in the heart of her living room. But that was a morbid thought for another day. Gina pushed down all thoughts of loves lost and loves yet to be found and brought her full attention to bear upon her nephew.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Anthony swiped a hand across the back of his neck. “I don’t really have an excuse. It just didn’t cross my mind.”

Gina favoured him with a smile. “That’s as it should be,” she said. “You’re young. You should be out living your life not worrying about old maid aunts. I don’t mind. But something’s troubling you. What is it?”

Anthony took a tip of tea, swirled it cheek to cheek before swallowing and took a second sip. Then he spoke. “After Tommy left, everyone stopped talking about him,” he said. “It was like he stopped existing. Like he was some imaginary friend I made up as a kid. Or an imaginary punching bag.”

Gina nodded. “Our family’s good at secrets,” she said. “Good at ignoring all the bad things, pretending we have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Tommy wasn’t something to be ashamed of,” said Anthony, gripping his mug like he wanted to make a fist.

“It wasn’t Thomas we were ashamed of,” said Gina quickly. “We were ashamed of ourselves, for not doing right by him. I was ashamed that I didn’t do more to help him. To help all of you. To help your mother.”

Anthony let out a shuddering breath. “There’s so much I don’t know,” he said. “So much I was too little to understand or blocked out or chose to ignore.” He shook his head.

“You were a child.” Gina put her hand on his knee. “It wasn’t your responsibility.”

“No,” said Anthony. “It was yours and Nonna’s and Aunt Bella’s. It was your responsibility to talk about things and you didn’t and because you didn’t, I didn’t know what was going on and I spent the last twenty years hating my brother because I didn’t know what he was running away from, not really.” Anthony shook his head. “I mean, I knew Dad was hard on him.”

“Hard is an understatement,” said Gina. “You want to know why your father treated Thomas the way he did?”

Anthony nodded.

Gina put her mug down and rubbed her hands over her face, gathering her thoughts. “I was a child when your brother was born. Eleven or twelve years old. I can’t really say I understood what was going on, not really. But when my father found out Jonathan had gotten Angela pregnant, he beat Jonathan to within an inch of his life.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. “My father threatened to kill my brother if he didn’t marry Angela and get a job to support her and the baby.”

“I never knew,” said Anthony.

“You weren’t supposed to,” said Gina. “Your father was never nice, but he got worse after that.” Gina shuddered. She’d tried to spend as much time out of the house as she could back then, haunting the library and the rec centre and the neighbourhood pool whenever they were open, but inevitably they would close, and she’d have to go home to the stew of resentment that had become her family home. “He started to scare me. He didn’t hit your mother while she was pregnant, but he did once Thomas was born. If they hadn’t been living with us the first year or so, I think Jonathan might have killed Thomas. Maybe not on purpose, but he I can imagine him losing his temper, hitting the baby or shaking it and that would have been that. But my mother never let Jonathan be alone with Thomas while they lived under our roof.” Gina took another sip of tea as though to rinse away that time. “Your father got better once he became a police officer. He had years where he was better.”

“He got to be a bully at work so why would he need to be a bully at home,” said Anthony who had a dislike for police that Gina only vaguely understood. Not that she was overly fond of them herself.

“Perhaps,” she said. “He was still hard on Thomas though. Still resented him. And then your mother died, and I can’t even begin to put myself in your father’s shoes, but Angela’s death seemed to bring up a whole new slew of resentments. Thomas took the brunt of your father’s temper.”

“And then Tommy left, and it was Mikey’s turn,” said Anthony.

Gina nodded. Fear gripped her as she prepared to ask a question, she knew the answer to already. “What about you? Did he target you after Michael went to college?”

Anthony shrugged. “I never had it as bad as they did.” Which wasn’t really an answer, but told her enough. “But I worry about Noah. About how Dad’s treating him.”

“Not Simone?” Gina asked.

“Her too,” said Anthony. “But she’s Dad’s little princess. I think Dad would go to Tommy’s wedding before he’d lay a hand on her.”

“I worry about them,” said Gina. “But the best I can do is make sure they know my door is always open to them.”

“They know,” said Anthony. His gaze drifted over to a photo she kept hanging on the wall. One of Angela and her three boys taken one Christmas when Jonathan had been working and everyone had been able to relax and truly enjoy the holiday. “Do you think Tommy would have stayed if Dad had died instead of Mom?” His voice cracked as though he hated himself for saying it out loud.

“I don’t know,” said Gina. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I think he’s where he needs to be now, even though his road getting there was painful.”

“You like his boyfriend,” said Tony.

“Fiancé,” said Gina. “My idea by the way. And yes, I do. He reminds me of what your mother was like when she was younger.”

Anthony nodded, frowning in thought.

“Do you have anyone?” Gina asked, even though she knew Tabitha would scold her for trying to live vicariously through her nephews.

“Not sure that’s in the cards for me, Auntie.” Anthony shook his head. There seemed to be more he wasn’t saying.

The reporter in Gina stirred – not that it was ever far below the surface. “That’s a bit too much of a definitive statement for someone who’s not even thirty,” she said.

Anthony holds himself incredibly still, like a deer scenting the wind just before deciding to bolt. “So, you know how Tommy’s gay?”

“I’m aware,” said Gina. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

He takes a shaky breath. He won’t look at her, eyes fixed on a spot on the carpet. “I’m not exactly straight,” he said.

Gina couldn’t say she was surprised. Not really. But she’d never pegged Anthony as gay either. Maybe he was bisexual or pansexual or one of the many other identities on the spectrum of sexuality. “Oh?” she asked not wanting to push too hard.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Anthony in the tone of a young person who’d forgotten that his elders were likely to have done and experienced things he’d never even fathomed.

“Try me,” said Gina, crossing her arms.

“I don’t really experience attraction,” Anthony said like he was confessing a mortal sin. “I mean, I’ve had people I’ve liked on an emotional level. People I’ve wanted to be in a relationship with. But it’s not sexual.”

Gina smiled wryly. “You’re on the Asexual spectrum then?” She savoured the shock on her nephew’s face at the fact that she knew what that was. And since he’d shown courage in coming to her, perhaps it was time to show him courage in kind. “I suppose, if you’re coming out to me, I may as well come out to you.”

Anthony frowned. “Are you Ace too? Is that why you never married?”

Gina shook her head, sorry to disappoint him. “I never married because it was never legal for me to get married when there was someone I wanted to marry. And by the time it was legal, the person I wanted to marry was long gone. I’m a lesbian, Anthony.”

His eyes widened. “That lady who used to live with you. The one with the tattoos.” He blinked as though reevaluating his memories.

“Siobhan was my partner, yes,” said Gina. The past tense still stung all this time later.

“She died though.” Anthony fixed her with a look of unbearable sympathy, one that made her feel her grief as though it was brand new.

“She did,” said Gina.

“And there’s never been anyone else?” Anthony asked.

Gina shook her head. She ran her hands over the velvet coach cushion, the one Siobhan would have loved.

Anthony had never been one for showing physical affection, but he switched his seat from the armchair to the sofa and pulled her into his arms. He wasn’t as big as Thomas nor as soft as Michael, but he hugged her fierce enough that Gina felt a bit of comfort force its way into the wound she’d been nursing for nearly two decades.

Maybe it was time to let it heal.