#fucking morbid ass energy in this place

[frankenstheythem]

im back from the situation but not unaltered

[xxxdragonfucker69xxx]

The Abyssals crowdfunding campaign closes in about 24 hours.

I did not get to hourinblack all their charms. As penance, I am going to skim just the end of each charmtree, and tell you about the biggest, coolest power of each tree. I am also going to do this for necromancy because i am a necromantic slut.

ARCHERY:

World-Wounding Darkness: Shoot a hole in the world, leaving a black hole that sucks people in. This isn't actually near the end of the tree but it caught my eye and I was like holy fuck.

Heart-Numbing Spike: When you shoot someone, wound their ability to care about things.

Last Days Portent: Shoot out the fucking sun. Kills the lights over the battlefield. If you're being goth about it, kill the lights for miles around.

ATHLETICS

Mountains Become Dust: Physical scale is no longer a limit on feats of scale or destruction.

Light-Killing Stride: Move faster than someone. Didn't ask how fast they moved, you move faster than them.

Temple-Shattering Ruination Curse: Destroy a building to curse the land, making it shadowy and blighted and supernaturally scary. if you were being intense about it, it becomes an abyssal demesne, a permanent upwelling of goth energy

AWARENESS

All-Seeing Overlord's Lair: Extend your senses throughout your stronghold, you can't be surprised inside and your ghostly sentinels (you know, the wraiths you cast to patrol for you) can roam throughout

Morbid Inspiration Witness: Find inspiration in " the morbid, the eerie, or the darkly beautiful: an albatross dropping dead in flight, three  black cats crossing the same street in sequence, lightning striking a distant temple." That inspiration grants you bonuses on various projects, and also makes you care deeply about it. This is enhanced by further charms like Fervent Caprice Fever and Unrelenting Obsession Genius

Piercing Gaze of the Unmaker: Pick a place within, like 20 miles. You see it like it's your lair and you're there. Or maybe you want to cast your gaze on your rival instead? they are going to feel a crawling sensation up their spine from your gaze through <3

BRAWL

Illustrative Overkill Technique: When you kill or incapacitate a guy, it's so fucked up you can use it to threaten anyone else. Or like blow up a building or whatever

Explosive Gore Eulogy (!!): When you do that ^ you can also use their corpse as a weapon. Jesus christ.

Life-Annihilating Castigation: Pyreflame your attack and multiply (!!) damage by your opponent's wound penalty. If you get their ass they explode with pyreflame from within, and if it kills them their ghost burns up on the spot

Void Avatar Embodiment: Now with 0% prana! Envelop yourself in the void, dealing aggravated damage on touch and withering ranged attacks away. Also you're as close to death as you want to be <3

BUREAUCRACY

Hateful Scorn Panopticon: when you use Accursed Overlord Authority to inspire hatred in your followers, you can sense when any of them encounter your enemy, and where.

Rotting Palace Proclamation: Reveal that you embedded a traitor in a rival organization. Or was it someone we knew all along?

Iron Tyrant Reign: When you do that Accursed Overlord thing, if it's a Defining Principle you can carve it into the world as an Old Law: everyone who hears or reads it must follow, words bleed through coverings or hover like fire in the air, the mindless dead automatically obey

Suffer No Betrayal: When you do the Panopticon, you can also count people who've broken your laws as enemies. You can immediately gain Defining Hatred... and possibly carve that as an old law with Iron Tyrant Reign? That isn't in the charm im just reading between the lines

CRAFT

Malicious Mechanism Mastery: Jesus this one is a cartoon supervillain bit. Reveal that an enemy has stumbled into your trap! If it's a corpse-based trap, it's worse!

Fivefold Malice Curse: Lay a curse on something you make, for instance if its bearer breaks an oath or acts against one of your principles. and if they trigger the curse they get blasted by your Bleak Expiations, aka Abyssal Limit Break aka You Cannot Escape The Goth

Soul-Tarnishing Treasure: Instead of an overt curse you can cause it to inspire vice, a sword demanding bloodshed or a chalice inspiring drink. You can't be totally free of this unless you give the object up

Drawn to Death's Beauty: When you use Magnificent Cenotaph Allure to imbue something with emotion, you can also fill it with the mesmerizing lure of death, so that people wander towards it like a will o wisp and cant look away

Betrayal-Spurring Gifts: Annatar their shit socially if you've given them something you've made. &btw cursing that shit is free

DODGE

Hanging Shrike Focus: Dodge up into the air and float back down, or fall on your enemies maybe

Queen of Killers Pirouette (!!): dodge so good you turn it back on them, like fucking zelda's neutral-B in smash

Tenebrous Cloud Dissolution: DRACULA FOG its fucking dracula fog

Breath-Seizing Mist: Hey how would you like it if dracula fog was inside your lungs

Icy Sepulcher Entombment: When you cause someone to despair at hitting you the ice literally grows around your heart and then freezes them over. The freezing stuff is actually pretty early in the tree but this is setup for

In Awful Glory Crowned: When you bring them to despair with Frozen Fears Blossom you can also drain their Willpower, and if you drain it all they become obedient to you. Unless they're unimportant in which case they might just fall over dead, turn into a ghost, and then be obedient to you

INTEGRITY

Freedom In Chains: If forced to act against death's chivalry or your principles, brood about it, then break free

Clarity in Hatred: Shaping defense if you're mad enough

Immortal Malevolence: If you've enshrined an intimacy with Eternal Enmity Approach, you can care so much that you simply do not die. Wake up the next sunset completely healed, but you can't use that intimacy again

INVESTIGATION

Heart-Haunting Condemnation: Scrooge a bitch. Nightmares and omens reinforce your accusations.

Bleak Justice Malediction: If your victim of the above draws on Ties to resist giving in to your accusations, the haunting spreads to those people and things too. If they die they haunt your victim. You can fully Book Of Job somebody here.

Omniscient Spymaster's Web. Know something. Your people told you. You think anyone can keep a secret from you?

[reilleclan-blog]

I guess I'm just a morbid ass person but I wish I had some place to belong. It took 20 years of abuse, alienation, and pain to finally find ppl that respect me and understand me. I'm tired of meeting ppl that are my "friend" but they pass a boundary and then expect me to just forgive them.(I have 2 ppl at the moment I would call friends one I barely see anymore or even hear from and the other is someone I quickly became friends with. Everytime Ive quickly became "friends" with someone it hasn't ended well. I'm hoping this will be good.) But idk I'm just tired of being emotionally manipulated. Why is the world so cruel. I take a beating everyday just to respect myself. It's not fair. It's so hard trying to care about anything.. I barely care for myself. I'm in constant pain and fear. This is just my reality. The thought of other ppl not having to care about their mental state is just so mind boggling to me. I'm glad u feel accepted cause I sure don't. Typing this shit out nobody will care or listen. What is the point in anything idrk. I'm still just here i guess. It's so funny i was thinking of not talking to my high school friend anymore cause i felt like she was a "neglectful" friend and honestly I didn't want her to feel like she "needs" to talk to me 24/7. But at least every now and then. I don't care for romance I don't mind being single for the rest of my life but can I plesss find a place I genuinely belong and want to be apart of. I don't want to settle for friends or a lover. Just accept me just accept them. My feelings are valid but I just don't see the point in caring . I just don't care. 6ft under I go

Why can't someone just genuinely care about me and my wellbeing. I try to do the same for others but no one can ever do it for me.. I'm tired of making "friends" and then ppl abandon me shortly after. U were never a friend. U took my energy and dipped. I wish death upon u. I'm so fucking tired of ppl using me. I'm so tired

I don't wish nothing good for anybody It's not coming help's not coming, understanding not is not coming. Nothing is here nothing to believe in 🤓

I'd really like to stop caring about anything at all. I don't want to care I want to not be here

[seijorhi]

Rabid.

The brainrot was real, guys. Hope you like it :))

Kyoutani Kentarou x female reader

tw blood, violence, implied minor character death, non-con, smut, nsfw

There’s blood splattered across the back of his hands the first time you make the unwitting mistake of catching Kyoutani’s attention. He usually can’t be fucked wasting time wrapping his fists; the skin across one of his knuckles is split and raw from his last job, but most of the blood isn’t his.

And the other guy got off far, far worse.

But he wouldn’t have noticed – it comes with the territory and he’s never really given a fuck whether there’s blood on his clothes or not – if it hadn’t been for that tiny gasp.

That soft, sharp little intake of breath, and like the rabid dog they claim he is, he snaps to the threat.

Nobody else at the table notices, and you seem to realise your mistake, freezing up the moment those honey brown eyes flash and zero in on you. Your throat bobs unsteadily – you look like a deer caught in headlights. Startled. Terrified. 

Kinda fuckin’ adorable, if he’s being honest.

“I– I’m sorry, sir,” you mutter, ducking your head as you set down his drink with a tremor in your hand.

Vaguely, he registers Makki’s choked snort at the honorific – nobody’s ever called him sir before – but he can’t really find it in himself to give a fuck that the two of you have drawn an audience.

Not when you’re still frozen, hardly daring to draw breath at his side. 

You’re new, that much is painfully obvious, but not stupid. You know who he is – who they are, and despite his reputation, he’s never been one to get off on fear or some fucked up version of a power trip; Kyoutani simply likes the feeling of lashing out, beating the absolute shit out of some asshole just because he can.

Because it feels good, gets his blood pumping.

Nobody would lift a finger to help you if he decided to take offence to your little slip up. And truthfully, he couldn’t give a shit – he’s used to people being on edge around him and it’s not like you’ve reacted any other way than how you’re supposed to. 

It’s natural for you to be startled, scared even. But not here, not with them. Here you should know better, because here is filled to the fucking brim with men like Kyoutani. Oh sure, they might be prettier, polished and charming like Oikawa, but you’d have to be a goddamn idiot to think the man hasn’t stepped over bodies he’s put in the ground to get where he is. 

At least Kyoutani never has to pretend to be anything other than what he is.

But a little blood in a place like this shouldn’t raise an eyebrow, and the way you’re staring at the table, eyes cast down and wide; Kyoutani can almost hear you cursing yourself out for your own stupidity. And it strikes him as he stares at you, drinking in every subtle shift in your body language, wondering why you don’t just tuck tail and run off like you so clearly want to, that you really don't belong in a place like this.

“Something the matter, Mad Dog?” a silken voice purrs, and he tears his eyes away from your trembling form to glance back at his boss, sitting at the head of the table. The brunette’s smiling idly, appraising the two of you and Kyoutani feels you stiffen beside him. 

You don’t dare open your mouth, don’t so much as twitch, not even as Kyoutani returns his attention back to you. By now the entire table has quietened down, most if not all of the gathered men staring at you and you – pretty eyes filling with tears, hands clasped together and trembling in front of your dress – look like you just want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. And somewhat selfishly, there’s a part of Kyoutani that wants to keep you there like that.

Not afraid, exactly. Just… there. 

He can’t explain it, doesn’t know why he hasn’t just told you to fuck off back to the kitchen, dismissed you with a grunt like he would have if any of the other servers had made the same mistake. He has bigger shit to worry about than some perceived fucking offence, but he finds himself pausing, drawing this little moment out for a lifetime before finally putting an end to it, “No.”

He jerks his chin, breaking the moment between the two of you to reach for the drink you’d set down before him, but still you don’t move, glancing between him and Oikawa like you’re afraid to move – as if you’re terrified that you’ve read this situation wrong and one wrong step and you’ll just make things worse. It’s so fucking endearing that he almost snorts, but it takes Oikawa’s voice, calm and level and almost kind to shake you out of your frozen state, “Run along now, cutie.”

You scamper off without a backwards glance, and if anybody notices Kyoutani watching you out of the corner of his eye while he nurses his drink, they have the better sense to keep their mouths shut about it.

And honest to god, it’s the last he expects to see of you. He’s not so stupid as to think you landed the job because you genuinely wanted it; people don’t end up in places like this because they have choices, they end up here because somebody somewhere along the line fucked up. 

This city’s filthy, full of irredeemable pieces of shit like him and it takes innocence like yours, chews it up and spits it out. If you were smart, you would have left after your little run-in with him, so why the fuck are you right back in their private room less than a week later, nails biting into your palm and resolutely refusing to meet his eye?

Oikawa’s busy rattling off a list of drinks he wants, but this time it’s Kyoutani who’s frozen in place, staring at you with a scowl that has you shivering even as you nod at the Oyabun. He knows Iwaizumi at least is watching him with some kind of morbid combination of curiosity and concern, can’t find it within him to care as you try and slip from the room, giving him as wide a berth as you can without it seeming rude–

Not wide enough. Before he even registers that he’s moved Kyoutani’s reaching out to grab your forearm – his grip not tight enough to hurt, just to stop you from running off on him again. And the little squeak that leaves your soft looking lips sends a ripple of something electric jolting down his spine, but you know better than to try and pull away.

God, he can feel your pulse racing beneath your skin, every terrified thump of your heart. It’s addictive, he thinks, the feeling he gets just from touching you. 

“Gimme a beer,” he grunts, waiting until you finally meet his eye.

The nervous little nod you give strokes some part of him he hadn’t realised existed. Kyoutani likes you like this; all timid and obedient. A little too much, maybe. 

There’s a sharp elbow in his side courtesy of Yahaba, and he reluctantly releases his grip on you, leaving you to scamper away once more. Cute.

Yahaba makes some snarky comment under his breath and he barely fucking registers it, fixated instead on the skin of his palm; still warm and tingling from your touch. His hands are rough, scarred and calloused, the skin over his knuckles split from another job last night, a little red and bruised – even as he tightens his fingers into a fist they sting just a little.

Guns have their purpose, he’s not against a knife if he’s feeling particularly fucking vindictive, but Kyoutani’s favourite has always been his fists. There’s something about the feeling of skin and muscle giving way beneath his blows, taking all that pent up rage and aggression and letting loose with his fists. It’s a kind of euphoria he’s never found anywhere else; not in women or men or drugs or alcohol. Nothing comes close to the feeling he gets straddling some pathetic piece of shit and beating the absolute fucking crap out of him.

Sometimes if he goes a few days without a fight, he gets a little jittery. Not like the tweakers do, it’s not withdrawal so much as… a building up of restless, rabid energy. He gets on edge, snaps more, lashing out over petty shit until some poor asshole makes the mistake of looking at him the wrong way and Kyoutani just fucking looses it.

He feels it now, that same burning itch under his skin. He’s never thought of his hands as anything more weapons, but touching you, the warmth of your skin, how smooth and soft it was–

Kyoutani wants to do it again. Wants to touch more of you. And he’s not so fucked up yet that he doesn’t realise how twisted this all is, how a guy like him doesn’t belong within a thousand miles of some sweet, cute innocent thing like you. But the world ain’t fucking fair; you’re here and for whatever reason Oikawa’s taken a liking to you and so whenever they’re at the club, you’re the one management send to make sure they’re happy.

And Kyoutani wonders, golden eyes burning a hole into your back as you hastily clear away their empty glasses, whether you realise that if any one of them asked for a dance or for you to get on your knees and blow them, you’d be expected to do that, too.

You might as well be on Seijoh’s payroll now, just be thankful that as far as that side of things go, they’re not the monsters that the rumours make them out to be.

Not that he hasn’t noticed Mattsun’s gaze drifting to your ass when you lean over the table to grab something, the older man shooting him a salacious wink when he notices he’s glaring.

Not that he hasn’t let his own imagination take hold, leaning up against the glass wall of his shower first thing in the morning. His fist pumping along his throbbing cock, wondering what it’d be like to see you on your knees, those pretty eyes full of tears, staring up at him as you swallow him down like the good girl he knows you are.

The thing is, he’s never made all that much of an effort to hide his feelings from the others. He doesn’t give a shit if it makes him the butt of their jokes, doesn��t care what they think about the way he watches you – his attention snapping towards you the moment you slip past the door, purposefully trying to avoid his gaze. Not that it ever does you much good. 

Oikawa hasn’t said shit, and that’s enough of a go-ahead as Kyoutani needs. It’s none of their fucking business anyway. 

You’ve managed to get under his skin, push him to the fucking brink when he goes more than a few days without seeing you. He knows you don’t want any part of this; that you’re still fucking terrified of him. Kyoutani’s never been one to chase after somebody who wants nothing to do with him – there are plenty of women more than willing to spread their legs for Seijoh’s big bad Mad Dog if he wants an itch scratched. There’s no good reason why he can’t get you out of his head, why you’ve sunk your teeth into him and refuse to let go – even when it’s clear that that’s so fucking far from what you intended with the blonde.

It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, it doesn’t change shit; you’re his, whether you’re willing to acknowledge that or not.

And maybe he’s just living with his head up his ass, but he doesn’t quite realise how fucking inadequate this whole arrangement is until he needs a piss one night and ventures out into the club only to see some asshole trying to cop a feel and tug you down to his lap, his friends drunk and howling with laughter as you try to politely escape them. 

Distantly he registers that he recognises the piece of shit as some low level fucking drug lord who’s been all but sucking Oikawa’s dick trying to get a bigger piece of the pie, but in that moment, he honestly doesn’t give a fuck who he is.

Kyoutani just sees red. 

Nostrils flaring, steam practically pouring from his ears, he storms over. And adrenaline’s surging through him with every pounding beat of his heart, every synapse in his body’s electrified, ready to lay into this piece of shit for daring to lay a finger on what’s his.

He wants to beat him bloody, wants to fuck up his face – to whale on him until muscle and bone give way and there’s nothing left but bloody pulp where his head used to be. Him and his fucking friends.

But Kyoutani has his priorities, and he reaches you first, grabbing you by your elbow and ripping you away from them, a muscled arm curling protectively around your waist. And he’s deaf to whatever protests you have, to the excuses the pieces of crap in front of him offer up, can’t hear a goddamn thing over the pounding in his head as he fixes them with a snarl and all but drags you back to their room, shoving you less than gently in through the door.

“Stay here, don’t move until I get back,” he orders, and he loves you, he does, but when you open your mouth to argue, something inside of him tightens and snaps. He grabs you by the jaw, jerking your face up as he crowds in over you, golden eyes ablaze, “Not a fucking muscle, understand?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, crashing his lips down on yours to steal the kiss he’s been waiting fucking weeks for before stalking back out. 

Kyoutani is beyond caring about ramifications, Oikawa’s always given him a fairly loose leash to do as he pleases and if this is what puts an end to that so fucking be it; he’ll take you and go. But he hears Iwa and Mattsun on his heels and neither one of them are trying to stop him as he storms back towards the drug lord and his little cronies, so he figures the boss ain’t too fucking bothered with what he’s about to do.

And maybe if he’d had a clearer head, he might’ve found it funny how quickly the floor clears when he vaults the couch, grabs the asshole by the front of his silk shirt and heaves him forward, sending him careening face first into a table full of drinks. 

With the taste of you on his lips, the memory of this piece of shit’s hands all over you, Kyoutani doesn’t hold back. 

The others are gone by the time he, Iwa and Mattsun return, it’s just Oikawa casually leaning back in his seat, you sitting rigidly in the one beside him, his arm casually draped over the back of your chair. 

Kyoutani’s eyes flicker tensely between the two of you – he’s still on edge, still not right. He needs something more to feed that rabid fucking monster lurking beneath his skin, and his Oyabun knows it. 

Oikawa smiles genially, patting your knee for just a moment (and oh, how Kyoutani hates the flash of jealous rage that rears its ugly head when he leans over and whispers something in your ear) before standing up.

“Mad Dog,” he says, eyeing him with a shrewd look he recognises all too well. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” He nods at the two behind him and without another word the three of them exit, no doubt to try and smooth over the mess he’d just made.

Leaving Kyoutani alone with you.

And there’s a part of him that’s pissed off, because this was always gonna happen, but fuck, he was gonna make an effort. He’d wanted it to be nice for you… romantic, or at least as romantic as somebody like him was capable of.

You deserve that much.

His blood’s still thrumming, remnants of blind fury and jealousy and possessive need still burning through his veins. The fight wasn’t enough to sate him; it should’ve been – he’d left them in fucking pieces – but then again you’ve been toeing this line for a long, long time, and Kyoutani’s patience only goes so far.

He should at least take you back to his apartment, try and salvage this disaster of a night, but he knows deep down he can’t make himself walk out of here with you without taking what he needs.

He’s still not entirely in control, breathing hard as he stares at you, watches you fiddle with your hands in your lap, refusing to meet his gaze. “Stand up,” he says, his voice a rough growl.

On shaking legs, you obey, eyes flickering towards the doorway behind him, and distantly he wonders what you’re thinking. You’re foolishly naive, he’ll admit that much, but he doesn’t think you’re stupid. You know where this is going, and you must know that there is nobody and nothing that’s gonna stop what’s about to happen. Not even you.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and now he’s the one to draw in an unsteady breath. “Strip.”

You blanch, eyes widening in pure panic. And there’s a part of him that feels guilty, that knows he’s scaring you right now and hates himself for it, but any chance of rationality winning out fled the moment he saw somebody else put their hands all over you.

“Strip,” he repeats when you make no move to start taking your clothes off. “Or I’ll rip that pretty fucking dress off myself.”

Kyoutani adores that little catch in your breath, the way you bite down on your bottom lip as you give in, meekly reaching for the zipper at your back.

You’re so fucking beautiful, every mouthwatering inch of you. Tentatively, you glance up at him after your dress hits the floor, as if you’re hoping that that’ll be enough, that he doesn’t want to see all of you. Any other time, and the sight of you in your matching set of lingerie might’ve been enough to calm him, but it’s not what he needs tonight. 

His scowl deepens, and you’re clever enough to read between the lines. Your bra goes first, pretty lace panties joining the small pile of clothes on the floor a moment later. 

Good girl.

His eyes darken as he stares, hungrily taking you in. Soft tits, nipples pebbling under the cool air, he’s dying to touch them, suck on them, mark them up nice and fuckin’ pretty. The gentle swell of your ass, smooth, supple thighs he can’t wait to get his hands on, and that cute little cunt of yours, all his. His to play with, his to tease, his to claim. Fuck, this is better than all the images he’s conjured up of you in the heat of the moment, stroking his cock to get off with his head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. He wants to compliment you, tell you how perfect you are, how cute you are – trembling naked in front of him, but he’s beyond words right now, hanging onto his control by a fucking thread as his cock twitches in his pants, all that blood rushing south.

You look like you’re about to burst into tears as you swallow, taking in a quick, hitching breath. “Kyoutani,” you begin in a soft, tiny voice–

And that last little thread snaps.

He’s on you before you can stop him, spinning you around and roughly slamming your hips up against the table. There’s no time to be soft or gentle, no time to even take off his pants, he just shoves them down to his thighs and reaches for his cock.

Fuck, he’d wanted to eat you out, to stuff you full of his fingers and make you cum on them first, get you nice and stretched out, but he’s still too wound up. Kyoutani needs to be buried inside of you, needs to fuck you – he’ll make it up to you afterwards, he swears it.

He’ll treat you like a fucking princess, just be good for him now. 

And the scream that shatters that calm night air should tear at him – he doesn’t want to hurt you, not ever, it’s his job to protect you – but he can’t focus on that when your pussy’s clamping down around his fat cock, a dizzying heat enveloping him as your walls flutter and squeeze against the unwanted intrusion.

It feels like fucking heaven. Kyoutani’s hands are everywhere; your tits, your ass, squeezing reassuringly at your hip when a broken sob leaves your lips. And he’s kissing at your shoulders, nuzzling at your neck even as his teeth nip at the sensitive skin, desperate to be as close to you as he can as his hips draw back and he pounds back in, grunting like a beast in heat.

He fucks you savagely, your hips slamming against the table with every thrust – there’ll be bruises no doubt, but he’ll look after those too. He swears to fucking god, he’ll take such good care of you. You’re gonna be his girl. You are his girl.

It’s easier than it should be to drown out your agonised cries and pleas for him to slow down, to chase his own pleasure within your tight, wet heat, his cock ramming up against your cervix with every stroke. 

He loves you, loves the feeling of being inside of you – fuck, Kyoutani doesn’t think he ever wants to leave. His fingers find your clit and you cry out, a shudder wracking your body that almost has him seeing stars with the way your pussy tightens and convulses around him in response. He loses his rhythm as he nears his end, hips jackrabbiting into your poor, abused cunt as his balls tighten.

You’re slick now, cunt drooling around him as he fucks you hard and fast, lewd slaps echoing out with every brutal thrust. Kyoutani knows he’s holding you too tight, knows it’s probably hurting but he can’t fucking care when he’s so close and you feel so fucking good–

His teeth sink into your neck as that blinding pleasure takes hold; his entire body seizing up, abs tightening as his orgasm slams into him. Kyoutani cums with a hissed snarl, crushing you against him as thick, warm spurts fill your perfect little cunt right up. He fucks you through it, a slow, lazy grind of his hips against yours as he milks his orgasm for all it’s worth, pressing gentle, soothing kisses along your collarbone while you sniffle and sob pathetically.

“Love you,” he grunts quietly – truthfully – letting your exhausted body collapse back against the table. And it’s now he regrets not having taken you home to do this on an actual bed, just so he could lie you down somewhere soft afterwards and curl up beside you. 

Still, there’s not much he can do but try and comfort you as best he can, rough fingers running soothingly up and down your back as he waits for you to calm down. He pauses after a moment though, staring oddly at his hands.

There’s blood smeared across his skin, caked under his nails, splattered up his tattooed forearms. And Kyoutani can’t help the satisfied smirk that tugs at his lips as he leans over to kiss your shoulder again, his cock still stuffed inside of you. 

Most of it isn’t his.

And the other guy got off far, far worse.

[booksweet]

hiiii, I hope you're having a nice day hun<3

can I pls request a gojo hc with a sorcerer bunny s/o (kinda like miruko from bnha)

Gojo Satoru x sorcerer bunny s/o

starring: satoru gojo x fem!reader

contents/warnings: grammar issues, cursing, slightly suggestive by the end, Gojo and reader hate each other but lowkey they're in love (enemies to lovers nation, rise!), them both are 18+

A/N: anon, istg your request explored parts of my brain I didnt even know I could use, thanks for requesting that!! It got bigger than I expected. Hope you like it, enjoy! 💛

tagging: @noritoshiikamo

[ UPADATE ] NSFW version (click here) MINORS DNI

main navi | masterlist

First of all I think the technique you mentioned could be summon some "bunny powers" and the animals themselves;

Like you can surely summon your powers and use cursed energy to make your body stronger than ever — jumping higher than average humans do, you can be super strong, you're faster than most jujutsu sorcerers your grade:

Have I mentioned you're a special grade sorcerer? No? So yes, Y/N you're a special grade;

And there's only one you compete when it comes about being the strongest your grade;

Gojo Satoru, that annoying ass;

You sure are cute and strong so everytime you go on a mission you do everything to show off yourself of how many cursed spirits you exorcised;

Yet Gojo still beats you up because of course he's the strongest and he's so annoying it's frustrating and irritating;

And because of this everyone knows that you guys can't get along, everytime you're around each other is full of fights, mocking, teasing and sarcastic speech;

So it's surprising when you're called to solve a top secret mission and Gojo Satoru is there waiting for you — not really waiting for you, but waiting for the elders since they called you there;

"What the actual fuck?" You start saying as you catch a sight of him. "They told me I was going to do it alone."

"Oh, bunny girl" He says mockingly "They told me the same, but as you can see, we're both wrong."

You grit your teeth painfully in anger, but you don't mind answering. "Such a jerk" you mutter;

After the elder's meeting, without speaking a word, you both depart to the place you're about to find a special grade cursed spirit and maybe one of sukuna's fingers;

When you arrive at an abandoned hospital, you can feel and see cursed energy arising from there ominously, it sent shivers down your spine and you smiled in excitement;

"You're weird" Satoru mumbles as he took off his blindfold and starts smiling teasingly "Wanna make a bet, Y/N? Or the bunny is afraid of the wolf?"

Feeling cursed energy running through your veins giving strength to your body, you say sarcastically "Who's the wolf? YOU? You look more like a mouse with blue eyes, you know?"

He grunts in frustation as he says "If I find the finger, you'll have to admit I'm the strongest."

"Or?" You say and starts smiling devilish as excitement feels your body. "If I pick it first, you'll have to admit I'm stronger than you."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what I said." Rolling his eyes in annoyance, but when he looks at you, his eyes are shining like theres fire inside his irises. "You know who's gonna win, don't you?"

"Of course, Satoru." You answer smiling at him back in defiance. "You better be humble," you prepared yourself to jump higher and higher "The die is cast" and then you leave him behind laughing out loud.

Now, after hours of fighting, you see yourself trapped in between a wall and the ominous cursed spirit in front of you;

Were you afraid? Of course. Would admit it? Hell, no.

"Oh so you like trapping girls against walls?" You yell at the cursed spirit roaming above you. "I'll teach you the worse way why you shouldn't do that you-"

But suddenly the spirit burst into ashes and Gojo is flying above your head with that damn smile of his;

"How funny is it the bunny being saved by the wolf?" He says laughing at you and you're so angry you jump higher to yell at his face;

"You bastard! I had everything under control" when you're falling back to the ground Gojo keeps up with you flying and with a amused smile on his lips;

"That's not what seemed for me..." He muffles and then he picks up something on his pocket. "Doesn't matter I have something to you, Y/N, looks like," He shows a morbid finger to you "someone lost the-"

When the monstrous curse appears you just jump to Gojo to push him aside and protect him;

You both were surprised by your actions and you knew Gojo's blue eyes were probably widened, because... You just "saved" him, you put yourself in front of danger because of him even though he has infinity to protect him;

Since you are fast as hell, you managed to escape each one of the curse's attack and, by a brief moment, you summoned your rabbits to bait it and find some way to exorcise them;

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." You mutter as your muscles starts trembling, it's been hours since you activated your cursed technique and now there's a payment to settle.

"Y/N!" You hear Satoru's voice above all the chaos and stare at him. "Get away from there, NOW"

"Damn, I'm TRYING" You say when you finally find an open space to jump from there, the cursed spirit still distracted by the little bunnies.

"You-" Satoru starts to say, but he stops when you're at a same place nearly him. "Stay there, okay?"

"Why?" You question him, but he prefers to wear a cocky smile and show off his powers to you.

Of course the bastard would exorcise the damn cursed spirit using Hollow Purple.

When you're done he's by your side all sure of his victory, yet you smile innocently at him. "So, Y/N, looks like someone has to... Wait, why are you smiling like this?"

Your chin up to him in defiance as you show sukuna's finger on your right hand. "Looks like you're the one who lost our bet here" you smile proudly, lips arching and eyes shinning bright with scoff. "Go on, I wan hear it."

He shruggles as he says in low-voice, almost whispering. "You're stronger..."

"WHAT?" You say louder as you come closer to him, shoulders almost hitting his chest. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU"

"Fuck, OKAY!" He says louder, and suddenly his hands on your shoulder and you're face-to-face. "You're stronger, Y/N. Happy now?"

You can't barely process what he said, you both are so close and he's so... Is his breathing faster? He's holding you so tight. You feel your face warming.

What the fuck...? You think and Satoru seems to know what's going on your mind

"Cat got your tongue, bunny?" He says on your ears, his breath sending shivers down your spine and other places... "or should I say the wolf?"

"Shut up, Satoru!" You say placing your hands on his chest, you feel your breath mixing with his. "You're still the mouse around here, since I'm stronger"

All at once his hands are on your waist even tighter, his lips ghosting over yours. "Then let me show you who's the hunter and who's the prey."

[archaneanscribe]

Finally Taking the Trip to Jupiter

Vague spoilers for MGS4. Also xtremely fucking sad fair warning lol

“Snake... Dave?” Hal immediately corrected himself upon entering the room. The veteran’s (finally they could use that term, with there truly being no fights left to fight) request to drop the codenames they had maintained for nearly a decade had been a little sudden, but entirely understandable, “We think we’ve found a place to stay, for the moment. A nice house, close enough to a town that Sunny can go to school in, but far enough ouy most folks will leave us alone.”

David simply nodded- taking a deep breath that would normally be an intake of smoke into his lungs, but he was sincere in his declaration of quitting. Even if it wasn’t for very long, he could do that much for Sunny and Hal, after all this time. The tech wiz stood awkwardly in the doorframe, posture so closed in on himself David would see the gangly nerd he once was before he had started spending more time eating and moving around than seated in front of a computer.

He still did plenty of that, but years on the run had shifted the ratio considerably until just recently.

“Out with it, Hal,” he croaked out in a voice that was becoming increasingly unfamiliar to both of them. This seemed to shock his companion out of his own thoughts, and he finally moved closer.

“Ah, well, you see- what do you want for your last name, Dave? You know I’ll be formalizing Sunny’s adoption, which means we’ll finally be obtaining,” emphasis was put on the word, because in reality it meant forging, “papers for her, and I thought you’d probably be in need of some too. We can use whatever is on your birth certificate, but if you want to pick something out yourself...”

A smile formed under Dave’s mustache.

“I already know what I’m using.”

Hal perked up, “You do? What is it?”

With the same simple, to the point gruffness he would never quite be rid of, the one legendary soldier answered in a single word.

“Emmerich.”

All sounds except the Nomad’s machinery working overtime on her last voyage and David’s unfortunately heavy breathing ceased for an eternally long moment, Hal’s face journeying between every emotion he possessed. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, and his attempt to stifle his sniffles failed.

He probably wouldn’t have admitted it at the beginning, but something David had always loved about Hal was his ability to keep crying. No matter the hardships he faced, the traumas, the evils and cruelties he bore witness too, he didn’t run out of tears. His compassion was a well that ran deep, and those tears were just a result of it overflowing.

“Dave...of, of course,” his expression betrayed some amusement past the waterworks, “Do you want me to list you as my brother, or-”

“You know exactly what it’s going to say, Hal.”

They both laughed now, such different sounds than it was just a year ago even. David had been sitting on the edge of the bed, and Hal had been across the room, but that distance closed as Hal kneeled on the floor, placing his hands on David’s knees. It was a gesture that David had previously classified as pitying, but he knew better, now. 

It wasn’t for his comfort at all.

“Thank you, David.”

David had half a mind to ask what it was like to kiss an old man with a mustache, but they didn’t have the time for jokes like that anymore, so he just closed his eyes and enjoyed it.

---

The eyeroll David had given when Hal told him the name of the town they’d be living in was named Jupiter was so legendary it surpassed his previous exploits with ease. But, despite how silly it was, he couldn’t deny the warmth in his chest. 

They’d gotten their trip to Jupiter, just a little late.

Jupiter, Washington, was as small as a small mountain town got. It didn’t even have an elementary school for Sunny to attend (she was bussed to the neighboring, larger town). Most residents were the descendants of the people who had first lived there, so their new faces stuck out for awhile, but they eventually concluded what was essentially the truth, albeit missing some key details, and moved on- they were just two retirees, hoping to live out what was left of the older one’s life in peace with their orphaned granddaughter, nothing exciting.

Hal laughed at how huffy David had gotten at the granddaughter comments.

For the first month, their time there was peaceful. Content. Happy.

The second month, David starting being able to spend less and less time out of bed.

In the third month, he took Hal aside.

“You should stop sleeping in the same bed as me.”

His husband was a genius, he knew exactly why, but he still asked anyway.

“Don’t make me say it.” 

That he didn’t want Hal to wake up one sunny spring morning cuddling a corpse.

Tears were shed, as they always were, but he complied nonetheless. All of David’s belongings were transferred to the guest bedroom (Hal had tried to convince him to stay in the master bedroom, it was more comfortable, but David was adamant- that was where Hal would be staying in the future, and he didn’t want his ghost lingering in the air whenever he slept).

On the first day of the fourth month, right after sending Sunny off to school, Hal told him they were getting a dog for her.

“She loves those chickens, and I thought she might like another pet.”

“Or is it to replace me?” he asked, morbid mirth nearly buried under the pure gravel that had become his voice, “Seems to fit perfectly.”

Hal’s eyes, sad and weary, seemed to want nothing to do with this conversation, but he participated for his partner’s sake, “How so?”

“It’ll bark at strangers, bite the hand that feeds, and just generally be a pain in your ass.”

Despite himself Hal did laugh, not entirely bitter, “We’ll train it better than that.”

“Don’t train it too well. Won’t remind you enough of me.”

Fifth month, they had a dog. Rex, a joke on two layers- a name so common it was funny, and a reminder of one man’s shame that he’d never quite shake off. Not a husky, because while that would please David, they’d be keeping it long term and that level of energy just wouldn’t suit their needs. Rex was an adolescent Golden Retriever. 

The dog of the American dream.

Almost like he could tell David wouldn’t be around long enough to justify getting attached, Rex mostly ignored him. The feeling was mutual. 

Sunny loved them both dearly, and that was enough.

---

They had been there half a year, and Sunny made them breakfast. Her specialty, eggs fried to methodical perfection, toast just a little browner than anyone would like, maple sausage microwaved for ten seconds more than the instructions said just to make sure they were thoroughly cooked, and a glass of pulpless orange juice tucked precariously into the crook of her arm as she carried the meal to Uncle Dave’s bedroom.

It was two minutes after Hal watched Sunny depart from the kitchen that he heard a loud crash, glass and ceramic shattering, followed by Rex’s insistent barking and whining. He was on his feet and rushed to the scene, fearing the worst and finding exactly that.

“Oh, Sunny... Sunny...”

“U-Uncle H-Hal,” she barely managed through her cries. Rex, to his credit, ignored the food on the ground and nuzzled at her face, whining, confused and upset by the noises of unparalleled distress his beloved human was emitting. Stifling his own grief, Hal went over to the young girl and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

He didn’t do a great job at holding that grief in after all.

“Sunny, Sunny, Sunny... I’m so sorry... I should have checked up on him when I woke up... It’s okay, Sunny...”

“H-He’s d-d-dead. J-Just,” her stutter was exacerbated by her choking sobs, “J-Just l-like my m-mother.”

The downside of having such a bright child was that you couldn’t shield them from life’s harsh realities that easily. There was no convincing Sunny that Uncle Dave was with the birds in the clouds, or any other such comforting tale. 

He was dead and gone, and she knew that.

---

The gravestone read:

               David Emmerich

       Beloved father and husband.

All three of those titles were ones he had only worn for six months, but he had worn them with honor.•

[raendown]

A story for @insaneflowergirl as part of the @madatobigiftexchange! Only took me six days to realize it’s June. A grand improvement over the last couple months. xD

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 4049 Rated: T+ Fandom: Naruto Summary: Trapped together by an avalanche in the middle of a mission, Madara and Tobirama make a passing attempt at dealing with the discovery that they are soulmates. And also the discovery that there is only one bed to share for the night.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Warmth in Winter Hearts

“I don’t suppose if I happened to suggest laying down to rest you might actually listen?” 

“You’re not my mother!”

Tobirama pressed the bridge of his nose tightly between two fingers and breathed slowly. “Gods but I hope not. I have neither the parts nor the patience for that.”

Across the cavern Madara scowled, looking very much like he was only moments away from sticking out his tongue. If he were perfectly honest Tobirama would not have been surprised in the least to see that sort of childish behavior after the emotionally taxing week they’d been going through. Getting put on a mission together was bad enough; they fought like cats and dogs in the tower with separate offices to retreat to, how Hashirama expected them to survive an entire month out here in the wilderness together was a mystery. Yet the worst part had to be getting snowed in separate from the man they were meant to be escorting with no way to make sure the idiot was still alive. 

“When we get out of here,” Madara growled, “I’m going to tear out that asshole’s hair strand by strand.”

“I’m not sure how much of a threat that is.”

“Excuse you, that is a terrifying threat.”

“Not everyone is as attached to their hair as you are,” Tobirama pointed out. 

He was already turning away to build up the meager fire he’d hastily thrown together upon realizing they were trapped in here. Still, he could practically feel the weight of dark eyes glaring at him from across the cave, probably staring at the back of head and judging the hair that he kept short purely for utilitarian purposes. If he hadn’t looked so ridiculous the one time he’d shaved it all off he would just do away with the stuff all together. What good did hair really do him? Not much. If his head got cold he could always throw on a hat. Beyond that he’d never found much of a use for it. 

“Maybe if you took better care of yours then you’d understand.”

“I very much doubt that,” Tobirama murmured under his breath.

The glaring intensified but he refused to take the bait. Feeding the fire and making sure they stayed warm throughout the night was much more important than tending to the quicksilver emotions of a man who, until today, had been nothing but a thorn in his side at every turn. If not for this blasted mission he never would have been anything else. Tobirama closed his eyes and counted his breaths in and out, in and out, slowly, evenly, searching for the calm balance that so many people mistook for unfeeling cold. It hadn’t been so difficult to center himself in years. 

As much as he tried, however, calm remained far beyond his reach. He could keep a placid expression for the idiot across the room but on the inside his emotions were tumbling over each other like a business of ferrets all fighting over the same morsel of food. They were soulmates. Even in his own head that felt strange to admit. So many years spent glaring across the battlefield, several more glaring across council tables and mokuton sturdy desks, only now to discover their connection mere hours before they got themselves trapped inside a system of caves by nothing more than a raging blizzard. Honestly if he weren’t so angry at the timing of it all Tobirama might have been impressed by the sheer volume of snow Mother Nature had seen fit to dump over their heads without warning. More so than the weather he was angry at their client. When he’d told that fool to stay close it had been for his own safety, not to ruffle his overinflated ego without reason. Now he’d trapped himself somewhere else in these caves by dashing off just before an avalanche of snow collapsed over the entrance. Madara had offered to melt through it all but there was little point. There would always be more to come down on top. 

Either their client would be dead of cold in the morning or he wouldn’t. Being here with them wouldn’t do much to change that outcome when he’d already declared that he would rather freeze to death than seek body heat from, in his words, lowly shinobi types. Tobirama would rather lose the income from this mission than let such an asshole touch him after words like that. 

“Ugh.” Behind him Madara sniffed a couple of times. “These smell terrible.”

“Probably because you’re still bleeding inside them.” Tobirama didn’t even need to turn around to know what the other was talking about. He’d wrapped those bandages himself only hours before. 

“I should probably change them. But it’s so cold…”

Standing up to brush the snow from his knees, Tobirama nodded shortly. “Cold indeed. An excellent excuse not to care for your wounds. I’ll be sure to share that one with Izuna when he asks how I could allow you to come home with blood poisoning.” 

A smile flickered across his face when the snuffling turned in to barely muted grumbling, probably a bad mockery of him since that was usually Madara’s last defense against being told to do something he already knew he should have been doing. It only took another minute or two of waiting before heavy footsteps were thumping across the snow-dusted rock to pause just at his back. The hand that shoved itself in to his view looked like some child’s imaginative drawing of a zombie, covered as it was in off-white linen turned black in some places with drying blood. 

“If you’re so worried for me then do something about it yourself!” 

“Use your manners if you want help.”

“Fuck you!” Madara snatched his hand back. When Tobirama looked he was cradling it to his chest with a pout that looked all the more ridiculous than usual when set above a full suit of battle-worn armor. “I’ll just do it myself then!” 

“Will you now?”

A raised eyebrow sent his companion storming off to where they had scraped the snow off a few square feet of ground. Dark mutterings made a lovely background tune as Madara dug through both of their packs trying to find the rest of their medical supplies. When he found them he gave a vicious little noise of triumph and then flopped down on to a nearby rock to pick at the knot on the back of his injured hand. It was hardly the only injury either of them had suffered during the past week of escorting their jittery client through one of the most dangerous sections of the border with Yugakure, just the most serious since it hampered the grip Madara needed on his infamous gunbai. He’d trained himself to use the other hand like most shinobi did but his effectiveness in battle was markedly different when doing so, forcing Tobirama to take point constantly rather than switching out by turns. 

“Don’t forget the ointment,” Tobirama called over helpfully, not bothering to hide a snicker when Madara lifted his head to glare in response. 

“I know that!” 

“Ah so you were leaving it behind in the pack, what, to keep it warm?” 

Madara tore off a strip of bandage and hauled it ineffectually through the air, shouting, “Leave me alone!” 

He should. In truth he really should leave the man alone. Both of them needed a little time to process the discovery of their unexpected connection. Unfortunately Tobirama didn’t have nearly half the interpersonal skills his brother did, he’d never really learned when to leave well enough alone, so instead of giving them both a little space he watched the fluttering bandage until it hit the ground and then lifted his face with a smirk. 

“Very effective. I’m all but shaking in my boots.”

“You will be if you ever let me catch you on the training fields alone!” 

“Go on then, we’re alone right now.”

“Fuck off!” Madara grunted.

Tobirama peeked over his shoulder to make sure the fire wasn’t going to collapse on itself and then turned back to his mission partner. “I don’t think I will. You are literally my only entertainment right now.”

“I am not your entertainment!” 

“No, you’re right. You’re more like a natural disaster that I just can’t help watching. It’s human nature, you know? Like a morbid curiosity.”

Even as he spoke the words he knew he was being an ass but, as he’d said, it wasn’t like there was much else for him to do in this godforsaken cave. He might as well get a few licks in while he still had the energy. Watching Madara’s ears turn red with anger was just as fascinating as it had ever been, though having to force his mind away from examining why he was so fascinated was new. 

“If anyone here is morbid it’s you!”

“Well I’m not denying that.”

“Be more insulted!” Madara screeched. “I hate when you do that!”

Tobirama folded his arms and lifted one hand to tap at his chin. “Do what, pray tell?”

“You’re always so fucking unflappable! Just- just- it isn’t fair! Be...flapped! Or something!”

“Flapped?” He’d never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. It was perfectly reasonable that he should throw his head back and start laughing, thoroughly amused by his companion’s loss for words. Madara didn’t seem to appreciate his reaction but really that wasn’t far out of the ordinary. For the most part Madara had never seemed to appreciate much about him at all and until recently that hadn’t exactly bothered him. 

Right now the only thing flapping was Madara’s jaw as the man tried several times to come up with a response, any response at all. In the end he simply tossed the end of the bandage roll in Tobirama’s direction with lethal force and snatched the closest bedroll, storming off to spread it out across the space kicked free of snow. 

It was a shame to have his entertainment taken away so quickly, even more of a shame to know that if he also tried to bed down right now the only spot to do so would be within range of Madara’s vengeful hands, so Tobirama was left very suddenly with the echoes of his own laughter and little else. The grin on his face turned rapidly in to a scowl. Patient he might be when the situation called for it but he’d never been a fan of keeping the company of his own thoughts. Books were much more pleasant. Much less likely to spiral out of control in to dangerous places or earn him another lecture from his older brother. Not having his library at hand was certainly the worst part of any mission he’d ever taken, filled as they usually were with down time in which he had little to do but plan his next move or stare aimlessly at the surroundings. 

As much as it would probably be more interesting to wander off and explore how far back these caves actually went he didn’t think it was in his best interests to take the chance at getting lost. If nothing else Madara would definitely tell on him when they got back to the village. 

For a minute or so their little cavern was filled with the rustling of Madara settling himself down to sleep, wrenching the blankets off again when he realized he hadn’t put away all the medical supplies, then fussing at them to cover himself a second time. Once he finally settled down for good there was nothing but the sound of the fire crackling merrily away. Sealed off as they were from the rest of the world, the fire was their only source of light. If not for the fact that the caves obviously went pretty deep in to the mountain it would have been a very poor idea indeed to let it keep burning away all their oxygen. Tobirama was grateful he didn’t need to put it out. Aside from giving him something to listen to besides the inside of his own head it also gave him something to look at. Or rather it gave him a bit of light by which to stare off in his partner’s direction, studying the length of Madara's body and the shapes he made under the regulation wool blanket. 

Not a good idea. Definitely not a good idea. Tobirama jerked his eyes away as soon as he realized what he was doing. Better if there had been no fire. He’d rather be blind for lack of light and leave himself at the mercy of the Sharingan for seeing any possible threats than to sit here and stare across the snowy rock like some lovelorn maiden. No matter what discoveries had been made that day they were not some pair of star crossed lovers. There was no need for whatever dramatics his face had just been doing. 

Digging both hands in to his eyes with a sigh, Tobirama decided it was probably best if he just went to sleep too. It was still too early for him to be very tired but falling asleep would at least stop him from following wherever the hell his thoughts had just been trying to go. Somewhere much too thespian for his tastes. He wasn't his brother, after all, there was no need for him to sit here and analyze his feelings or some other such nonsense. If the fire burnt down while they slept and he woke to darkness, well, he did still have Madara with him; just because he was rightfully leery of the Sharingan’s powers didn’t mean he was above taking advantage of them when he needed to. Perhaps a little mean when the man was injured by, hey, he wasn’t the one who could see in the dark and that was hardly his own fault. 

Another sigh caught at the edges of his teeth and slipped out sounding more like a hiss when he pushed himself up on to his feet, striding over towards their packs with careful footsteps. There was no telling what sort of uneven ground could be hiding under all this snow. So far away from the dancing flames his already poor vision was even worse so at first Tobirama assumed that Madara had simply kicked everything out of place while looking for the bandages. It wasn’t until he gathered all of the packs together and dug through every one of them that he realized one very important item was missing. 

His eyes snapped over to the prone figure only feet away. Madara lay stretched out and perfectly still on top of his bed roll. Or, more accurately, the only bedroll. In all the kerfuffle of their client running off and the avalanche trapping them in it appeared they had lost not only some of the food they’d been carrying but also their second sleeping mat. 

If not for the snow on the ground it wouldn’t have been such a big deal. He still had a blanket and it wasn’t like he’d never bedded down for the night without something comfortable to lie on, catching a few hours up a tree whenever he had to and doing so without complaint. The problem was that lying down on frozen rock had only one outcome and with both of them already injured in various ways he certainly couldn’t take the risk of waking up with pneumonia when there was a perfectly viable - if crushingly embarrassing - solution snoozing peacefully right there. He really hoped Madara wasn’t too comfy just yet. 

“What?” his partner snarled when he was nudged lightly with one foot. 

“Shove over,” Tobirama demanded. 

“The fuck? There is literally a whole cave of space, go make your bed somewhere else.”

“Can’t. I have to share your bed so shove over, Uchiha.”

Madara snapped upright so fast they both heard something in his back pop, though neither paid it much attention. “You fucking what now?”

“There appears to be a distinct lack of a second bedroll anywhere so unless you want me sneezing all over your bandages when I inevitably have to change them you will shove the hell over.” Tobirama crossed both arms over his chest like they could hold in all the confusing emotions trying very hard to bubble their way to the surface. 

He wasn’t sure what to think of the way Madara’s jaw hung open wordlessly, couldn’t properly make out the nuances of that expression without more light to see by. Maybe if he weren’t standing at such an angle as to throw the other man in shadow- but to step aside now so he could see better would be to admit how bad his eyes really were and that was a weakness he’d never bothered to share even with his own brother. He settled instead for standing his ground until that rounded jaw snapped shut again for Madara to harrumph loudly. 

“Fucking- are you serious? This is ridiculous! Where did the other bedroll go?”

“Probably lost in the snow somewhere but I would honestly much rather be sleeping right now than trying to guess at things I may never have an answer to. So. Shove. Over. I will not say it again.”

Ignoring Madara’s voice shouting in his ear was as easy as tuning him out, a feat barely comparable to the task of tuning out Hashirama in the middle of high drama. Tobirama untied his armor and set it all aside carefully. By the time he turned back he noticed that, although the screaming hadn’t so much as paused, Madara had gone ahead and moved over a few inches anyway. He did give vent to a few choked noises when Tobirama slid in under the covers with him but it wasn’t difficult to parse out why. Tobirama was still up on one elbow when he paused to examine their situation.

Which way was he supposed to face? They would both be warmer if he faced inwards and curled himself around Madara’s back but such a position felt much too intimate. Facing away from each other would be blessedly less intimate but there wasn’t exactly a whole lot of space on the mat beneath them and it would take only a single shift for one of them to roll away from the other, taking all the blankets with them. Sleeping on his back was generally the way he preferred but, again, space was the main issue. He would have to lay half on the snow to do that. 

“Just...just pick something and go to sleep,” Madara grumbled.

“Eager to cuddle?” Tobirama snapped at him, a response born more of habit than any particular ire. 

“Fuck off!” 

Just for that Tobirama slumped down on to his right side and made sure to curl in as close as possible, grinning viciously to himself as the other man stiffened noticeably. He himself was far from immune to the awkwardness but petty spite had always driven him faster than any care for his own comfort. If Madara hated this then he would lie here awake all night before he rolled over to make them both comfortable. 

It would have been nice, he admitted silently after several minutes, having enough mercy in his soul to relent and just roll over. Tomorrow promised to be an absolute bastard of a day, not least because the task of digging them out of this place would undoubtedly fall mostly on his own shoulders. He definitely could use some rest before tackling that. Instead he lay there with eyes wide open staring at the back of Madara’s head and wondering what reactions he might get if he pulled on some of that bristling hair. Almost as though the man could hear his thoughts Madara curled in to himself a little tighter. The movement was an innocent one. The way it pushed Madara’s rump in to the cradle of Tobirama’s hips was most decidedly not an innocent result even if it was obviously unintentional. 

“Nnngg!?” 

“Very intelligent,” Tobirama breathed, not wanting to speak louder for fear the sudden rush of want running through him might be heard in his voice. 

“That wasn’t- I didn’t- fuck off, Senju!” 

“I will have you know that it is taking all of my energy not to instinctually respond with an implication you would rather I fuck you instead.”

Madara’s screech could probably be heard through the several feet of snow blocking their cave entrance. “It doesn’t count if you still say it you idiot!” 

Yet for all the screaming protests he went on to ring both of their ears with, Madara’s reaction notably lacked one thing. He never once tried to move away. Oh he waved the arm he wasn’t lying on and jawed until Tobirama began to wonder if he wasn’t wearing down the bones of his own skull from overuse but not once did he so much as tilt his hips in to a different position. 

Such telling body language gave Tobirama all the clues he needed to figure out exactly what he’d missed in their earlier conversation. It was possible these types of clues were something he’d been missing in all of their past interactions, body language he never noticed simply because he tried to look at the other man as little as possible. To his shame such a habit had been built entirely on the premise that Madara hated it when people didn’t pay attention to him. From now on he promised himself he would pay closer attention - even if he might not let Madara see such efforts. Just because he was begrudgingly interested didn’t mean he was willing to set that spite down just yet. Some habits took longer to break than others. 

And some would never fade but maybe that was more of a personal failing than anything else. 

“White flag.” The words were out and hanging in the air before Tobirama even realized his mouth had decided to speak before his brain had a proper sentence ready. In front of him Madara stiffened impossibly further. 

“The hell are you on about?”

“I...am waving a white flag. We both need rest. This is, ah, comfortable enough. Let’s just put any further arguments or conversations on hold until tomorrow and go to sleep.” 

Madara seemed to chew that over for a moment until he asked very quietly, “Like this?” 

“I am comfortable if you are.”

He half expected to have the man roll over and deck him in the face for such presumptions. When the silence began to stretch he wondered if he was meant to take it as agreement until he heard very quiet words drift back to caress his ears, a softer sound than he had ever heard from this man in his life. 

“Your arms’ll go numb sleeping like that. Might as well...might as well stretch them out.” 

“Ah. I didn’t presume-”

Tobirama cleared his throat before very carefully shifting back to make room for where both of his arms were folded tightly against Madara’s back. When he stretched one out neither of them said anything about Madara lifting his head to make room for it beneath the pillow they shared. And when he stretched the other out with very delicate movements they both remained utterly silent as he laid it gently across Madara’s waist. 

It was the subtle relaxing of all the muscles pressed up against his front that finally made everything click. Oh but he was a blind man. A very blind man with terrible vision to boot. If anyone asked he was going to blame every misunderstanding on the man in his arms with zero shame. 

Tomorrow they would wake to fight their way past the snow and put in at least a token effort to find their wayward client. Somewhere along the way they would search for the supplies that got lost in the shuffle. But as he closed his eyes Tobirama smiled to realize neither one of them was likely to put a whole lot of work in to finding that second bedroll they had lost, not when it seemed their newly discovered bond was something Madara wanted much more than he’d let on before. 

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

Supposedly 

A/N: this was a request sent in that inspired me a lot for some reason and i figured i’d do it cause i haven’t done any demon!h and demon!reader in a while so i gave it a go and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out :D enjoy!

Anonymous: This may be too cutesy for them, but do demon!harry and demon!reader ever cuddle after they fuck? Or they fall asleep separately but wake up in each other’s arms and just try to play it off awkwardly 

word count: 4.5k

content: some angst but nothing major, fluff, mentions of nudity, and some cocky asshole demon!h because that’s his Brand laidese and germs!!

///

Despite the emotionless, unattached agenda demons tend to uphold, let it be known that Harry didn’t really mind what was happening at the moment. 

On the surface level, from an outside perspective, this definitely doesn’t fit the bill for what is expected from his kind. Cuddling is an action reserved usually for real couples that have a sentimental bond, which he and Y/N are very much not. He’s not even quite sure what they are, really. Their relationship— if he can even call it that— was born out of three very important, adequately limiting notions: a mutual understanding, the desire for a convenient warm body, and sheer boredom. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

The mutual understanding was that neither of them wanted a genuine significant other, given what they are, so it was established that feelings were to be kept out of this arrangement completely. Emotions lead to complications, complications lead to a falling out, and a falling out would be inexplicably messy considering that they’ve shared the same friend group for well over a decade now and neither are willing to let a booty call mishap ruin that. Feelings stay dormant, end of discussion. 

The desire for a convenient warm body is pretty self-explanatory— Harry and Y/N had known each other for a while now so there was no annoying getting to know you phase, they both agreed that they found the other attractive, and they both live relatively close to one another so it was a pleasant set-up with minimal issues. Harry could shoot her a text at three in the morning and she’d be at his place in less than five minutes, or vice versa. There was no spending hours at a bar trying to pick someone up, no time wasted learning what the other person likes and dislikes, and certainly no fretting over birth control tactics to keep up appearances— they were both dead, which is a morbid advantage but an advantage nonetheless. It was easy access, easy fun, and easy clean-up. 

The sheer boredom aspect was just that. It had started on a drunken night out with friends, where— by a series of fortunate events— Harry and Y/N had ended up together post-bender, sitting in his car in the parking lot of a club. They had been waiting for him to sober up to drive them home and she had made a passing comment about not wanting to turn in for the night quite yet. He’d blinked at her sluggishly, absentmindedly reaching over to tuck a rouge strand of hair behind her ear because he was getting secondhand irritation from it tickling her nose. He’d spoken up, voice numb and thick from the alcohol. “What do you wanna do, then?”

Y/N had glanced over at him, eyes half-lidded as they had raked down his lean tattooed chest, his unbuttoned silk sheer shirt leaving very little to the imagination. When she’d pinned her gaze back up to his, her eyes had inked black as they’d flitted to the palm of his hand for a second, a suggestive glint washing across their reflective surface as the corner of her pretty mouth had quirked. “I have a decent idea of exactly what I wanna do.”

And now here they were, with many restless, heated nights, ruined bed frames, and rumpled sheets littering their past, as well as their immediate future. 

And here Harry was, slowly blinking awake after one of those said nights, cruel scratches itching across his back as they finish up healing, an empty content still bubbling at the pit of his stomach. 

His lashes flutter open as he inhales a large sigh, flinching at the bright sunlight filtering its way through the lightly swaying curtains. The only sound in the room is the soft thrum of the air vent at the far corner of the ceiling, alongside Y/N’s soft, rhythmic breathing. 

In his barely conscious state, Harry goes to do what he always does the morning after he’s spent a night doing Y/N’s back in: he goes to stretch. He does most of the work more times than not— courtesy of his dominant tendencies— but she always gives him a run for his soul. Anything he dishes out, she usually returns with the same amount of energy and will. Last night hadn’t been any different and the ache at the bottom of his spine and along his inner thighs proves it. 

Harry instinctively goes to lift his arms above his head, reaching for the top of the headboard to use it as support. He is stopped cold when he realizes a foreign weight is keeping one of his arms pinned to the bed. 

He knuckles at his eyes with his free hand, ridding them of the last residues of sleep, and then drags his palm up his face and through his mussed curls to comb away his disorientation. He cranes his sore neck to the side and downwards, eyebrows jolting up in surprise when he’s met with a wall of fluffy, tangled, mandarin-scented hair. 

Harry lifts his head up slightly, neck straining to see over the back of Y/N’s wild halo to make sure that the image before him isn’t some type of exhaustion-induced mirage. 

It’s odd for her to be so near him— she usually likes her space; says that being too close in proximity for too long is irritating. It’s why she usually sleeps with her back to him at the other end of the bed, and why he’s gotten accustomed to giving her the majority of the mattress space. Despite the fact that it’s his flat, she’s stubborn, hard-headed, argumentative and frankly, he’d rather just forfeit the extra leg room instead of bickering for thirty minutes just to end up losing anyways. It’s gentlemanly, in a sense. Minimal, but it’s something.

Given Y/N’s general disgust for excess contact, it’s no shock as to why Harry is utterly baffled right now. He’s about ninety-eight percent sure she’d fallen asleep all the way across the expanse of his sheets so how did they willingly end up here? How did they end up with her bare back pressed to his chest, her legs intertwined between his, and his arm wrapped almost protectively around her waist, wedged between her hips and the bed. 

Harry would never outright admit it but...he’s not necessarily mad about it. 

As he lays there for a few more seconds, absorbing the situation with an expression of pensive dismay pinching his face, he slowly comes to terms that he’s actually starting to enjoy this.

The warmth of her smooth skin gradually undoes the knot of confusion between his brows. The sensation of her back flushing against his chest as it rises and falls with her breathing erases the unease dipping the corners of his stinging mouth. The way she’s started to unconsciously rub her calves gently up and down his own makes the last traces of unsettlement melt off his face, replaced by an appearance of subtle affection, lips parting in blank wonder. 

Harry relaxes back into the plushness of the mattress, eyes remaining glued to a blissfully ignorant Y/N. His thoughts are scurrying around the inside of his skull, attempting to get accustomed with this new experience, having a difficult time arranging into place. He’s aware that he seems to be taking easily to what’s unfolding, but there’s an unsteady bubble inflating in his chest. He knows that if he lets himself dwell in this too much, it’ll end up biting him in the ass later, most likely as a wave of undealt emotions and crippling loneliness; that’s baggage he’s spent too many years compartmentalizing for it to all just come bursting out. 

All those decades of locking away his issues are in danger of resurfacing, and all for some harmless hugging? Doesn’t seem like a fair negotiation, and he knows plenty about negotiations. 

However, he can’t seem to make himself pull away. 

Especially not when Y/N suddenly shifts in her sleep, turning onto her other side so that she's now facing him, snuggling deeper into his body and tucking her head into the junction between his neck and collarbones. Her annoyingly soft, hot lips smear against his throat, settling into the dip at the center where a pulse would normally be present. The feeling of her exhales washing across his cold skin sends a wringing down his spine, a hushed ��fuck…” escaping his dry mouth as the warmth behind the gesture spreads upwards, spilling redness into his cheeks and along the shells of his ears. Her hands come up as loose fists, pressing between his pectorals lightly, her own naked chest flushing against her forearms. 

Surprisingly enough, her supple chest isn’t at the forefront of his mind at this instant. Instead, he’s focused on the intimacy they’re sharing in this moment, unbeknownst to her and stressfully beknownst to him. 

Harry’s free hand acts of its own accord, coasting upwards towards her face and moving her chin over a bit until his palm can comfortably nurse her jaw. He rubs the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip slowly, every ridge and bump sending miniature shots of electricity surging through his veins, his eyes falling shut at this strange form of pleasure he hasn’t felt in ages. 

Y/N just looks so beautiful like that, in such a vulnerable state that he knows for sure no one else has ever gotten to witness— at least not in a very long time. 

No one else has gotten to see the way her lashes sit atop her cheekbones so delicately, her face soothed by sleep, not a wrinkle or grimace in sight. She looks as if she were made of porcelain, her features nothing short of perfect. No one has gotten to witness the way she mumbles a handful of incoherent, groggy words, her mind lost in a meaningless dream, or the way her nose twitches in the cutest manner as a draft from the air conditioning runs across it, causing her to sniffle. No one has seen the way she gives into his touch, her face cradling deeper into his hand, chasing the uncommon gentleness behind his demeanor and it hadn’t occurred to Harry that maybe— just maybe— she’s craving this type of innocent bliss, too, though he’s certain she would never confess to it if she were awake. 

Harry runs his hand down the slope of her bruised neck and across the curve of her shoulder, tracing the teeth marks he had left the night before. The tip of his fingers follow down the incline of her torso, wriggling around her side, his wrist resting upon the faint dip of her waist. He cups her lower back with his large hand, borrowing a moment to appreciate the way it fits flawlessly. He then leans forward some to give his reach more length, his digits carefully trailing up the middle of her spine, the action timid and tranquil. 

He looks down at her from over the tops of his colored cheeks, chewing on his bottom lip nervously as he continues to lull his fingers up and down her back. Y/N releases a shy whimper of gratitude, her whole body bathing in a light shiver. She does like it.

Harry swallows thickly, moving away a few locks of hair off her shoulder with the tip of his nose, glassy jade irises studying her facial expressions to make sure she’s still asleep. He puckers his tingling lips, pressing a bundle of chaste kisses to the fading bite marks on her staticy skin. If his heart still beat, he feels like it would be glowing right now. 

He tilts his chin up, settling it on top of her head and sighing in satisfaction as he feels her steady breathing wash across his Adam’s Apple, her flyaway hairs tickling his nostrils. 

He decides to stay like that for a while,  just basking in her company within this tender setting that he knows he probably won’t receive again anytime soon. Harry lays there, limbs woven between Y/N’s as his black-polished nails scratch gently at her back, swimming in his numb thoughts. 

After what feels like hours— but is realistically just ten minutes— he goes to gingerly shift the arm stuck beneath her body, trying to regain some circulation. Y/N stirs, resulting in him freezing in place to prevent a mishap, his mouth finding her warm forehead and placing a lingering kiss between her brows. It eases her. 

Harry waits five minutes before trying again.

He manages to escape this time around, lifting his arm above his head and twisting out the cramp in his wrist, then folding it behind his head. He allows his eyes to shut once again, intent on spending a bit longer milling in this bubble of domestic peace.

His plan is shattered to pieces by an alarmed, angry sentence. 

“What the fuck?”

His eyelids fly open, ice materializing across his entire nervous system. 

Shit.

Y/N launches upwards, sitting up rigidly with her face contorted in startled repulsion, clutching his blood red sheets to her chest as her hair stands up in tousled tuffs. “What in Lucifer’s red, barren hell are you doing?”

Harry now has two distinctive routes to pick from: confess to partaking in the unorthodox cuddling, or fake it and say he was asleep as well and that it had all been an unintentional mistake. 

It’s hardly a choice. 

He flings his arms away from the other demon’s body as if sickened, shooting up into a seated position and slouching back onto his palms, a look of agitated horror plastered across his sleepy, handsome features. “What do you mean what am I doing? What the fuck were you doing?”

Y/N blinks at him as if he’d just stabbed her between the eyes with a demon blade, irises momentarily flitting black with nerves, the area under her waterline webbing with dark veins. “What do you mean what was I doing? You were the one with your arms around me!”

Harry narrows his sight at her pointedly, thick brows furrowing with faux resentment. “You were the one with your head snuggled into my neck and your hands on my chest!”

“You were the one kissing my forehead!”

“You were the one rubbing up on my legs!”

“Because you were close to me!”

“Because you rolled over here!” 

“No I didn’t!”

“Oh, so what?” Harry snaps sarcastically, drawing forward and crossing his arms over his chest adamantly. “Did an angel sneak in and place you there? Because as I recall, you always sleep on the left side of the bed, so what were you doing on the right?”

Harry’s accurate counter renders Y/N speechless, her mouth parting quizzically as if waiting for a response to magically appear. Her eyebrows cinch down begrudgingly, the gears in her head spinning on overdrive, trying to piece together an appropriate rebuttal. Her grasp tightens on the blanket covering her bare body. “Well, I...I don’t know—I don’t think I—”

Harry cocks his head to the side expectantly, loose curls falling across his forehead as he shrugs his brows with a condescending air. He mimics her with a high-pitched voice. “Well, I— I don’t know— I—I don’t think I—I—I—”

Y/N’s face goes sour as heat floods her cheeks, fire threatening to spark across the tips of her sizzling ears. She yanks the sheets off of him, holding them with one hand as she uses the other to begin crawling across the bed towards the edge, a haphazard defense thrown over her shoulder. “Shut up! It wasn’t on purpose!”

Harry scoffs in dark amusement, not even bothering to cover himself up. He bites into his cheek to keep from exploding into a round of triumphant laughter; he can’t believe he managed to turn the tides so quickly. “Oh, so you admit it was you, then?”

Y/N dismounts the atrociously tall bed, stumbling over the long linens as she desperately searches for her clothes. “No! I’m just saying that whatever happened, it didn’t happen intentionally!” 

“Obviously.” The brunette demon snorts, shaking his head for subtle emphasis, crossing his ankles offhandedly and returning both arms to the place where one had been prior— tucked behind his head casually. “What do you think we are, mortal?” 

“Of course not.” Y/N agrees quickly— a little too quickly, which hints to Harry that she might be trying to cover something up. Perhaps she wasn’t as disgusted by this as she had led on…

He watches as his friend— he uses the term lightly— shuffles around his room, peering at the floor in an determined quest to find her jeans, underwear, and black lace blouse. Or maybe she’s just hellbent on avoiding eye contact with him. 

“Y/N…” His tone has lost its arrogantly mocking edge, softened by what she can only decode as...guilt? 

She ignores it and doesn’t answer, nearly passing out in relief when she spots her panties and bra hanging off the doorknob to his closet. She snatches them swiftly, panning her gaze around the rest of the room for her leftover clothes, spotting them in a pile sticking out from underneath the opposite corner of the bed. They’d probably gotten kicked there in the heat of the moment. 

Harry repeats himself a little louder, adding onto his comment to try and stifle some of the embarrassment radiating from her. “Y/N, you don’t have to leave. You usually stay for breakfast.” 

Y/N scoops up her outfit, settling it into the crook of her right elbow and squaring her shoulders as if ready to brace a hellhound. Their gazes lock and he feels his stomach flop when he sees the vulnerability she’s obviously trying to hide. She’s good at it, he’ll give her that, but if he stares intently enough, he can just make out the traces of conflicted longing leaking into the disinterested facade around her pupils. 

“It’s fine, Harry.” She sighs heavily, her tone drastically different from the unkempt girl that had been floundering about just seconds ago. She’s now calm, cool, collected, and scaringly so. “I have somewhere to be later. Meeting someone to close a deal.”

She shrugs one shoulder indifferently, grabbing a handful of the sheets arranged around her figure and pulling away, dropping the bedspread at his feet and leaving herself completely nude. 

And there she is, the Y/N he so well knows. The same one that uses sex appeal as a shield. 

She’s managed to spackle the cracks that had appeared in her typical barrier of heartlessness, her confidence and ease leveling off once again. She places her clothes on top of the crumpled sheets, picking out her cheeky bright red panties from the heap and working them up her tempting legs. Harry can’t help but notice the hickies covering her inner thighs, as well as the finger prints staining her hips. 

Y/N catches him ogling, smirking to herself now that she has her composure back in order. She hooks her index finger around one of the straps in her bra, lifting it up and bouncing the lace lingerie in front of him teasingly. She raises her eyebrows at her lover provokingly, a sultry air pouting her lips. “Think you can help a girl out?”

Harry licks at his slightly chapped lips thoughtfully, eyes flickering between the article hanging off her hand to the sly grin decorating the edges of her pretty mouth. When he speaks, it’s low and thicker than usual, accent heavy. “Of course, pet.”

His legs thunk emptily off the bed and onto the floor, a small grunt catching the back of his throat as he pushes himself up onto his feet. He is most definitely sore. 

His footsteps are soft against the carpeted ground, faltering as he rounds the corner of the mattress. 

Y/N eyes his every move, suckling her bottom lip at the way his muscles flex and contract under his sun-kissed skin. She doesn’t let herself wander below his waist though; she’s never one to pass up flaunting her power of will. 

Harry stops about a foot away, taking the bra from she is offering and holding it out for her to slip into. She does so at a mind-numbing pace, her toes curling as she feels his warm fingertips running the material up her arms and onto their designated spot on her shoulders. He tugs at the hooks gently, pinning them into place and tucking the tag in, exactly how he’s seen her do countless of times before. 

He then runs the palms of his hands up her arms, sighing softly at the silky sensation of her skin and giving her shoulders a dismissive squeeze. “All done.” 

Y/N turns on her heels to face him, looking up innocently through her lashes, lips quirking into an easy smile. “Thank you. Such a gentleman.” 

Her playfully seductive personality is unbearably contagious, seen in how Harry returns her action with a coy scoff and a simper of his own. “For you, always.”

“Well…” Y/N turns her lower half to the side, showing him her ass for significance, which is covered in the unmistakable print of his hand and rings. “I wouldn’t say always.” 

Harry’s pursed lips break into an even wider shit-eating grin, his cheeky laughter echoing across the walls of the apartment, his arms absentmindedly folding across his broad chest. “Yeah, well, you can’t say it’s one-sided, can you?”

He points towards his neck, stretching his chin upwards so that she gets a good view of all the fading love bites she’d left there the night before. 

Y/N’s giggles match his. “Touché.”

Harry rummages through his drawers as she finishes getting dressed, shimmying into her tight jeans and throwing her shirt on, finger-combing her hair into a decent state. He comes up with a pair of maroon briefs, slipping them on as he walks back towards her, letting the elastic band snap into place against his lower abdomen. 

The two demons with benefits stand before each other, Y/N with her braided black sandals swung over her shoulders and Harry with his hands fixed on his hips nonchalantly. 

“You really can’t stay for breakfast?” Harry inquiries one last time, lifting his eyebrows curiously. “I’m making those cinnamon bun waffles you like so much.” 

Y/N sighs grandly, clutching her chest dramatically as if it physically hurts her to decline his offer. “I’d love to, but work is work. Don’t really have a say.” 

Her friend nods in understanding, well aware of the truth behind her words. “It is what it is, then.” 

“However...” Her sudden continuation makes his head perk. She reaches up, carding her fingers into his messy curls and combing them back from his face, tucking a handful of rebellious ringlets behind his small ears and giving him one final self-assured smile. “Do y’think you could maybe save me two and I can come pick them up tonight?”

Harry cranes his head to the side, placing a slow peck to the palm of her hand and then biting into her skin jokingly, a certain lewdness painted all over the deed. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Great.” Y/N quips happily, wrapping his curls around her knuckles roughly and hauling him in for a sloppy, dirty kiss that leaves his teeth numb and his face buzzing. 

Once she breaks their mouths, lightly panting with her skin a darker shade than before, he has to blink three times in order to reign himself back in. His ability to form coherent sentences right now is about as useful as alphabet soup; he just gives her a jerky nod instead. 

Y/N wipes at his swollen lips with the pad of her thumb, giving his cheek a playful pat. “I’ll see you then, H.” 

Harry can’t tear his eyes away as she leaves, his bedroom door clicking shut behind her, the soft, distant thunk of his front door accompanying the sound a bit later. 

Fuck, that was something is the first comprehensible thought that registers in his mind. 

It was absolutely something and who knows how differently it would have gone if he had admitted giving into the weakness they had both sworn off of. 

That notion haunts him for a while— the idea that he could have driven her away for good if he had confessed that his emotions had bleed through their arrangement. Sure, it had only been this once, but Harry has a horrible gut-wrenching feeling that he’s unlocked a box deep in the back of his skull that won’t easily be chained down again. 

He thinks this over again and again as he prepares his morning meal, the looming uncertainties of it all causing him to check out of reality here and there, resulting in a few burn marks across his hands and two charred waffles in the bin. 

As Harry finally sits down to enjoy the food that had nearly not made it to his plate, he finds himself mentally running through the awkward encounter he and Y/N had faced this morning. He can’t stop himself from dwelling on the expression he had seen crack through her eyes earlier— one that showed she seemed to be feeling the same kind of emotional turmoil he was. It opens too many unanswered questions for their future and he hates himself for being so worried when nothing had truly happened. For all he knows, it could have just been a trick of the sunlight that had been streaming into the room. He’s getting himself out of sorts for nothing. 

However, as he goes in on a forkful of his cinnamon-glazed pastry, one pesky detail suddenly launches him into a coughing fit. 

It was so minuscule he had missed it the first fifty times he had run through the events, but it had decided to prick him in the brain now, the weak dam of reassurance he had built crumbling to ashes.  

After Y/N had woken up, saw what was happening, and their fight had ensued, she had made a comment about how Harry had kissed her forehead. 

On the surface, it had seemed unimportant because yes, that is exactly what he had done. The problem arose when he remembered that she had been dead asleep when he had done that. 

Supposedly.

He had gone to remove his arm from below her body, she had fussed a bit, he had pressed his lips to her forehead to ease her, and she had remained asleep for a while longer until he decided to finish removing his arm. That final motion was what had awoken her.

Supposedly. 

If she had been unconscious the whole time they were cuddling, then how did she know he’d kissed her?

[scarred-but-still-smiling]

I love your pfp, not because I know who that is, but because it just feels like it's reacting to the posts so when the post is cute it's just like," Aaaaaaaahhh!!! So cute so amazing I love it!!!" and it's nice.

Thank you!!

Her name is Marisha Ray and she's from the dnd show Critical Role!

Now I know my blog title says I peddle TFC propaganda, but for now I'm gonna do a bit of peddling for an older hyperfixation of mine

Critical Role is a show where a bunch of nerdy-ass voice actors sit around and play dungeons and dragons. They're all best friends, there's two married couples at the table in fact, and their dynamic is amazing.

Now, it may look very daunting to go into since they're on the third campaign and the previous two are over 100 episodes each, but you won't need any prior knowledge to enjoy the current campaign. The most you'll miss out on is names and places that come back up, mostly from the first campaign (those places being Whitestone, the home of the goth cast member's first character that was overtaken by vampires before the first campaign's party fixed things, and Zephra, the home of Marisha's first character, who one of the current characters reports to)

The episodes are around 4 hours each, so you might want to enjoy it in short spurts, but after tonight's episode, they're going on break until the 6th of January so you've got plenty of time to catch up on the 7 currently released episodes and the one that'll be dropping on YouTube on Monday after it's streamed tonight.

In terms of selling points, every single member of the cast are very attractive. So like. Plenty of eye candy at least. And if you're bi like I am you're definitely in for A Time.

Also the goth cast member I mentioned? He's bi. Like he's out as bi. He's also got Joe Hills energy in that he's just fuckin weird as shit.

And Marisha? The lady in my icon? Cleo energy. Also her character last campaign was a lesbian, like canonically, and her one this campaign is like if the girl from the ring was an adult and really quirky (but not in a cringy way) with a lovely morbid sense of humour and a dead rat with a raven skull that she calls Paté and puppeteers occasionally.

Also! The dudes in the group have no concept of toxic masculinity, and the biggest buffest man at the table is a fucking bitch baby by his own admission and it's adorable he's so soft.

Oh! Another thing! This campaign has two characters who are, canonically and explicitly stated in their introductions, he/theys, one of whom is a literal punk rock who is incredibly Gender

Please watch Critical Role you guys it's so fun and heartwarming and the storytelling from the DM is like. He's someone I frequently compare Rendog to so if you know Ren's storytelling you'll know you're in for a treat.

Okay I'm done now lol

[jamiedc-they-them]

Sibling Duty Part VIII (Platonic)

Requested Imagine: One last ride for the Johnson siblings and co bring them into contact with a new arrival, and Y/N to a realisation. And their stories to an end. 

 You could both only stare at the screen. You both stared in horror. The blip was gone. The only, sort-of, silver lining to all this was that Jemma wasn’t dead, yet.  

You could still save her.  

 “Daisy, Y/N, I can feel your guilt. This isn’t your fault.” May said, trying to sooth you in this moment that was only filled with tension and blame.

   “I should’ve quaked that psychopath’s bones apart when I had the chance.” Daisy said, not taking it on board.  

 You didn’t have reply, you just stared at the screen.  

 Jemma Simmons had been taken, and you had lost another friend to going missing.  

However, a radio broadcast broke you out of your staring, out of the ringing sound in your ears. It was Elena, coming into land.  

They had Kora.

 Oh yeah, Kora. Another person with the Johnson name. One who your mother had tried to sweep under the rug.  The can was out of the worms now, your mother was dead again, and Kora was in her place.  

 You were storming ahead before anyone else could stop you.  

 “We shouldn’t tell her about Jiaying’s death.” May advised.  

 “She should know what her significant-fucking-other has done to us.” You said, for once your inability to express your emotions externally showing exactly the mood you were in.  

 “Kora’s not stable.” May argued.  

 “I’m not fucking stable, May.”  

 “Hearing that her mother died might set her off.”  

 “If she’s the bomb, then what’s the plan if she explodes?” Sousa asked as the four of you fell into a line. 

 “Daisy contained a nuke, I think she can contain Kora.” You answered.  

 He looked to your younger sister, “You stopped a nuke?” He sounded in awe, despite everything going on.  

 “Long story, tell you later.” Daisy brushed off.  

 And, at the end of the hallway, there she was, Kora Johnson.  

 You heard Coulson talk about the Inhumans from Afterlife, about how they were safe and that they would be taken care of.  

 “You must be Daisy, and Y/N –” She was cut off by you holding your hand in a fist, and a rope made of dark energy slammed her back into the wall, around her neck.  

 “I don’t care who you are. I don’t care how old you are. I don’t care what time you’re from. I don’t care that you’re a Johnson. I don’t care that you’re our sister. I don’t care about any of that shit, blood means nothing. I just care about one thing,” as you spoke, you took a step forward with each word, until you were face to face, “Where. Is. Simmons?”  

 “Nat-Nathaniel said you were – protective. Almost like a surrogate si --” Kora managed to choke out.  But the last bit, she wasn’t able to

 “Kind of my job with these kids.” You answered, before tightening the hold the ropes had, “Now, where is she?”  

 “Y/N, that’s enough.” Mack ordered.  

 “Not until she talks.” Daisy defended your actions.  

 “Agent Y/N, put her down, that’s an order!” There was a moment when he thought it would have to get physical, where he thought he would have to remove you. But, you let Kora drop.  

She coughed, gaining air in her ungs once again. She then explained her reasoning of being there, to save lives...and become an Agent of SHIELD.  

 Long story told short, you and Daisy took her into a private room after she dropped a bomb on you, that you had altered the timeline, that you were now in a new universe.  

 Daisy had her angle, trying to understand. You didn’t speak, you just watched your younger sister carefully. You watched as she slowly lowered her guard, allowing Kora to try and get Daisy to see her view, that Kora wanted nothing more than to be your sibling, to be a family.  

 You did, however, see something spark in Daisy’s eyes at a statement; “Daisy Johnson would never let her sister fight alone.” She had left the room at it, leaving you with your new sister.  

Kora turned to you, soft smile on her face, “I know you won’t believe me, but it’s good to see you again, Y/N.”  

 “You knew me?”  

 She nodded, “I did. Held you in my arms and told you I’d protect you...Nathaniel told me about how they sent you away. How you grew up in the system. And -” She tried to take a step forward, only for you to flinch and step back, “...I’m sorry. I wanted to protect you. But...I can help you now. It seems like they’ve done a good job, but I can do mine too.” 

 You, however, shook your head, “I think you did, to be honest. Getting sent away got me away from mum. I know she wasn’t all bad, but when I met her she had snapped. I can do what you did, but I can fulfil it. I can protect her.” 

 “Daisy and Sousa seem close, maybe he can..”   Those words made you stop. 

 “...Shit” You said, walking out of the room in a rush. 

 When you left, you paused, almost stunned. You then looked back at how that statement was nothing but true. They had been close. They had been getting along well. Since they met, the time (ha) you and Daisy were stuck in the loop, something happened there. 

 You loved your sister more than anything, but she hadn’t exactly had the best luck when it came to partners in that regard. 

 Coulson put a hand on your shoulder, making your look at him, “What’s up?” He asked, knowing there was something on your mind. 

 “Daniel and Daisy....they uh --” 

 “Yeah...they do seem pretty close.” Coulson mused. 

 He still saw the indecision on your face, “You wanna talk to her about it?” He asked. 

 You looked at him, now your eyes were filled with some kind of resolve. You nodded. 

   You ignored everyone on your walk to the Jet, knowing that it was where Daisy would be. As you walked up, you saw that Mack had entered, and he had flicked a switch.  

 “Hey, Y/NN.” He greeted, almost a little surprised to see you.

 The other two turned to you, “Y/N, what are you doing here?”  Daisy even got up and approached you. As soon as she touched your arm, she felt the hurt you had at being asked the question. 

 “You think I’d just let you do this alone?” You asked, trying to channel the hurt into something more.

 “You’re coming?” She asked, more hopeful this time, even giving your arm a squeeze.

 You tried to hide Kora’s words as you answered, “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.” She felt the familial love once again, “Move over though, ok? I’m flying.” Was your only command. 

 She gave you a mock salute, “Aye-aye.” She said with a smile before going to the seat at the back. However, this time you noticed how Daniel moved next to her. 

 You looked to Mack, taking a breath and then taking the seat next to him. Then, you were off to find your best friend/sister figure. Along with keeping your blood related sister safe. 

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 “You ok, edgy?” Mack had coined the name (not one of his finest, but still) in terms of your powers and how it could sometimes sway your mood. 

 You rolled your eyes, “All good over here, Director.” You answered, clearly distracted as you looked back to see Daisy and Sousa talking, smiling. 

 Mack followed your eyes, before looking back to you, putting a hand on your knee, “I see it too, Y/NN. Don’t worry, we’ll give him the talk.” 

 You looked at Mack with a look, “Bet your ass we will. I mean, I don’t know if she’s ready.” 

 “How’d you mean?” 

 “Well...last one she had, blew up. The one before that was a Nazi, and the one before that sold us out. I just don’t want her to go through it again.” 

 Mack nodded in understanding, “That’s fair, kid. But, if it does go sour, we’ll be there, right?” 

 You held out your hand, he grabbed it and instantly felt a hit of annoyance and protectiveness. He had his answer, even if it was a blunt one. 

 Mack went to reply, but the sight of earth in all it’s beauty caught your vision. 

 Hell, even Daisy and Sousa joined you in looking at it, marvelling in its beauty. You looked at him, seeing him in awe. Then you remembered, it was his first time in space; first time away from earth and he got to see it in all it’s glory. 

 However, you then got back to matters at hand, “We’re about to jump. Even if we time this wrong, you two might want to go strap back in, no good floating around in space if we fail.” While morbid, Daisy still gave your shoulder a squeeze, before she returned to her seat, Daniel giving Mack a pat on the back. 

 Together, you both counted down the jump, for once, it was successful. 

 You let out a sigh of relief. Mack chuckled, patting you on the shoulder, “Good job, kiddo.” He praised. 

 “Thanks.” You told your friend. 

  Mack had gone to the back, going to talk to your sister. He knew you wanted a talk, but he seemed to call dibs on having it first. Plus, as much as he liked Daniel, he didn’t want the man to accidentally touch anything that could fuck it up. 

 The man had promised he wouldn’t touch anything, but still, curiosity and all that. The draws it had on you. 

 So, it was the two of you sat at hte front. You had to admit, you yourself liked Daniel, he was kind and you had a sort-of rapport with him. Still, this wasn’t the time for that. At least, not with the subject matter you had in mind. 

 “Do you like my sister?” He looked like he had whiplash with how fast he turned his head to face you, his eyes wide at the accusation. With the, what you guessed was almost fear, he held in his eyes, it looked as if you accused him of something far worse. 

 Actually, with everything that had happened to your sister in this regard, maybe you were. 

 “What do you mean?” He asked. He would gladly admit it if you asked, he did find your gaze intimidating. He saw the blank look in your eyes, but it didn’t take a genius to know what emotion was truly behind them. Hell, he’d been the one to help you figure out it was ok to be like the way you were, so he had a decent read on it. He gulped, despite himself, giving himself away. 

 You looked back at your big brother and younger sister as they laughed, keeping their voices low. 

 “I see, or now see the way you look at her. And I swear, if you so much as fucking make her flinch, I will -- I’ll find a way.” You threatened. 

 He nodded, “I know you will.” He said, eyes still glued to yours. 

 You went to say more, but you felt a hand on your shoulder. Looking up, you saw it was Mack who was there. 

 He nudged his head to Daisy, who was sat on the floor still, legs curled up. 

 You nodded, silently swapping seats with him and going over to her. 

 When you reached her, she smiled. She had almost smiled when she saw you, filled with a warmth that you had both seemingly been lacking for most of your lives. You always hated a part of yourself for it, how you never fully did protect her from the pain she felt before all this, how she had to be rejected so many times for it to become the norm. 

It hurt you, every time when she had a look in her eyes as if she expected it to occur. As if she expected to be let go. 

 You knew that going overboard would lead to disaster, god knew you did, but you had to keep your family safe, if Kora failed, it was were you could succeed. 

 “He’s a dork, isn’t he?” Daisy asked, whispering as if she was on a playground and you were having girl talk. 

 Well, you were, you were just past the age where it’d be a normal thing to do. It made your heart drop a bit, realising that Daisy would’ve probably never had something like that, that normality nor a friend to talk to. 

 “He’s...he’s a good guy.” Daisy caught your hesitate to say those words. She cocked her head to the side, trying to get a read on you. As she did, you had no choice but to stare back as your sister had a calculating look in her eyes, one she had been getting better at using for deduction as time has gone on. 

 “I know he is...it’s…” You drifted off, how the hell did you explain this without hurting your sister? That was something you were trying to think of as you walked over. For you, it was as if you were on a minefield, one filled with no safe placed in it to stand on. 

 “What?” Daisy prompted, she even leaned forward a bit, smile still on her face but more of the nervous kind. 

 “You remember the guy I talked about? The SHIELD agent I helped before Coulson recruited me?” Daisy nodded, “Turned out, he wasn’t so clean. Turned out to be someone like Donny...got brought into a project and, well…” 

 Daisy got hte point, “Sousa isn’t like that, though.” 

 You sighed, “I know. I know he isn’t. But...I just want you to be safe.” You expressed. 

 Daisy softened, she reached out to grab your hand, “I get that, Y/N, really I do. And, I appreciate more than you’ll know. I mean, you guys are my family. But...you’ve been there to pick me up before, just like I’ve been there for you.” 

 “But I don’t want you in that position.” You continued. 

 Daisy only smiled at you. 

 Mack looked back after a while, seeing Daisy and you leaning against the seats, both asleep. Mack smiled a bit, glad you were getting some rest, despite your ambitious goal. 

 “Y/N give you the talk?” Mack asked, after he had given his version of said talk. 

 Sousa looked at Mack, trying to think of the least amount of words to say to conserve oxygen, “She did. She always that protective?” 

 Mack sighed, knowing it would cost you more oxygen, but answered all the same, “Always has been. She’s had moments where she’s gone overboard though. I’m sure she’d tell you that story if you asked her. Then again, I know Daisy would have her own.” 

 “Why”? 

 “It was a big thing for them, and us as a family. But...they’ll always have each others backs, just as they’ll have ours. And we’ll have theirs. Which is why I’m threatening you too. Y/N’s good at saying them, but I’m good at following through with them and cementing them.”

 Sousa nodded, he got the message, loud and clear. 

 You turned away when you felt Daisy shaking your body. She did it again, same reaction. 

 “We made it, Y/NN.” She whispered. That made you open your eyes. She felt the excitement, she felt the dread, she felt the care and love you had for the gang. She smiled as you shot up awak at the mere prospect of being this close to getting one of your sisters back. She offered you a hand, one you took as she hauled you to your feet. 

 “That’s a lot of Chronicoms.” Mack was stating the obvious, it was a lot of blue dots standing between you and Jemma. 

 Daisy, however, wasn’t giving up, “We just have to find...there, you see how those are warmer?” She asked, showing those very dots she meant. By her guess, it was the pair you were looking for. 

However, another dot was there, Kora. Nothing was ever easy in SHIELD, then again, nothing was as personal as now. 

 As Daisy pitched the plan of you and her breaking into the ship to get Simmons back, Mack - weirdly - seemed to just go with it. 

 However, you saw a look in his eye, one you tried to communicate your confusion for by cocking your head to the side. 

 As you walked away, Sousa called out Daisy’s name, himself and Mack were going to get the doors open. 

 However, you were too late to turn, meaning all you saw was the kiss between the pair. Once it ended, Sousa looked at at you, “Sorry.” 

 You shook your head, “It’s fine. Just remember what I said?” He nodded, remembering. But, he appeared to genuinely respect it. 

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 “So, what was that about?” Daisy asked as you both walked down the ramp into the corridor, trying to keep it quiet. 

 “What was what?” You asked, taking the lead on this operation. You had kind of hoped she’d of known what it was about, or at least ask this after the rescue, yet here you were. 

“You know what I mean…” She trailed off as you both took cover behind a wall. 

 However, before you could continue, Syball came on screen, always with her apathetic smile, “Do you really think you could sneak onto one of my ships? I’ll grant that your appearance is a statistical improbability. But whatever advantage you hoped to gain is irrelevant. I didn’t see you coming, because it was meaningless. You’re too late. Every SHIELD base has been destroyed. The war is over. You have lost.” Her tone matching her smile. 

 Daisy’s reaction encapsulated your own, a quick blast to the screen to shut the woman up. You continued on your way, in silence and with a new sense of vigour. 

 You forgot that, with Daisy being a Johnson too, the protectiveness you felt for your loved ones went to her as well. 

 As you walked, you found some guards coming towards you. Expecting resistance, you got ready for a fight. However, on the contrary, they just...walked past. 

 “Ok, that was...creepy.” Daisy admitted. To be honest, she’d of preferred the fight. Fighting had been what you had both been doing since day one, so to not have that for once was...off putting. 

 Still, you continued on your way. You had friends to save. 

 Daisy used her power on the button, the door shooting open. When it did, Daisy had a relieved look on her face. Deke mirrored it as he embraced her. When he looked at you, his smile got bigger. 

 You hugged him tight, wanting to get across your relief that he was ok, that your younger brother wasn’t dead. He felt it, he felt the care and love, and squeezed back just as tight. 

 However, as he pulled back, you noticed his face was sour, “What’s wrong, scrappy?” You asked, using the nickname you had given him. 

 “It -- I…Jemma, she…” He wasn’t quite sure how to break the news. 

 Instead, you both figured it out the long way as Jemma backed away from the two as if you were strangers. It was the Chronicoms and something they had done in their attempt to find Fitz. 

 “She doesn’t remember us?” Daisy asked, and you heard the hurt in her voice. However, to get Jemma to move, a deal was made; she would get her own suit for protection once you were gone. 

 Where you going to do it? Maybe, after you had saved the world. 

 As you “escaped” more guards just walked by as if you were nothing. Youd had, unfortunately but not in a bad way, had to hear Jemma try and figure out what was real and what was not; what was secret, and what was known. 

 Deke could see by the way you walked behind Daisy, by the way your stance was, that each time was piercing your soul. He could see, again, the weight of the world - or your friends - on your shoulders. 

 As you turned another corner, you were confronted by a - technically old - face. Kora. She stood, but she looked conflicted; pained and hurt, but also filled with a love for you both. 

 Yourself and Daisy froze, “Hello, sisters.” If it was any other time, you would’ve laughed at the greeting. 

 Yourself and Daisy moved in front of the other two, “Kora, we don’t have to do this. Not here. Let’s get off this ship and talk.” Daisy tried to bargain with. 

 “You knew our mom was dead, but you didn’t tell me.” Kora threw back in your faces. It was true. 

 “That was a mistake. I was trying to protect you.” 

 “I don’t need protection. I thought Y/N did, but she was better off. She’s trying to protect you.” Kora was hurt, and mad. She used her power on you. Or, rather, tried to use it to hurt you all. Daisy used hers to disperse Kora’s energy, but didn’t throw any of it back. She just kept her hands up. 

 “Get Simmons back to the Zephyr. Don’t wait for me.” Daisy ordered the pair, or what you thought was the pair. You then felt her grab your hand but not take her eyes off of Kora, “You too, Y/N.” 

 “I’m not just leaving you here --” 

 “You’re not. I can handle myself, Y/NN. I need you to trust me --” 

 “I do --”

 “Then do this for me, ok? You’ve taught me how to fight, but I can do this, ok? I can get to her.” You didn’t like it, but you gave in with her request. 

 As you walked, Deke could see you were anything but happy with the choice you made, “ Just keep walking.” You ordered. 

 You arrived back the Zephier, almost getting shot by your friends of Mack and Sousa. They pushed when they saw it was you. You moved in front of Jemma a little, arms raised up. The two lowered their guns when they saw it was you, “Deke, Jemma, Y/N.” Mack said in relief. 

 “Where’s Daisy?” Sousa asked. Man, the guy really did care. 

 “Back with Korra.” You answered, bitterness - despite how you were - could be detected still. 

 “She told us not to wait.” Deke said the part you couldn’t make yourself say.

 “I know this place. Home.” Jemma said, breaking up your conversation as she walked forward with a smile. For a moment, you felt a bit better about the sister you left behind. 

“Yeah, we’re not there yet.” Deke said, following her. Deke then spoke for you, explaining what had happened to Jemma as you looked down the ramp, hoping and praying to any potential deity that they would make Daisy Johnson walk around the corner alive and well. 

 Mack approached you, putting a hand on your shoulder and spinning you around. Compared to him, you were like the size of an ant, “She’s gonna be just fine, Y/N.” He assured you. 

 You nodded, but he still felt how tense you were and your worry, “I shouldn’t have left her.” You said. 

 He shook his head, “You can’t stop Daisy as much as we wouldn’t be able to stop you. She’ll be ok, Y/N. I need something from you, though,” You looked at him, “Some duct tape.” As he said that, he gestured to the bunch of dead Chronicoms on the floor. 

 You didn’t question it, you just went to find some. 

 When you returned, Deke walked into the main area of the Zephier with Daisy in tow. You let out a sigh of relief, going over and hugging her, tightly. She hugged back just as tightly. You pressed your lips into her hair. You looked over to Deke, who had a smile, you opened your arm up, he was quick to fill it. Daisy let out a grunt at the impact of Deke entering the hug, herself now trapped in the middle, but she didn’t complain. She was with family. 

 You entered the bar, the place you had been in and out of in your travels, one that Daisy told you became a hub. As you entered, SHIELD operatives aimed their guns up; yep, right place definitely. 

 You must’ve said that out loud, as you saw Daisy smile a bit at your accidental humour. 

 You then walked in, giving Elena a hug, before letting her move onto Mack. Coulson approached you, “You made it back in one piece.” He said, relieved. 

 You put your hand on his one that was on your shoulder, “Caring isn’t a sin, right?” He smiled at your quoting of the thing he told you when he recruited you. You looked back at your family, one that was missing one person, but one you would fight for till your last breath to protect. 

 “You’re damn right.” He said, pulling you in for a hug. You let yourself have this, closing this and letting yourself hug your father. 

 It seemed to last forever, but you assumed it was only a few moments. When you pulled away, you saw the look in his eye reflected the feeling you had inside; love. 

 You then moved to your mother, and she wrapped her arms around you quickly. Neither of you said anything, just both - like with Coulson - allowed the moment you were having. For once, you were united. 

 Well, almost fully united. 

 Speaking of which -- 

 Jemma seemed to get more of her memory back, even building a device that she placed as if it was meant to be there. Then you waited...Then BOOM! A new figure appeared, now dressed in an outfit that reminded you of Deke when you first met him. As you went to move in front of Daisy, she grabbed your arm, making you stay put. 

 The figure removed his helmet, revealing the last person in your family. Leopold Fitz. 

 You all swarmed him with questions and hugs. But, he had news, not great news. 

 He had thrown you in the deep end, make a whole new time line, before you could go back and save old one. And, there was a key to stop this -- 

 Kora. 

 You saw the realisation on Daisy’s face, you saw the conflicted gaze she had towards your brother at the news. 

 “Fitz…” He looked to you, and you saw his eyes soften, “You didn’t know if we’d make it?” You questioned. 

 He saw the way your fist curled up, you were angry. For once, though, he gulped in your presence. At the start, it was a crush that lasted two seconds, not it was fear. 

 You felt a hand on your arm, looking, you saw it to be Daisy, who looked at you with an understanding look, but she shook her head. 

 But, then came the big news --

 One of you had to stay if you were going to bring the Chronicoms back with you. That led to a debate, one that had everyone willing to play martyr. 

 “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” You yelled, eyes closed as it got too much to bear. 

 You had just got your family back, and it was being torn apart...again. 

 You felt another hand on your arm, but you ripped your arm away from the grasp, “We aren’t doing this.” You said, pointing a finger at whoever tried to grab you. 

 “Y/N.” You heard the tearful voice of Daisy, one you never wanted to hear in that way. 

 “We are not having this discussion.” 

 “We have to --” She tried to argue. 

 “I just got you guys back, It’s my job to keep us together, and --”

 “No,” It as Mack’s calm, soft, but also firm voice that made you open your eyes and meet his gaze, “Whoever stays, you think we’ll forget about them? We’re a team, Y/N. It’s our job to stay together, not just yours. You don’t have to --”

 “I’ll stay.” Deke spoke up, keeping his eyes on you. You heard Daisy try and talk him out of it, but you just kept your eyes on a younger brother of yours. 

 He smiled at you, “I’ll do what I have to do for my friends. You taught me that it’s ok to care, Y/N. You showed that to me. And I guess I’ll repay you through this.”

 “Deke.” A few tears ran down your face, but he grabbed your hand as your lip trembled.

 “Hey, I’ll be ok. Besides, Daisy’s gonna need her older sister to help her through this, along with her older brother, right?” You looked to Mack at that, and he gave a nod, confirming the words that you weren’t alone in helping your siblings. 

 You looked back to one of the youngest, “Did I do a good job, scrappy?” You asked. 

 He softened, “Best sister I’ve ever had.” At that, you shared a hug, one of goodbye. But, you knew he’d be a good leader here. He was a good man, one you loved. 

 You pulled away, and stood next to Daisy, she grabbed your hand in solidarity, giving it a squeeze that told you she was there for you. You looked at the others, seeing they’d be there for you and her, and each other. 

 You were going to do this, you were going to win, you were going to do this together, on equal playing fields, supporting each other, fighting for and with on another. 

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 You broke off into groups, you with Daisy, Coulson, Mack, and May going into the ship being yours. You took the Zephier and split up into the Quinjet. You landed on the ship, and you got ready. 

 “You sure you want to do this alone?” Daisy asked as you went down the ramp, the others went first to give you both space. 

 “Course, you need Danny boy --” She cut you off with a serious tone. 

 “I need you to be ok, too.” 

 You put a hand on her shoulder, “I got this, ok? I taught you how to fight the SHIELD way, you taught me how to fight dirty when needed. He’s a mix of us both, good thing I know our tricks, huh?” Despite your deadpan voice, you gave her a wink as you walked down the ramp. 

 Time to save the world, one last time. 

 As you and Daisy went to the lower levels, guards appeared. You and her ran at them, you threw a blade, hitting a guard in the balls before slamming your head into his as Daisy flipped another over. You threw her a rifle as you snapped your ones kneck. 

 “Go, I got this.” You told the others. As you and Daisy took care of the rest, she gave you one last nod, before leaving to find the others. 

 Then, it was just you and Malick. Now, you had told Daisy that he was a mix of yours and her powers, and that still rang true. Only difference now? He also had Kora’s.

 Fuck. 

So, he was seeming to adapt to it. He blinded you, then got you with a punch. You dodged another, cutting him with a blade. He wiped at his wound on this cheek, you rose eyebrows. He was infuriated by it, he threw his hand out, Daisy’s power emitting from it, you went to the side, watching the thing hit a wall and cause damage to the ship. 

 Good, you could at least piss him off that way. 

 He made a ball of dark energy, you threw your own. They collided, pushing you both back. He used Daisy’s power to stabilize himself, you weren’t as lucky. You hit the floor and you rolled. 

 “You know, gotta give you kudos for not bringing Daisy into this. Really grown, huh?” Malick taunted as you stood up. To be fair, he did let you get up, at least. 

 “She’s better at the whole Kora thing. Besides, I don’t make it out, others will be there to carry on for me.” WIth that, you got back to it. 

 You launched yourself off one of the pads, throwing a ball that hit him from behind, it launched him towards you, allowing you to deliver a kick to the head. Hitting the ground, you rolled, only to then find yourself being pushed back by Daisy’s power and hitting the pad on the other side. You lost your breath as your back struck it. 

 He rose up, smile on his face as he approached your struggling form, pressing the hand to your chest, he could feel the slight fear in you. He knew that, if you could express it, you’d be trying to hide it. 

 “You know, it must kind of suck, right? Getting killed by your own sisters powers. I mean, it’s like a fucked up version of charmed...I think, I never watched it.” He lamented during his apparent victory speech. 

 To be honest, it kind of was, you were going to die here. And, as he whispered to you, “Just between you and me, I want you to know that Daisy and Kora are going to be shown your body, then that’ll be it for the Johnsons. Just a quick death, like that,” He clicked his fingers at ‘that’, “I promise, Y/N. They won’t suffer, as much pain you’ve caused me, it’ll be quick.” 

 You felt it inside you, the power you had this whole time. The thing that scared you. The thing that turned you into a monster. 

 There was a trigger for you, a threat to your family. 

 For once, there was a synthesis between the two, a coming together of your dark and light. 

 You grabbed his hand, “Yeah….but...they’ll....look....after her.” He furrowed his eye brows in confusion, before…

 BOOM! You let it all out. And, as the ship was consumed by darkness, as was your vision. 

 “She did it…” Daisy said, looking out at the ship as it blew up. She had tears in her eyes as she saw it, as she had known what you had done. 

 She felt a presence near her. Turning, she saw it to be Kora, who had a similar look. 

 Their moment was broken when May ran into the room, “Found her!” She announced. And, just like that, the Johnson siblings went a running, down to the cargo hold. 

 Once they arrived, the two didn’t waste any time in running to Y/N’s said as they laid the girl down. She was dead, that much was certain, no one could’ve survived that. 

 “She’s so cold.” Daisy said, voice trembling as she grabbed one of Y/N’s very cold hands in her own. 

 “She knew what she was fighting for.” Coulson said, trying to console the other daughter figure that had been his from the moment he met her, only thing that was missing were the papers. 

 She looked to him, smiling a bit as she saw him barely holding it together as well. 

 There was silence, a mournful one. 

 However --

 “I -- I think I can help.” Kora said, trying to find strength in her voice. All eyes went to her, but she only looked at Daisy, “I might, might, be able to warm her up. That might help.” 

 Daisy nodded, more times than needed as she sniffled, “Do it.” She said, encouragingly. Still, she rubbed your hand she was holding, trying to do her part. 

 Kora moved to the front, putting her hands on either side of your face, channeling all the power she had into it. Slowly, her hands glowed, the light emitting off of your face. Slowly, colour returned. 

 Daisy couldn’t help the choked laugh that left her as she saw what looked to be life returning into your face. 

 Kora backed up, a few tense going by.

 They ticked.

 And they ticked. 

 And they ticked by. With Daisy only looking to your face, seeing hte life that was there. You just hadn’t taken the last step. 

 Shortly after, her lip trembled. She put her head against yours, as she let out a sob, tears going down her face and hitting your own. 

 That mornful mood become more so a reality as each second went by. 

 “Am I being waterboarded?” Was a question that was asked. It took Daisy a moment to register the voice. 

 When she did, she opened her eyes to find Y/N Johnson’s eyes starting back into her own. 

 Daisy made a noise that sounded like a sob, laugh, exclamation all in one as she ran both her hands through your hair and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

 She laughed, she laughed a lot, and she cried. 

 “Y/N knew what we were fighting for.” Coulson reinstated as he looked at you with nothing but a proud look. 

 Not one you got a lot from your past homes, “Family.” You answered. 

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 You looked up from your file when your phone rang. You looked at the time, it was getting late. 

 Moving your hand to the phone, you felt joy as the familiar photo appeared with the caller ID. Flicking the green button, you put the phone to your ear, “Jemma Simmons, how may I be of service?” You asked. 

 “Y/N, hi! Just wanted to let you know that we’ve decided to make the meetings a tradition.” Jemma informed you. You rolled your eyes, you knew they would. Not that you minded, it was just something you put money on. 

 “Sorry I coudln’t make it. I’m assuming you gave everyone my love?” 

 “Of course. But, as always, they knew already. Daisy says she’ll be home at some point.” You nodded, then remembered that she couldn’t see. 

 “Good. That’ll be good. Oh, we still on for Thursday?” 

 “Of course! Little Ayla can’t wait to see her favorite Aunt!” Jemma exclaimed in pure joy. 

 “Yeah, well, don’t tell Daisy.” She laughed on the end. 

 “Your secret is safe with me. See you thursday, Y/N!” She said.

 “See you then, love you Jem.” 

 You could hear the smile as she spoke, “Love you too. See you then.” Then the line went. 

 You leant back in your chair as you put the phone down. You looked at a photo on your table, one of a bunch of people sitting and watching a rocket launch. Little did they know what journey they would go on. LIttle did they know what they’d learn about themselves and the world. 

 Little did they know the family they’d create. 

 Little did you know the people you were going to meet and the love you were going to receive. 

 The weight of the world wasn’t on your shoulders, it was shared with your family. 

 When it came to saving the world, as your duty as an agent was, you’d rather not share it with anyone else than them. 

As the oldest, it was up to you to look after them. But, as your siblings, it was their job to look after you. 

 Love went two ways. 

 You wouldn’t have it any other way. 

[raughbyn]

Rules: list your favorite male characters from ten different fandoms, and tag ten people to do the same.

Thanks @theimpossiblescheme for the tag!

Okay this is gonna be a little tough, since I tend to skew towards favoring female characters. I can come up with ten, probably...

So, in no particular order:

1. Bustopher Jones, Cats. He's such a jolly guy and his song is underratedly fun!! He's really just out here to have a good time and he's absolutely thriving. To me, he embodies the kind of life that every cat aspires to have: decadence and indulgence, and commanding the admiration and respect of his community.

2. Dick Gumshoe, Ace Attorney. Pure of heart, large of muscle, and dumb of ass. I love him so much 😭 He's so loyal and helpful, and I especially love his interactions with Pearl. He tries to act tough but he really is such a softie 😭💕💕💕

3. Clay, Wings of Fire. He loves his family more than anything and he's just constantly trying his best and I love him...He's far from the cleverest in the group, but his protectiveness and loyalty towards his friends just gets me okay 😭

4. Caduceus Clay, Critical Role. Aro/Ace king who spouts wisdom and makes tea out of dead people--what's not to love? I love the contrast of him being such a serene and morbid person. All of Talisen's characters exude powerful energy, but Cad is my favorite of his!

5. James, Pokémon (TV series). He was always so kind to his Pokémon and one of the funniest characters in the entire franchise. I love his flamboyance so much, and even though Team Rocket as a whole are my favorite characters in the franchise because of their INCREDIBLE dynamic, James in particular was always my favorite.

6. Samwise Gamgee, The Lord of the Rings. Yeah, I have a type, in case you couldn't tell. "I can't carry the Ring, but I can carry you" lives in my head rent free. I can't think about him without tearing up a little--all he wanted was a simple and happy life, but he went through all that Morder shit and stuck by Frodo through everything and he deserves the world 😭

7. Ryuk, Death Note. I rewatch Death Note once a year, and I grow more and more fond of Ryuk every time. I've begun to view Death Note through the lens of a comedy, which really elevates the narrative to a different level once you realize that Ryuk is doing the same thing too--Light's psychological warfare bullshit is Ryuk's favorite sitcom, and like honestly yeah me too, this shit's funny as hell.

8. Nagito Komaeda, Danganronpa. And yes I took psychic damage typing that out. My taste in characters is either Himbo or Completely Fucking Unhinged. I think he's the best antagonist to come out of the series, and I ADORE the conflict he brings in terms of the series themes of hope vs. despair. Most of my favorite characters in the series come from the second game, but Nagito holds a very special place in my heart. A friend and I did a playthrough of the series together where we did stupid silly voice acting for the characters, and I had Nagito and god it was so much fun.

9. Todd Chavez, Bojack Horseman. Absolutely one of my favorite pieces of media ever, and Todd is in my top three favorite characters. He's everything I aspire to be. I love the wacky hijinks that he gets wrapped up in so much and he is such a welcome relief amidst all the rest of the bullshit that happens in the show. But he still gets really good character arcs and moments too?? His arc about his relationship with his asexuality is the most incredible ace representation I've ever seen in TV, and he's all around a very relatable character to me. He's probably my favorite character on this list.

10. Black Beauty, Black Beauty. Black Beauty is one of my favorite books ever, and I just really love how constantly pleasant and gentle he is, despite his circumstances. He's so polite and mild-mannered all the time and he's the perfect boy to bring home to my parents. Both the book and the 1994 film were huge parts of my childhood--I'd check it out from the library like ten times in a row, and it was my favorite movie to watch on long car trips. He's definitely very much an observer, but he's so contemplative and I find his inner monologue to be so very, very charming. I do cry at the end of the story every time,,,,

Oh jeez now to tag 10 people,, hnngg okay gonna tag @berrybfoxglove @my-name-is-jimmy @heccin-lit @lina-voltaire @bees-in-a-davidbowie-shirt @rumpleteazers-swag-bag @itsmyregularcat @look-how-the-lights @mister-beetlejuice @corico-mile

[awyeahitssam]

Bakery!AU, werewolf Stiles Stilinski, no Hale fire. Working Title: No Shoes, No Shirts, No Fucks Given

Stiles wakes up in the middle of the woods, the bark of a large tree stump digging into his bare back.

Looks down.

Notes that he’s butt naked, though the sensation of twigs and leaves in uncomfortable places could’ve clued him in well enough without the visual input.

Groans.

“Fucking seriously? I knew I should’ve stuck to city life.”

He’s been a werewolf for nine weeks, and it’s the first time he’s left Berkeley since he was bitten. His dad had heavily hinted that he wanted him home for winter break months ago, and back then Stiles had been eager to agree.

That was Before. After, he just felt a crawling anxiety.

It was his dad. There was no way Noah wouldn’t notice something different about Stiles. He was a cop, trained to be observant, and in the past Stiles might have been fine but Noah had really stepped up his parenting game in Stiles’ junior year. He was hardly an absent father these days, which seemed like a bad thing for the first (okay, fifth) time.

Point being that Stiles took his finals, packed his shit, and decided to drive the two and a half hours back to Beacon Hills on about zero hours of sleep. Because he was an adult and could do what he wanted, and he wanted to be home two days sooner than promised, before his dad could throw out whatever incriminating shit was in the fridge.

After nearly falling asleep twice in about eighty minutes, Stiles ceded, pulled into a rest stop, and decided on a nap before continuing on. He had been taught to drive by three separate police officers, and besides that wasn’t dumb enough to keep himself in a situation that would have him crashing into a pole.

Key word being keep himself in, because he sure as heck would put himself in it during some manic burst of energy.

So he wasn’t super sure about the moral of this story. Don’t pass out at a rest stop,  you’ll be kidnapped, stripped, and dumped in a forest?

More like: being a werewolf sucked ass.

The only footprints that he could see were his own, and his feet were bare but undamaged, coated in several layers of dirt.

Stiles groaned, standing and relishing the pop of his spine. Then he picked a direction.

Started walking.

It takes Stiles about half an hour to find his way out of the woods, and by that time he’s recognized it as the Beacon Hills preserve. Maybe it was a Stiles thing, or more likely it was a werewolf thing (because Stiles liked a brand new excuse to blame everything on as much as the next guy), but this was no half-assed form of sleepwalking. He had gone at least sixty miles.

It took another twenty minutes of jogging to make his way into town. His dad’s house would be another forty or so, and increased body temperature or not, he’s freezing.

He sees a light on and goes for it, because whatever happens can’t be worse than being caught half-naked and covered in dirt by the old lady next door who babysat him when he was little.

It’s a bakery, less than six months old since Stiles hasn’t been home in that long and it wasn’t here last time. His dad had probably mentioned it in passing, but Stiles can’t remember for the life of him.

Most importantly, when he pushes the door (completely bypassing the ‘Closed’ sign) it budges open, bell chiming over the entryway. A sharp-eyed man looks up from the counter, mouth already open to snap something, and his words fall away in the face of Stiles pathetic state.

“Look man, I know the sign says ‘No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service.’ but I just had the weirdest night and your shop is the only building with lights on this early and I’m really, really hoping you have some spare clothes behind the counter.”

Stiles stares the dark-haired baker down hopelessly, giving his best doe eyes, and says, “Help?”

It’s not something he’s used to asking for, but put in this situation there’s not much else to do.

For the longest moment the man just stares into Stiles’ eyes, but then he takes a deep breath and the crease between his brows eases.

“Come with me,” he sighs, raising the counter so Stiles can follow him into the back of the shop. “Wouldn’t want the Sheriff’s son to be arrested for public indecency, would we?”

Stiles tries not to bristle, because there are several officers on duty (two of which he had dodged on his way) and the guy seems like he’s about to help him out. Besides, something about the man’s presence is settling, and his frazzled mind finally seems to be focusing for the first time in days.

Of course, it gets a little sketchy when that focus extends to him memorizing the scent of the guy’s shampoo and hearing his heartbeat like a loud, steady drum directly in his ear. Stiles is trying to wrangle in his super senses when a pair of sweatpants and a white tee are shoved into his arms. He turns to blink up at the man, who’s tugging his button up back on sans undershirt, and shifts awkwardly.

“Uh, thanks,” Stiles rasps, and swallows when he realizes how hoarse his voice sounds for the first time.

“Change in here,” the man says curtly, showing Stiles to the employee restroom. “We’ll talk when you’re done.”

Stiles nods, entering the bathroom with a heavy sense of trepidation. He’s going to have a hard time explaining this away, and he knows it. Still, he’s earned a reputation as ‘silvertongue’ at college, and not just because Loki was his favorite Marvel character and Stiles was good with his mouth.

He dresses slowly, bits of a plan coming together as he wipes the dirt from his feet with a damp paper towel and washes his hands. By the time he exits he looks somewhat presentable, mostly in that he’s no longer naked and doesn’t have dirt streaking his face, legs, and feet.

He hears movement towards the front of the shop, and spares a longing glance towards what he assumes in the back door, but before he can make a move the baker pops his head around the corner, eyes narrowed.

“I made tea,” he announces, and it sounds bizarrely threatening. “Come join me.”

Stiles flashes him a sheepish (and one-hundred-percent false) smile and follows him out to one of the tables. They sit.

“So, uh, thanks for the clothes—I’ll wash them and bring them back here tomorrow, if that’s cool?”

The man shrugs ambivalently, but his eyes are sharp and heavy as he regards Stiles. “That’s acceptable. Care to explain your nude jaunt through the night?”

“It’s morning,” Stiles quips back, mouth quicker than his brain, and winces preemptively, waving his hand through the air as though to dismiss his automatic snark. “No, ignore that, I’m rude and yeah, you kinda deserve an explanation here.”

Stiles sighs heavily, looking to the ceiling as if asking for some otherworldly assistance, before crossing his hands and looking back to Peter with faux seriousness. “No one in the history of ever should agree to a drunken carpool with frat boys.”

The guy’s eyebrows raise.

“Not, like, drunk driving carpool. This was more of a everyone-but-the-driver-is-wasted-after-finals-and-the-driver-can’t-turn-down-a-good-bet-to-save-his-life kind of situation. And, if you aren’t following, I was the driver.”

It's a simple enough part for Stiles to play. Stupid college student gets in over his head. Sheriff’s Kid - Bad Again? Cliches exist for a reason.

Stiles falls into his role flawlessly, blushing and wincing and laughing awkwardly at all the right points. He pulls experiences from his life to make the emotions more genuine, though some part of him still feels distant and amused by the whole situation. It’s probably the same part of Stiles that cackles at the misfortune of others and thinks morbid things at the least appropriate times.

So yes, Stiles is caught up in the lie, but he’s also monitoring the guy for a reaction. Nothing about his countenance seems to indicate disbelief so it’s a good bet this is working. Stiles was seven when he taught himself to be a good liar.

Becoming a werewolf just made him a great one. The ability to smell whether somebody was buying his shit or not was invaluable.

And really, who would admit to such a preposterous and embarrassing tale if it wasn’t true?

“—and now that you’ve got enough material to blackmail me for life, what even is your name?”

The guy, who had stared at him steadily through his rant, scent fluctuating between incredulity, amusement, and irritation, tapped neat nails on the table between them. “I’m ever-so hurt you don’t already know it, but very well. It’s Peter.”

Stiles cocked a brow.

“Hale.”

Stiles blinked, because Hale was not only a name he knew from childhood, but one that had popped up in his extensive research into his sudden lycanthropy.

And this guy couldn’t be serious.

“Oh? Any relation to Talia Hale?”

The man smirks. Stiles wonders if he can smell his building irritation at the thought that—

“Oh yes, Alpha Hale is my older sister.”

Good god.

“Did you seriously just sit there listening to my ode on the tribulations of being a dumb college kid for shits and giggles?”

Peter shrugs loosely. “I wanted to see if you could lie convincingly, and it seems you can.”

Stiles’ exhaustion and grumpiness began to peek through the need to protect his secret. He had to find his car, figure out what led to the sleepwalking and how to prevent it in the future, and determine whether or not he was going to be attacked for entering another pack's territory despite having grown up there.

He also had one million questions about the whole ‘how to werewolf’ issue, but he’d been doing fine on his own so far and Stiles hated asking for help. Especially from someone that practically reeked of smugness.

Stiles wrinkled his nose, huffed, and stood. “Thanks for the outfit, I’ll bring it back tomorrow morning.”

He turned to the door, and for a moment Peter let him live in the delusion that he could walk out without a word.

“You know, sweetheart, your life is going to be difficult if you can’t even tell a born were from your average human.”

Stiles stalled, glancing back. It was a good point. Stiles had been in the same high school as Cora Hale for four years and never even suspected. Clearly he wasn’t as observant as he liked to think.

“My life is already pretty difficult, darling. Are you just pointing out what’s evident, or offering a solution?”

Peter made a thoughtful humming sound, watching him expectantly, and Stiles scoffed. “Yeah, I thought not.”

Whatever this man wanted from him, Stiles wasn’t interested.

He was halfway out the door when Peter asked, “Would you like a ride?”

Stiles grit his teeth and tried to think logically. He couldn’t show up at his dads sans jeep, and he really didn’t fancy walking the sixty plus miles to find it.

Still, “Don’t you have a shop to open?”

[whump-town]

Criminal Minds AU: Zombie Apocalypse

Warnings: Amputation outside of a hospital, Whump, Hotchniss but you really have to squint, Hurt Hotch :(

Despite David Rossi’s thick walls and a floor’s difference in location, Hotch’s pained screams echo through the house. The noise cuts through Reid’s palms. No matter how hard he presses, his knuckles going white and skin hurting, he can still hear the hitch in Hotch’s voice. The way his breathing falters and breaks. Reid rocks his body, muttering to himself in hopes to drown out the sound.

Until the screams stop.

“This is exactly why you have the gun.”

Hair plastered to his pale skin, arm raised above his head, and lethargic with fever those were the last words spoken to any of them. Hotch had already succumbed heavily to the infection running through his body but the conviction in his tone as he’d reminded Reid that there was a reason they do things the way that they do. 

Dave swings an ax. Derek has a crowbar. JJ has a bedazzled crossbar. Emily and Hotch have bats.

Spencer gets the gun. 

The others can handle hand-to-hand combat. They’re stronger than they look and even if they aren’t someone always has their back-- that’s why Hotch never lets them leave without a partner. Zombies are dangerous, he reminds them like somehow they’ll forget, but they need to be reminded. Morgan has too many close calls and Emily won’t leave a man behind.

But they fall into routine and routine in the apocalypse are unnervingly dangerous. 

“No, splitting up.” Hotch’s voice is raised just above the sound of the lightning cracking across the sky. “No, going back.” His eyes scan across them, eyes pinched as the scent of death becomes waterlogged and the strong summer wind sends the scent wafting past them. “You do not stop. No matter what.” He’s really talking to Spencer and Penelope. 

He’s seen the damage JJ and Emily can do. Derek is relentless, Dave fearless… What he knows is that it’s going to be impossible for all of them to make it out. And, as long as he can help it, they will make it home. Even if that means he doesn’t. 

He rises to his feet, door hinge knees creaking as he’s reminded he’s getting too old for this. The scent of death is thicker the higher his head peaks up and as his eyes land on the undead around them, he pulls in a shuddering breath. They’re surrounded, a death sentence-- if it were anyone other than his team of federal agents. Well, they’re not federal agents anymore but it’s the thought that keeps them together.

“Hotch?” If she’s being honest, Emily’s feeling a little unnerved. “If--” she bites her lip, correcting herself. “When we get back… wanna have that smoke?” As a part of her reckless, we’re all gonna die anyways mentality, Emily had picked up smoking. On more than one occasion, usually a little tipsy or more sleep deprived than normal, Hotch would pick one of her cigarettes up between his trembling fingers and ask her to remind him to try one of these one day.

Now, facing death in the face… he can’t help but smile. He ducks back down, his blood aching at the sound of the growls around them. “Emily--” that’s how they do things now. No last names. Last names and formalities are for the other world-- the living world, “-- have one waiting for me?”

She smiles back at him, “you got it boss.”

He lets the rain overhead wash the smile off his face. Leaving behind his thundering heart. “If we don’t…” his voice deepens with the thick emotion swelling in his voice. “If we don’t make it out of this,” his eyes trail over each of their faces. Forcing each detail to remain present in the back of his mind. In the initial outbreak, there was a medical examiner with a theory about the way the infection was spreading through families. “I want you to know that you're the closest I’ve ever come to family. I-I-” 

Infected mother’s and father’s were not killing their children. Some even seen herding them along, hunting and gathering food for them long past the point of present mind. Now, as Hotch stands before them, the only thing separating them from death, a thin wall, he hopes that if  death comes to him, he’ll remember.

Even dead. He’ll know they’re family.

JJ reaches out, squeezing his fingers. “We know,” she promises. “We love you too.”

Hotch nods his head, lowering his eyes to the soaked ground beneath his feet. 

Emily chuckles, a deep dark sound. The kind of morbid humor that they’ve all acquired. “So,” she smacks her hands together. “We gonna do this shit or not?”

It’s now or never.

It would be an epic battle in the rain if they could let out battle cries as they race into the street. Noise draws out more of them, though. So as Hotch approaches the edge of their protective wall, hand raised over his head in a clear stop, fingers spread like a high-five. His jaw clenches, they radiate that energy. Fist clenching around their weapons. With a nod he closes his fist. 

Go.

Training and reflexes, it’s what keeps them alive. 

Common sense helps too. 

Hotch keeps up a moderate jog as he leads them. His legs are longer, meaning he travels the ground faster. As he squints through the rain, blinking blood and water from his eyes, he glances back for them.  

A man, face actively rotting off with the rain, comes running at Hotch. With a grunt, Hotch swings his bat up into the underside of his jaw. There’s a nasty crack, the man’s mandible falling off onto the ground. Before the man can even gain his footing, Hotch finishes him. Bringing his bat down on the man’s neck, cracking his head open against the ground. 

He doesn’t so much as blink at the corpse on the ground. The corpse whose blood has splattered across his clothes. 

He makes eye contact with Emily across the street, sharing a bloodied smile with her. 

A piercing scream pulls their attention away.

“Spence!”

Reid jerks, caught off guard. He looks up from the floor, brushing his sleeves across his wet face. “I-I’m-” he forces himself to his feet. His knees shaking beneath him. “Wh-What? Did he- Did he make it?” His eyes track every moment in JJ’s face, looking for any sign of a micro expression that might break the news to him now rather than later.

But this life has hardened them in ways that are incurable. 

“He’s alive,” JJ tells him but he knows that’s not forever. For right now, amputation has slowed the infection. With something more than luck-- be it Dave’s God or Hotch’s stubborn ass-- the infection might be stopped. No Hotch Zombies, yet. 

Reid sniffles, rubbing at his eyes again. “What- What can I do?” His eidetic memory has never been more helpful. When the outbreak first occurred, they would bring back books with the food they scavenged. Reid is as close to a medical doctor as they have. 

Although, Emily’s stitches are clinically even. Unmatched.

“Emily speculates jaundice,” JJ’s voice is even where it once trembled. “His eyes…” her head shakes as she finds herself unable to communicate the medical garbage explained to her before. Just like in their previous life of crime fighting, they each have things that make them valuable. Things they know.

Emily and Spencer have steady hands and are sponges to water with medicine. Their impromptu medical team. Derek is a fast learner, good on his feet. He scavenges. Dave’s ability as a team player makes him Derek’s right hand man. Old or not, in the field, he and Derek are precise and merciless. As technology around them dies away like the humanity in their bones, Penelope feels desperate. She needn’t worry about her place on the team. 

There are days when they come home-- home to Dave’s house, to each other-- covered in blood with hunger in their eyes. They’re not even human anymore. They kill. They scavenge but they are not human. 

Penelope. She is human. Her brightly colored butterfly clips in her hair and the way she laughs without abandon. 

She is human and they are not. 

It’s how there was no thought, no hesitation when Hotch turned back.

“Penelope!” His voice is a crack of lightning, his rage streaking across the sky. He raises the bat high above his head, height ever the advantage as he runs back into the carnage. Someone calls out his name but he has no fear. It’s just rage. “Move!”

The kills come naturally, blood sprays and he doesn’t so much as blink. It’s merciless, it’s nasty. 

“Go!” For a moment, Penelope sees a flash of her old boss. The man who wore suits and red ties. He’s gone with a swing of his bat. Replaced by the man who’s seen too much. She loves him, irregardless, but she wishes the pain came for less. 

He pulls her to his feet, eyes scanning for injuries. “Run,” is the last thing he says to her. 

It takes half an hour to find him again. Soaked to the bone in blood and gore, Emily smiles shining white teeth at her old boss. “Any bites,” she asks, with a nod of her head. Before she steps closer, she makes sure they’re clear. Her back to the wind.

Exhausted and sick with the feeling of the infection spreading through his veins, Hotch raises his right hand. Dying is… it’s so fucking cold. “One,” he answers, showing her the necrotized skin on his forearm. A death sentence.

A scarlet letter.

Emily steps closer. For anyone else, she would never be so naive. Minutes after the first bite the victim becomes deadly. A killer. But this is Hotch and she does and always has trusted him with her life. She presses the back of her hand to his cheek, feeling his burning body. He’s fighting the infection. “Can you stand?” 

He nods but his throat is too dry to say much more. There’s a plan. A promise. She’s supposed to kill him. Press the barrel of a gun to temple and--

With a barely contained cry she forces him to his feet. They shuffle. 

“Aaron,” Dave finds them next, a hollow inflection in his voice. Hotch will be the first loss. 

Reid curls his nose as he enters the room, swallowing thickly against the scent of cigarette smoke. 

His mother did her best to raise him. As far as life goes, Emily and Hotch have taught him a lot. They’re old enough to be his parents, they could be his parents and in many ways have been. So to see the two of them sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on a bed sharing a cigarette is both strangely familiar and weird.

“JJ said you needed me.” 

Hotch’s hand trembles as he pulls the cigarette away from his pale lips. Emily takes it, not even commenting before placing it between her own lips. Under their shared scrutiny, his heart thunders in his chest. “You broke protocol,” Hotch’s voice is softer than normal. No strength behind the words that are accusatory and should pack heat. He’s too weak to be mad.

It’s because of this-- knowing that Hotch isn’t actually mad-- that Reid can nod. Confirming. “Yes, sir.” His hands are pushed down into his jeans, his eyes on the floor. It was his idea but he didn’t do it. 

Reid’s eyebrows pinch as he comes to a conclusion that seems too good to be true. “The infection,” he says dumbly, recalling the red sharpie outline Emily had drawn around the infection upon finding Hotch. When Emily nods Reid knows his eyes haven’t deceived him. “It’s a snake bite,” he tells them, “in theory.” In the 1800s, aside from treating the wound with  ammonia, the only other treatment was to cut around the wound. Cut the infection out.

“You want to cut his arm off,” Derek crosses his arms over his chest. 

Reid nods.

There’s a rumble of disapproval and all around unease. Emotions get in the way and right now that’s not something they can spare. They’re working on borrowed time and it’s beyond luck at this point they haven’t lost more. But Reid is right. 

Emily nods her approval, “then we’ll cut his arm off.” Her conviction is so strong that the attention of the room goes from heated and aimed at Reid to confused tension. She shrugs, “ does it matter? We leave his arm on, he dies. One of us has to kill him.” And that’s not a job she wants but if that’s what it comes to it’s the job she’s getting. “We cut his arm off, we kill the infection or maybe we just slow it down but that gives us time.”

A chance.

Emily Prenitss is tired of losing people she loves.

Derek raises his head from where he’s staring a hole into the ground, knowing the answer to his question before he even asks. “Who’s going to tell him that? Who’s going to cut his arm off?”

Emily just looks at him and Derek understands. 

He nods solemnly, resigned. 

“What if--” Garcia’s voice trembles, her eyes red and puffy. “We don’t have blood transfusions or-- or medical equipment!”

Emily nods, “we don’t.” She shrugs with a shake of her head, “but it’s this or…” zombie Hotch. No Hotch. Ever. 

No grumpy grunts as greetings in the hall. 

No more thick and dry jokes that take them by surprise, causing choked laughs and tear stained eyes.

No heavy hands on their shoulders, the silent reassurance that he’s there. He has their back.

“What if…” Reid feels the sudden burden of his plan settle on his sternum as dead weight. “What if he doesn’t forgive us?”

Dave, who had left them to debate in favor of sitting at Hotch’s side, grunts as he comes down the stairs. There’s an odd cut off laugh falling from his lips as he shakes his head. After all this time and they’re still a mystery to one another. He settles a crooked, sad smile on Reid. “Son,” he whispers, affection dripping from his mouth like blood. “He wants to die. A part of him is already dead but he’ll forgive you.” His voice softens, his tone shifting. “Forgiveness is all we have left.”

But, as the past few years have proven, you can never be certain. 

Emily and Derek cut Hotch’s arm off. They tied him down. Secured his legs to the sides of a pull-out cot, strapped his chest down with rope, and shackled his left above his head.

The whole time, hallucinating from the fever, Hotch had talked them through it. Reminding Reid over and over again that it was okay. Everything would be okay. 

Reid was by his side when Emily cleaned her saw, the same saw Hotch uses every winter to cut down branches from trees for firewood. A simple carpenter’s tool. By the time she drags it across the joint in Hotch’s right shoulder, Reid is downstairs. Hands over his ears as Hotch’s agonized screams tear through the walls.

Mercifully, as she tore through the back of his arm, his eyes had rolled into the back of his head. The screaming stopped. 

Now he’s leaning into Emily but, for the most part, sitting up. The bloodied stump of his right arm is covered in thick gauze and topped off with old t-shirts. His face is still pale, recovering from the blood loss is going to be hard, but the pain is agonizing and as long as he’s awake he won’t allow anyone to sneak out of the house in search of painkillers. 

“Thank you,” he rasps. He looks bad, like the living dead and he very much is, but as far as Emily can see, as far as any of them can see, there is no more infection. 

Reid looks to the floor, he can’t handle compliments but it goes beyond that. He needs Hotch alive. He can’t lose anymore people. 

“Knock, knock--”

Reid turns, and behind him at the room’s door, is the rest of the team. They’ve got dinner, it looks like what Penelope calls Everything Soup-- it’s exactly what you think it is. The room fills, everyone pilling up on the bed until no one’s standing but Reid. 

Hotch looks queasily at the bowl offered to him. 

Emily shakes her head at the bowl offered to her. “I just cut off my friend’s arm,” she reminds the room, with a smirk. “I’m not all that hungry right now.” Her face breaks out in a contagious smile as she starts losing her shit, bending over herself with hysterical laughter. It’s like she’s lost her mind.

“What?” 

“What is it?”

Emily shakes her head, covering her mouth as she snorts. Finally she manages, choking on her laughter, “I just thought about job recommendations and-and-” She bends back over herself, shaking the bed with her laughter. “Hotch how would you rate my skills? Enough to still write me a recommendation letter?”

Hotch rolls his eyes with a huff. He’s feeling dizzy and cold, the after effects of his blood loss. “Emily,” he admonishes, softly, shaking his head in disbelief.

The world as they know it can come to an end. She can perform a medical procedure outside of a hospital with tools not equipped for surgery. They can survive countless Zombie attacks. A sentence, he should never have to think let alone know is true and yet…

Emily Prentiss still tells bad jokes.

[illuminated-cowboy]

Stag Serenade

Chapter 1:Take Me Home

Dying is not hard. It never has been, it never will be.

The pain comes before, the anguish of your loved ones, the fear of what lies afterwards. But death, in reality, is as simple as sleeping.

Arthur knew this as he laid down to die. He drew every breath like it was his last, awaiting the inevitable darkness as the sun rose before his eyes.

He had almost believed those tales of your life flashing before your eyes as you pass away. How could anyone know if it was true anyways? Not like anyone had lived to tell the tale.

To live after death, it sounded morbid. But Arthur knew he would live on, in the hearts of those he left behind, through John, through Jack, through Abigail.

He had many regrets, and yet, none of them mattered now.

His eyes closed one final time, his breath growing shallow, his heart slowing down as he prepared to succumb to his illness and his injuries. A comorbidity, he knew he would have kicked that rat’s ass if he wasn’t sick. It would be Micah dying on this mountain had he been a better man sooner, had he thrown Strauss out of camp the moment he found out that he had been lending money to people with no possible way of paying back in a timely manner.

None of that really mattered now, none of it would ever matter again. Arthur righted his wrongs, as much as he could. Perhaps in some cases he only coated ruined lives in a sheet of gold, he hoped at least Mrs. Downes was doing better, despite all the pain and tragedy he had been responsible for.

Arthur’s three final heartbeats rang loud in his ear, the last of his oxygen rich blood pumped through his bloodied face, his ears cold yet burning, a final thump in his chest.

“Hi there.”

With the energy he had felt in his youth, Arthur shot up, bloodshot eyes cleared of redness. The startle seemed to kickstart his heart, he turned around, almost aggravated at the interruption to his rather peaceful death.

“What the hell?”

A man in a top hat and a mustache, striking a similar resemblance to Trelawny, suddenly obscured his vision.

“Goodmorning Arthur,” he spoke with a gentle yet authoritative tone, “lovely day, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Arthur felt a cough coming on, but before he could react, the feeling had faded, “who the hell are you?”

“Who I am is really not important, Arthur. Who you are, that’s important.”

“Nice to know. Can you go away now,” Arthur readjusted and prepared to lay back on the rock, accepting his death once more, “I kind of have some dying to do.”

“Is that so? Is that what you want?”

“No, but I don’t really have a choice.”

The man smiled, “Do you?”

Arthur sighed and slowly rose again, “Yes, I in fact do, tuberculosis if you must be so inclined.”

“Yes of course, from Mr. Downes.”

Arthur shook his head in frustration, “Who the hell sent you? Did Micah tell you to come up here? Finish me off? I got money in my pocket, whatever you want, just take it. Kill me if you want. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

The man shook his head and took a couple steps towards Arthur before squatting down and reaching for Arthur’s pocket. His icy blue eyes looked at the strange man’s hand in confusion, as when he reached for the lone dollar hanging from his pocket, the dying man realized her couldn’t feel a thing.

“Who the hell are you?” He said with a furrowed brow. The man stood upright again and waved the dollar in the shine of the sunrise, turning the crumbled bill into a fresh crisp one with a simple flick of his wrist.

“Consider me an old friend, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur sighed, catching on softly but refusing to believe it. He turned around to look at the rock he had been lying on, only to see his mangled body left behind.

To say his concern was vivid would be an understatement, Arthur jumped to his feet, his nonexistent heart beating a million times a minute.

“That’s just residual, it will fade. Your consciousness is used to feeling, well, human. In your next life you’ll have a bit of a different biology. Best get used to forest life, of course.”

Arthur shook his head, denying the reality of his current predicament, “No no, this is just one of them death bed visions, something or other. You ain’t real, I know you ain’t real.”

The man laughed through his nose, a smile gracing his face as his features said “pity.” “That wouldn’t be the first time you’ve said that, Arthur Morgan.”

“Look, maybe you’re a ghost, or an angel or the devil or whatever. If you don’t wanna tell me then it’s your secret to keep. Let’s get to the point, why are you here?”

“I wanted to give you one final choice on your journey, Arthur. That’s what I do, I give choices.”

“Then what’s this choice?”

“Continue living this life, or move onto the next.”

Arthur was sure this was a deathbed vision now. He chuckled and placed his hands on his physically faded hips, “oh boy, so stay on this road or pick a new one, huh? What a choice. What? I get to be a deer? A Bear? Shit in the woods and get shot at all day?” He chuckled again and looked to the sky, “Don’t sound so different from the last life, do it?”

“If you’d really like to know, you’d be a stag, yes. Your life after that would depend upon the way you lived then, and so on and so forth.”

Arthur raised his arms, “so what was I before then?”

The man tapped his chin, “I believe you were a Shire horse, mister Morgan. Your name was Klaus, and you were shot when your owner was robbed.”

Arthur nodded, “sounds about right.”

“I want to make it clear, usually I’ve finished by now and my client will have been in the next life. I share a bit more with those who seem scared-”

“Scared? I ain’t fucking scared, I welcomed death with open arms until your smart ass dropped into the picture.”

The man shook his head and continued, “the choice is yours, Mr. Morgan. The only catch is, well, you will never get the chance to be a stag, or anything else ever again, if you choose option one.”

The blue-eyed man crossed his arms and giggled to himself, “so you’re saying I won’t get to shit in the woods?”

The man sighed, “I feel you aren’t taking this seriously, Mr. Morgan.”

“Sure then,” Arthur said condescendingly, still refusing to fully believe anything he had just been told, “if it so indulges you, I will continue on living as the man I am, and I’ll keep on plundering and raping and making others miserable just as I always have been.”

The man smiled, “oh Arthur, we both know you never had it in you to rape anyone.”

“I’m sure a lot of people would prefer I did in comparison to what I ended up doing to them.”

He nodded, “so, it’s settled then, Mr. Morgan. Immortality is officially yours.”

“So be it,” Arthur walked back to his corpse, attempting to kick his own foot before sitting back down on his own lap and contemplating just how much longer it would be until blackness closed in and he could officially consider himself dead, “Now you son of a bitch, why don’t you take your philosophical bullshit and-” just as he turned to tell the man off, he was gone.

Arthur sat in silence for a moment, attempting to process what had just occurred. 100% this was a deathbed vision, he had no doubt about it. But he could see with his own baby blues, the sun was still rising, the sky was still growing brighter, the clouds shone with vibrant purity. There was no great black sheet of darkness, there was no fading light, there was no death in all his sight.

Unless, this is death? To walk the world a paling ghost, to see his friends continue living, to watch them die, to see the world change before his aquatic eyes.

He waited, and waited. He got up and paced a bit, his body freezing to the touch, and yet, not stiff.

Arthur looked up and saw, suddenly, the bright blue sky was now fading in a glorious sunset. An entire day had passed, and still his body laid there, slumped against a rock, and his faded see-through figure appeared to be getting more and more transparent with each passing minute.

Suddenly, he heard a crack coming from around the corner, along with a grunt and heavy breathing. He turned around and saw none other than Charles, lifting himself up onto the mountain, sweat beading on his forehead.

“There you are, my friend.”

“Charles!” Arthur shouted. The man looked around, the sound of a wolf’s glorious howl seemingly drowning out his voice.

“Charles, I’m right here!” Arthur stepped right up to him, it would be impossible for him to not see. Instead of embracing his friend, Charles stooped low next to Arthur’s body, holding his hand and bowing his head in silence.

In that swift moment, with his brave persona broken to pieces, Arthur realized what was happening.

He was dead. His spirit, on the other hand, was still living.

His emotional heart took over for his real one, and with fear and agony, he screamed at the top of his ghostly lungs, “Hey! Come back! I didn’t want this, bring me back! Kill me! Make me a deer, I don’t want this!”

He turned again to see Charles lifting his dead body up upon his shoulders, and slowly returning down the mountain, leaving Arthur’s vision within seconds.

Instead of following behind to see his own grave, Arthur turned painfully to the sky, feeling the need to berate God for this awkward situation he had found himself in.

“Is this punishment, huh? For the shitty way I lived my life? Is this hell?!”

“It’s not hell, Arthur.”

He turned again, almost relieved to see the strange man appear once more.

The man took his hat off and shook his head, “you were supposed to lay back down into your body, Arthur.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that, dumbass?”

“I thought it was obvious, but I apparently need to work a bit harder on my hints.”

Arthur nodded, “you think so?”

“You do realize I could have just left you to suffer for eternity, right?”

“Listen, I change my mind, I don’t want this. I don’t want my old tuberculosis body, I don’t want my old life, just make me a deer or whatever and be done with it.”

“You already made your choice Arthur, it’s a choice you can only make once. So, I suggest you go find your body before your only choices become Mr. Cellophane or the Walking Dead.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s a bit for you to chew later on, my friend. Now go find your body, lay down in it, and do not leave until you can move in it again. I can only hold off rigor mortis for so long.” He snapped his fingers and with that, he was gone. Arthur frantically turned around, running in the direction he saw Charles go, deciding in a split second that he’d rather live eternity in a body rather than the alternative, even if he did have to cough every five minutes for all of forever.

It was dark now at this point, and despite looking around for any sign of his friend, Charles had made off quickly with his body. He listened for any sound of digging or further grunting, even the whinny of his Appaloosa, but nothing stuck out.

“Fuck this ghost shit.” Arthur muttered under his breath, “Can’t fly, can’t see through shit, can’t walk through anything, can’t tell my friend not to bury my dead body.” He tried to kick a pebble but failed, falling confused as to why some things seemed impassable but others were not.

“I was supposed to die up there and be done with it. Then fucking God, or Jesus, or Satan or whatever, Lucifer comes and curses me,” he looked up at the stars, directing his anger again to whoever may be listening, “I still don’t believe any of this is real, by the way! I know I’m probably drunk in some saloon or some shit, getting’ the crap beat out of me!”

Whether or not he actually believed that, not even he knew.

Awoooooooo

“Get away!”

Arthur heard the faintest scream of his friend, and knew he was in trouble.

He ran down the mountain, feeling like an eagle flying down as he realized he didn’t have to worry about broken bones or getting hurt. A seven-foot jump felt like nothing. If it weren’t for the whole non-existence thing, he might have picked this instead.

He ran in the direction of snarls and shouting. Charles’ horse whinnied and cried out in the night as the sound of a struggle took place. Arthur came across the scene, a massive grey wolf had his arm in it’s mouth, and Charles was backing away, holding a gun and aiming for its head, not even noticing the two wolves coming behind him.

“Goddamnit Charles, just leave my body, save yourself!” He ran closer, realizing he couldn’t do anything to stop the attack, but knowing he had to try.

There was a saying that animals saw spirits, Arthur was in fact a spirit at this point, the next part of that theory was hoping it was true, and if it was, hoping that they cared enough to leave Charles alone.

He sprinted forward, holding out his arms and screaming as loud as he could, hoping to break whatever sound barrier was between this world and his old one.

The wolves perked up their ears, staring at Arthur plain as day, unsure of whether to attack or to respect his stance and leave.

“Get out! Go!”

The one closer to him snarled, and Charles shot his gun, injuring the wolf that had Arthur’s arm in it’s mouth.

The wolf ripped at the flesh sharply and took off running, Charles turned to see the two wolves with a mixture of terror and anger in their eyes.

With a strong breeze, a heavenly fog erupted from the ground, coating Arthur in a powder made of light. Charles covered his mouth in fear and surprise, and behind him came a white stag, large and powerful with golden horns and glowing blue eyes.

“Arthur!” Charles called as the spiritual scene took place. Arthur turned to see him after he had called, seeing his eyes weeping as he witnessed the ghost holding out his arms against the wolves, the stag pierced his mighty hoof through the dirt and let out a low rumble, terrifying like an earthquake but sweet as a song. It sent chills down his spine, and the wolves tucked their tails and ran as far as they could away from the ethereal sight.

Within a moment, the image was gone. Arthur’s silhouette faded with a second gust of wind, and the man was alone again.

Charles fell to his feet, unable to believe the sight he had just seen. But it was real, the wolves had seen him too, they saw the massive buck, and they would have killed him had they not.

“Arthur, if you can hear me,” he looked up to the sky, frantically seeking a sign as he wiped a tear from his eye, “thank you.”

Arthur smiled upon his friend, relieved that he could do something to help, but not even knowing just how he did it. He felt as though he had someone to thank as well, he just didn’t know who yet.

“Tell the others that I miss them too, if you can.”

“If I see them, I’ll let them know.” Arthur said, knowing he couldn’t be heard.

Though his valiant act was well-needed, albeit unexpected, he couldn’t stop Charles from digging him a proper grave. And he didn’t want to, he knew it was his way of saying thank you to the spirit who just saved his life.

So, he watched as Charles took his time, paying respect to his body, and finally, lowering him down into the ground. He wondered away and within a few minutes, he returned with a bouquet of beautiful flowers, and laid them down on the large hump of dirt.

Arthur sighed, trying not to shed a tear at the site. He never felt as cared for as he did now, after he had already died. If he were still alive, with all his human abilities, perhaps he’d already be crying.

“I will be back to give you a nice marker, I’ll build it myself, I promise.”

“I guess there’s no way of convincing you to dig me up now, is there?”

“Thank you again. You were well loved, even if… well… I loved you. You were my brother.” Charles walked away and back to his horse, galloping off into the night.

Arthur watched him riding away, waving an unseen goodbye, unsure if he could return and explain that he was still alive, once he figured out how to get his body back, that is.

[enkelimagnus]

Literature

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1756 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 3 Power Broker

Sam falls asleep on the plane over to Madripoor and leaves Bucky and Zemo alone. They actually talk to each other. I would say it's nice.

TW: brief allusion to past rape, internalized homophobia, brief mention of the holocaust

Read on AO3

Part 20 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

--------------

It’s an eleven hour flight from Berlin to Madripoor, even with Zemo’s private jet. Once drinks have been served, food has been eaten and threats have been made, they all find themselves settling.

Sam has dozed off on a seat, seemingly exhausted. After all, they’ve already travelled the eight hours from the states, and the day has been stressful at best. At least, Sam trusts him enough to fall asleep while Bucky watches Zemo. He wasn’t expecting that. Or perhaps his human physiology is betraying him.

Bucky needs less sleep than a normal human on regular days, and he also can survive much longer sleep deprived. He’s well aware of the limitations of his body. Hydra tested them thoroughly and multiple times. Zemo would know as well, that Bucky might look tired but it doesn’t diminish his abilities as much as it seems.

The man in question is at his seat with his book, though he’s regularly looking up through the windows of the plane or around the cabin. There’s something quiet and wistful about the way he stares at a spot where the carpeting is not perfectly set against the wall to the bathroom.

The silence is good, especially after earlier, where Sam and Zemo somehow managed to gang up on him about Marvin Gaye of all people.

It’s not that Bucky doesn’t like Marvin Gaye. He just doesn’t like much music. He’s sort of lost the taste for it. His brain is usually unable to perceive it as anything but unnecessary noise that keeps him from being completely aware of his surroundings. And at least 40s music doesn’t have death and rape associated to it.

And he doesn’t need to know what Steve thought of it, whether Steve loved it or not. He’s not Steve. Steve journeyed light into the 21st century. Everything was something new to learn and experience, it was exciting and bright. Bucky is travelling with baggage. And he has memories attached to songs and tastes and sensations and events.

Bucky simply can’t use the notebook the way Steve did.

Sometimes, he wonders if Sam forgets Bucky wasn’t simply on ice for 80 years. The issue with him is that he lived through most of it, and it was all torture.

Or maybe not all . He woke up craving Karpov’s kasha the other week, and it makes no sense. He only tasted it during one specific time of his life, when Karpov and him got stuck in a safehouse in the snow, with no way to reach the outside world, for two weeks. The Soldier’s rations and formulas ran out long before they were able to leave. Karpov was too smart to let him starve, and perhaps that time alone with the Soldier, away from the world, with no way to freeze him or unplug him had made him see he was still a man. The kasha was warm, and thick, and sweet and sometimes, Bucky remembers that feeling and craves it.

The danger with people like him, America’s Super Soldiers, is that we put them on pedestals.

Zemo’s right.

In all honesty, Bucky believes he’s forgotten who Steve really was.

Memories become blurry when they age and no matter how desperate Bucky is to crystalize them, to remember them, to be sure of what he lived, all he manages to do is to frame faded photographs and fill in the blanks himself.

Steve and him didn’t have time. He found him after two years of searching, only for Bucky to be back on ice within two weeks. After that, Steve visited a few times during his recovery, when he introduced him to the goats he’d named after the sisters he finally remembered. And then, there was the War, and the Snap and once Bucky was back to life, Steve was shattered. And two weeks later, he was gone.

They didn’t have time to learn each other again. Bucky doesn’t know who Steve is anymore, half of his memories feel tainted by Smithsonian explanations, and he hates it so fucking much.

He hates that he can’t remember right, he hates that Steve’s slipping away from him every second of every day, that all that is left is the fucking shield and Captain America. That Steve’s legacy doesn’t seem to run deeper than that, else Bucky would have less of a single-minded focus on that fucking piece of useless fucking metal.

It’s only been three months. Why does Steve feel like he’s been gone for a lifetime?

Bucky breathes out a shuddering breath.

When his eyes focus again, Zemo is staring at him.

The book is open on his lap. Bucky can read the title. Same Sex Fantasies in Heterosexuals. Fucking hell. He doesn’t need that right now. At all.

“You’re a different man than the one I remember,” Zemo says quietly after a moment. His voice is soft, just slightly above a whisper. He knows Bucky has sharp ears. He knows he doesn’t need to wake Sam up.

Bucky dignifies that with a huff and looks away for a moment. Zemo’s eyes don’t leave him. He can feel them on him, on his face, on his throat, on his hands, on his body. They make him itch. They make him want to punch him for looking at him like that.

Like what?

You know exactly like what.

When Bucky looks back, Zemo’s indeed still watching him.

“You’re old now,” Bucky says eventually, in a vague answer to what Zemo said earlier.

“Eight years have passed, James. You cannot blame a normal man for something he has no control over.”

Eight years. So Bucky was right. Zemo wasn’t dusted. He stayed in that solitary confinement cell for eight years as the world moved on around him, as the world fought and lost half of its people.

Had he wished to be one of the ones that were snapped out of existence? Probably. After all, every second Zemo breathes and exists is a second more he wasn’t supposed to have. He tried to kill himself in Siberia, once his mission was over.

“Do you ever read normal stuff?” Bucky asks, a bite in his words.

Zemo raises an eyebrow, head tilting slightly to the side. His eyes are still glued to Bucky’s face. He still wants to punch him.

“I would need you to define ‘normal stuff’ to answer this question.” There is a hint of mirth in those brown eyes though. He knows exactly what Bucky means.

Bucky huffs and rolls his eyes. “Machiavelli, fucking… whatever this shit is,” he makes a motion of his chin towards the book. It’s in German, something about boundaries in relationships. Hilarious, really. It’s not like Zemo has anyone to set boundaries with. Unless those eight years of solitary have somehow driven a rift between Zemo and his own dick. “That’s not normal stuff. Novels, popular stuff…”

“I wonder,” Zemo starts. “Have you any recommendations for titles of ‘popular stuff’ for me?”

Everything Bucky can think of is old. He’d told himself he’d look into acquiring books but… he hadn’t had the time or the energy.

“I see your taste in literature has elected to stay with your taste in music, then.”

Fucking ass. Bucky closes his eyes and sighs so heavily he’s pretty sure Sam’s going to wake up.

“To answer your question, James,” Zemo starts, conversationally, as if they aren’t enemies, as if they are just old friends, so old they have become strangers. “I do read normal stuff.” The phrasing is foreign in his mouth, in that accented voice of his. “I’ve read all the classics, and children’s literature. Eight years are long. I practiced my Russian with translations of Harry Potter and the Lord of the Rings at first.”

Bucky hums, looking up at him for a moment. “I noticed your pronunciation had changed,” he says quietly. “Did you read it to yourself out loud? Pretended someone was telling you a story?”

It’s cheap. They’re both aware of how lonely the past eight years must have been. It’s cheap, and it’s low-hanging and Bucky almost feels guilty.

Zemo’s small smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Have you read Jules Verne?” Bucky asks, trying to erase his taunt with some more literary conversation. “Was obsessed with his work as a kid. Kinda like Tolkien, but even better because it was… full of invention, not of magic.”

There’s a floating moment, a few seconds of Zemo just watching him with that slight sadness in his eyes before it is washed away and replaced by a hum.

“I’ve read those books, yes. In the original French,” Zemo points out and Bucky is almost grateful for the boasting. “You should seek a new translation, if you’re not adept at the original language. The one I assume you read was a descendant of 1870 translations, riddled with errors and political censorship. They fixed that in the 60s. You’ll like the new ones better.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I’ll take that under consideration, I guess.” He’s so sure he’ll like it.

“And if you find yourself in the north of France one of these days, you should stop by this little city called Amiens,” Zemo continues. “A fine place, old and new, in the way only Europe can be. Jules Verne died there. The city’s positively themed after the man and his work. You can even visit his house.”

Visiting a dead man’s last residence? “That’s kinda morbid,” he mutters and Zemo has a small chuckle.

“People visit Anne Frank’s house as if the walls aren’t hollowed with fear,” he points out. “Dying makes one the public’s intimate friend. You know that better than anyone else.” He gives Bucky a sidelong glance. They both know he’s talking about Steve, and the documentaries and exhibits and think-pieces.

Bucky nods quietly and looks back through the window. The sun is painted indigo and pink. It’s beautiful. He’s forgotten the sunset could be this beautiful.

When he looks at Zemo again, he notices the exhaustion written all over his face, in the small wrinkles and under eye bags and the way his eyes won’t settle on anything for too long, desperate to stay awake.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” Bucky says after a moment. “We need you.”

Zemo chuckles tiredly, a soft and muted sound. “If that is the one thing that is keeping me alive… I believe I shall keep myself useful, then.” It’s almost sarcastic. A man living on borrowed time, wishing desperately he could be executed.

“You do that.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Deathly Fun || Morgan & Dakota

TIMING: Recent, before New Year’s Eve

PARTIES: @dakotasgrant & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Just gals being pals

CONTAINS: mild gore, brief medical blood talk

Nine times out of ten, Dakota would have said no. To be more blunt, she would have said absolutely fucking not when Morgan invited her over… But wallowing in her own self-pity was just more fuel to her flames, and if she let that fire grow any bigger or brighter, she’d burn the whole damn town to the ground. So hanging out it was, apparently. And shit, if she were being honest… Bone carving actually did pique her interest, as much as she hated to admit it. So when Morgan invited her over, and Dakota found herself parked in her driveway, she figured it was worth a shot to try, even if getting her into the house was like pulling teeth. Just don’t be a dick. Make a friend. What’s the worst that could happen? They could get to know you. After fifteen or so minutes of just sitting in her jeep debating on pulling out and speeding off, she finally hopped out and made her way to the door, knocking three times… and praying that Morgan didn’t answer.

Morgan laid on the floor in her new studio, trying to remember breathing, or at least the way it had connected her to the world’s energy. Her chest rose and fell, the floor pressed against her back, the air circled around the ceiling fan and teased the fringe on her rug. She was here. She was whole. Each of these tiny perceptions was a cord binding her to this place, cocooning her against all odds in comfort. She was here. She was okay…

Knock, knock, knock.

She was late for meeting with Dakota. Morgan shot to her feet and stumbled to the door, smiling bright when she opened. “Oh, good! I was worried you wouldn’t be able to find me. This building is a little hidden from the driveway. But uh, come on and make yourself cozy? I actually have a lot of craft stuff you can play with and works in progress. I’ve got way too many pillows over there--” she pointed, “--but my table is in the sort-of-kitchen area. Do you need anything to drink? Snacks? I’ve got some pretty quality basics for guests.” Morgan sat down at her craft table and propped her legs up on one of the spare chairs, nudging one out for Dakota to take, smiling brightly. “You can say if that was a lot. I can mostly assure you the evening will be much more chill. It’s just, you know, a very long winded way of saying ‘make yourself at home.’”

As soon as the door swung open, it was like being blasted with a very small—but very real—beam of pure energy. The only way Dakota could truly and accurately describe it was as if Jessica Day and Arizona Robbins came together and created the woman that was standing before her—Morgan. Morgan… Something. The thing was, she probably would have been just as taken aback as she was even if she wasn’t hungover, but… Well, that was besides the point. Stop thinking about it.

The main objective was to get in and get out in under an hour, and if it took being an asshole to do it, well… Rest In Peace, Morgan. “Yeah, you just said more words than I’ve said in the past 24 hours,” she stated, shrugging off her coat and taking the seat she’d nudged out for her. If Dakota was anything, which… she was a lot of things… but if she was absolutely anything, it would be awkward. Hands folded in her lap, she looked around the room, taking in the decor as best as she could. Crafting wasn’t her thing, but bones? Bones were cool. She tuned back in when Morgan mentioned something about making herself at home. Honey, I’ve never felt “at home” in my entire life, she wanted to say. But she’d save that tid-bit for her friends Jack and Daniels back at her cabin.

“Uh, I’m fine, thanks. Also, I’m not a very ‘crafty’ person… So if you want to just skip to the part where we talk about death and I get to see some carcasses, that’d be great.”

Morgan scrunched up her face, amused and confused in equal measure. She got up and went over to the small fridge, blocking the view of the brain slices safely tucked away in their novelty pyrex containers as she took out what drinks she had available. “Do you want to talk about whatever’s behind all of this--?” She gestured vaguely to Dakota, slumped by the craft table. “I don’t know you well enough to judge you.” She brought the bottles over along with a water pitcher and a glass and set them down in front of the woman. “As for the carcasses…” She laughed dryly, swallowing the urge to say, well, you’re looking right at one if you feel like playing medical examiner. She climbed up her stepladder and retrieved Ratty and Squirrely from their shelf and brought them down. She brushed and dusted them regularly now, too fond of how helpful they’d been when she’d first died to let them gather dust. “There’s these little guys. And…” She untied a large velvet pouch from the table and carefully poured out a collection of bones. “These came from a raccoon, and these bad boys came from a buck.” She gestured to the antler pieces stacked neatly at the edge of the table. “What is it you like about death anyway?”

Dakota could have crawled out of her skin just at the words “do you want to talk,” period. Why the fuck would she want to talk to a complete stranger about her issues? If she wanted to do that, she would have gotten a therapist by now. But you do, don’t you? You’re dying for someone to listen. Why else would you be here? Why are you here? “What exactly is ‘this?’” she asked, helping herself to the bottle set in front of her. “Because I was under the impression that I was here to craft and maybe talk about murder, not open up about my feelings.” There was a beat of silence, mainly because she was taking a look at the animals she’d retrieved, and then her attention had shifted to the contents of the velvet pouch that was dumped onto the table. Dakota had no problem picking them up, examining them carefully. A female rib, part of a male radius… Multiple vertebrae, an antler. “I don’t like it,” she said, though it was a lie she didn’t know she was telling. “I’m intrigued by it. The intricacies of it. The decay of it. The symbolism of it… The way people who are living experience it all the time, even if no physical death has actually occurred.” she paused. Was she still talking? “What about you? Why do you collect all this stuff?”

“You’re not exactly being subtle about how upset you are right now, but somehow you’re still here,” Morgan beamed, pouring a glass of water for herself. “I’ve been on the wrong-ass side of depressed when you’d rather drop dead than show anyone you’re not okay. And I’ve been like this too.” She twirled her finger in Dakota’s direction, especially around the wrinkle in her forehead. “But we can wait, or just not. I just figured I’d ask.” She listened to Dakota’s vague answers as she started sorting through the bones on her table. A beaded bracelet might be interesting to make. Maybe a little time intensive, but it would look like some of the crystal beads she’d once made when she was done. The antler tips would be good for that too, but other parts would become pendants, or some kind of add ons to a sculpture. She’d save those for when she had a clearer idea. Morgan took up a delicate looking raccoon limb bone and started cutting it down to size. “Oh, no, you’re not getting away with something that vague,” she said, laughing softly. “It sounds like you like it. What do you think it symbolizes anyway? And what do you mean ‘experience it all the time.’” She took out a little drill and started evening out the hollow within the bone. “My girlfriend got me into them at first. But I feel an affinity with them now. Like we’re on the same frequency, and they understand something about me.” Being dead would do that. “I like repurposing them, letting them transform into beautiful things, or compost and nourish the earth, or simply decay and feed the crows and the bugs. It gives me hope.”

Oh, no. Dakota wasn’t going there. She wasn’t depressed, and if she was, she sure as hell wouldn’t be talking about it with Miss Sunshine over here. Just.. Focus the conversation on a morbid reality and maybe she’ll kick you out herself. “Death is all around us. It’s in my sentences, in yours… The things we do, what we eat. Our thoughts, our emotions, this conversation. A few hours from now when the sun sets. A relationship, a friendship. Ourselves. Death is really just the ending of something. Everything, actually, when you get down to it.” She said, still examining the bones before her. Dakota didn’t know why she kept humoring Morgan with her answers, but it was better than finishing the bottle at home. “I guess it depends on who you ask and what you read. It can symbolize renewal, rebirth, cleansing. Transition, opportunity, possibility…” she trailed off. There was a bout of silence that swelled between them, but only for a moment. Dakota didn’t know why she felt compelled to keep talking. “I think life is really just death in disguise because no matter what you’re doing or who you’re with, it ends up ending. I’ve felt that way since I was a kid. I don’t know why I feel that way.”

“You’re starting to sound like a real woo-woo mystic gal,” Morgan said, smiling wider. “But you know, I think everyone has their own relationship to death. Even if it’s pure avoidance or denial or something more thoughtful. I’d like to know what it symbolizes to you, if that’s not too weird or personal. At least recently. I appreciate that these relationships evolve, they die and rise again differently, like all relationships. They evolve. I used to be afraid of it, honestly. I lost so many people, watched some of them die, watched their caskets go into the ground, it just seemed so horrible to me. But then I had this uuhh…” How to put this delicately? “Really bad accident. And now it’s different. A lot of things are but that especially.” She took up a new section of bone and drilled through that one too, snowing thin spirals of bone onto the table in fluffy stacks. “You should get to know my girlfriend. She makes death sound like something beautiful when she talks about it.” Which wasn’t too often these days, but still dear to Morgan. When she finished with the second bead, she held up the pair for Dakota to examine. “What do you think? I need like, thirty more, but not too shabby side-by-side, right?”

Woo-woo mystic gal? So much for saying anything she actually thought, literally ever again. Dakota let Morgan talk—not really listening, of course, because now all she really wanted to do was get the hell outta dodge and probably never see again. That would really be the icing on the shit-cake that was her life. Sooner or later, Morgan held up a pair of the bones she’d turned into beads, and even her cynical ass had to admit that she’d done a good job. Part of her almost felt inspired to take up crafting in her spare time, but that fleeting moment of inspiration was quickly squashed—not for any particular reason, but it often took her several years to try anything new. Hence breaking off an engagement, moving half-way across the country, and sleeping with just about every single woman she could find that seemed desperate or hopeless enough to come back to her place… Or reckless enough to invite Dakota to hers. Out of all of the things Morgan had said, including something about how she wanted to know what death symbolized to Dakota personally, her interest was piqued at the mention of Morgan having a girlfriend. She thought she’d heard it earlier, but she couldn’t brush it off a second time. Fuck it, she thought. She called you woo-woo mystical. Ask her a question. “—Who’s your girlfriend?” Please don’t say Marley…

Morgan’s brow furrowed. Clearly her own brand of self-deprecation was lost on Dakota by her stiff silence. Maybe she didn’t know enough about the tarot cards on her bookshelves or the sigils on some of her book spines to know that she was as woo-woo as they came. But Dakota’s question puzzled her even more. It wasn’t exactly what she assumed the takeaway would be. “Uh...her name is Deirdre,” Morgan said. “She��s a life actuary, like a death accountant. She has a whole room dedicated to bones in the house. For her birthday, among other things, we articulated a deer skeleton together and went for a cemetery walk. Hambry is really beautiful right now, with all the snow on the ground. Have you been?”

That was true—Dakota was lost on anyone else’s self depreciation because she was so entombed in her own bullshit to care about anything anyone else said about themselves. Selfish bastard. But she hadn’t quite realized that yet...Or, if she had, she was ignoring it for as long as she possibly could, because she had an amazing track record in that department. Above all things, she was just glad Marley’s name hadn’t come out of Morgan’s mouth, ‘cause if it had, there would have been a Dakota-shaped hole through her front door. “Sounds nice,” she murmured. “I’ve never been, no. Never even heard of Hambry, actually.” Wow, you’re an amazing conversationalist. A beat or two of silence passed before she shot in the dark. She’d always been the ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ sorta person. Except now she was asking questions first and thinking about it after the fact. “This is going to sound like the dumbest question in the world, but… When did you know? I mean—you know what I mean. That you’d rather date a woman than a man. Or.. That you were at least okay with dating a woman. When did you know that?” Okay, you’re officially never speaking to this person ever again.

Morgan set down her tools and took a moment to really look at Dakota. She had known from the start there was something apprehensive in her, but she hadn’t guessed the depth of her fear. Morgan’s fingers twitched, wanting to take her hand. “First of all, it’s not dumb. Secondly, It took me a while,” she admitted. “I had this best friend, Karen, and she had this amazing two storey house and thick plush carpet in her room, and a pool. I told myself I liked being over at her place as many days as I could get away with because of that stuff. But I also liked it when she played with my hair, when our legs would brush together in the pool, and when she held my hand or my arm in the school hallways I just felt so special…” Morgan sighed. “We were friends for about a year and I didn’t figure out a thing. But then she was kissing this guy in the hall and I was so furious and hurt and awful and didn’t tell her about any of it. And then I had a dream about kissing her, which was a big ol’ flag I couldn’t avoid. And...I mean, it was the 90s and I had these weird special circumstances that made me worry that...what if this is why bad luck seemed to follow my family all around? What if all those awful protest signs and President Regan were onto something and I was some kind of blight on the family. And then things got weird and we didn’t visit or talk so much and I worried she could smell the lesbian on me or something, but then one day we’re in the girl’s bathroom and I start to beg her to talk to me and then--we were kissing. And it was weird and awkward, you know, on a tactile level, but inside, all those dopey romantic things fell into the right key and made sense. I couldn’t un-know after that.” She searched for Dakota’s eyes and held her gaze, waiting for some piece of her own story to set itself free. Was that part of why she bristled so easily? Why she was so desperate to hide herself? Was it just too much of a habit by now,or did Dakota still feel the ghost of that old fear haunting her? “It didn’t end so great about two minutes after we got started, and I didn’t come out to my mom for another three years, because of all that fear. And didn’t date, not really, until after I got out of college. And Deirdre is my first really serious ‘we-moved-in-together and lasted-longer-than-six-months’ relationship ever. It’s been it’s own weird time and process. As far as I know everyone like us has their own weird and different time too. We’re just special like that, temporally clusterfucked.” She paused a moment and looked thoughtfully out the window: evening was coming, the sky turned all the grass blue, and Anya stalked the dead flower beds. “When did you know, Dakota? Is that something I can ask?”

Dakota listened, which in and of itself was a miracle, because she wasn’t just listening for answers to process and remember for as long as she needed them and then do away with them whenever she was done—she was actually just listening for truth, and that was something you don’t just do away with. And Dakota hated eye-contact more than anything, but she didn’t really care at the moment, because as annoying as it was, she had to hand it to her... Morgan didn’t pry. And that was nice. Because everyone always prys. When she looked out the window, Dakota’s gaze followed suit, and she realized she’d been there for a lot longer than she’d planned already. What the hell happened to that ‘one hour only?’ But, as conversations normally go, it was Dakota’s turn to share… If she wanted to, of course. And the thing was, she actually did kind of want to. “Two years ago,” she began, sort of straightening up in her chair. Old habits die hard, so maybe that’s why her gaze fell to the table and her hands fidgeted with the bones laid out on it. “That’s a lie. I knew when I was fourteen. I took my best friend to go see a movie, and I remember being so fucking nervous—I mean, I didn’t think my palms could get any sweatier, especially not in the middle of December. Detroit’s a big town, you know, but.. All those little neighborhoods that make up that city? They’re all like small towns, and everybody knows everybody. So it didn’t matter how bad I wanted to hold her stupid hand, because Michael and Tom from third period were two seats over, and I knew she liked Michael, and.. Well, the point is that it didn’t matter how bad I wanted to hold her hand, because I couldn’t. And I didn’t. And I pushed that so far back in my memory that when I met my ex at 25, I thought.. You know, just.. Run with it, ‘cause it’s the only fuckin’ chance you’re ever gonna see.” Dakota paused, then, because this was the part of the story she hated telling. She wished she could just avoid it all together, but… “Flashforward, we’d been together ten years on and off. He wanted to get married so bad, and I kept telling him I wanted to wait, and I wanted to be established in my career, and I wanted to do all of these things and.. And then, you know, I did them. I was established, and I was the investigative lead, and I was a mentor, and.. Well, to make a long story short, he took me to a restaurant and his dumbass got down on one knee, right there, in the middle of the restaurant, in front of everyone—you know, total strangers just.. Gawking and looking at me and waiting for me to say yes. And I should have. I should have just worked it out, and said yes. But I didn’t. I, uh. Stood up from the table, and I closed the stupid ring box thing that rings come in—why do they come in those stupid boxes?—and I just.. Left him there. At the restaurant. In front of everyone. And he had to stand up, get up off the floor, pay for a meal neither of us ate.. By the time he got home I was already in a studio apartment above a Chinese take-out place across town. So..” she trailed off, then let the silence swell, as she normally did. It felt like forever. “Yeah, I’d say fourteen.”

Morgan waited a little while, in case Dakota wanted to sit with her words, say something else, or just collect herself. When she was sure, she said, “It’s not your fault, you know. Knowing and admitting and being able to do something about realizing you’re gay are all really hard, different steps. It takes as long as it takes. And it’s not wrong or cruel to do what’s best for you, for both of you, really. I mean, if he was so great, he deserves someone who can love him enthusiastically the way he wants, right? And so do you. Going into that kind of lie just to spare his feelings in a moment would’ve just harmed you both, deeply, maybe irrevocably. Not that this doesn’t hurt either, I’m not saying that, but… I think you did the kindest thing you possibly could. Even if that’s not how you felt in the moment, that’s what you did.” She leaned in, knowing just enough from Dakota’s body language that she shouldn’t reach for her, not yet. “I am sorry, though. I know something about how carrying that knowledge around can hurt. How it can feel like the scariest or most impossible, awful, stupid thing. I mean, no one dreams of having their first serious relationship at forty, that’s for sure. But can I ask-- where are you now? With--this. Is it still on you, that guilt, that fear?”

Dakota scoffed—not meanly, not because she was upset, but because the question was almost funny. “Uh, yeah.” She shifted in her chair, clearing her throat a bit. “I’ve been screwing just about anyone stupid enough to say yes for weeks. Waitresses, bartenders.. I just fucked a coworker last night. Not just a cop, dude—a fucking detective. I mean, it was great and all, except for how we left things. And also how she left, actually. And then the fucking shitstorm I caused afterwards.” Dakota sighed, leaning her elbows on the table and rubbing her hands over her face. “Annnnd then I called in sick. So, yeah. I feel guilty. And I feel.. Just this raw fucking shame, all the time. And I feel fucking stupid because, you know, for maybe half a second, I wondered.. You know, what if we did it again? What if it could.. Turn into something? What if I finally just get what I’ve always wanted and what if it just.. Get to hold the girl’s hand? And.. and what if it just works, y’know?” Why the fuck are you sharing all of this? “But, you know, she kind of reminded me that that’s impossible. I mean, it’s not impossible for people like you and Deirdre and her and whoever she decided to run to after she left. Yeah, all that “hope” shit went right out the window because not two minutes after we were done she called it a mistake and high-tailed it out of there.” A beat. “But, you know, I’m meeting another chick at Dell’s later tonight, so. Anita something, I think?”

Morgan moved her chair closer, practically leaning against Dakota. “You know you’re allowed to put some of that shame down, right?” She asked. “And it’s not really impossible so much as it’s just...not right, not yet. If you’re really, really lucky, one time it will just work, and all the stress and the angst and the bullshit that comes after you get to hold the girl’s hand and kiss her goodnight will feel worth it.” Carefully, she brushed back Dakota’s hair from her eyes. Under other circumstances, or with a less strictly monogamous girlfriend, she’d try to ease Dakota’s hurt here and now. She hadn’t let herself alone long enough to figure out what kind of person she really wanted to be, but Morgan couldn’t help but feel like that would-be person was probably kind, or could be without too much struggle. “Be careful with Anita. She’s a friend of mine, and a lot of fun, but I have it on good authority that she’s still hung up on someone. But you didn’t hear that from me.” She wondered how Dakota felt about corpses and their startlingly cold temperatures, if she would be horrified, or stay still long enough to realize Morgan’s chest didn’t rise or fall and her pulse was silent. “I have a very weird question to ask you,” she said with a sheepish grin. “Is it okay if I touch you--very affectionately but sans romantic agenda? I feel very endeared to you right now and I'd like to be closer than we are right now. We can also, you know, go straight back to the dead things, or talking about literally any other thing…”

Part of her really wanted to be annoyed, or to ruin whatever the hell was going on by being an asshole somehow—it’s what she did best. Or, well, so she believed. Regardless, it was the best way Dakota could maintain her distance from people, maintain her invulnerability, keep the walls built up as high as she could, with the strongest bricks and the strongest cement binding them together so that way nobody gets in. But it gets so lonely in here sometimes. “Uh..” she began, not knowing how to respond. Maybe it was the fact that Morgan already took the liberty of brushing some hair from her face, and maybe it was because nobody’s done that to her in a while… And maybe this was the first time she’d been semi-vulnerable around anyone, so.. Did she really have anything else to lose? Her dignity, maybe… “Sure…?”

Morgan beamed, her whole face brightening up. “Thank you,” she said softly. She brushed back the rest of the young woman’s hair with a careful, tender touch, and scooted close enough to wrap her arms around her in a hug. “You’re still worthy of love, Dakota, even just like this,” she whispered in her ear. “And it’s all shitty and painful and unfair right now, and there’s no guarantee about any of it, but you’re not unworthy or broken just because things have been hard, okay?” She rose half out of her seat and pressed a fleeting kiss to the top of her head. “Now! Why don’t I show you some of the deathly craft work you actually came here for, at least for a hot sec, huh?” Her arms were still draped around Dakota and she reached over the woman for her carving knives rather than unfurl herself.

Dakota was torn—she enjoyed the physical touch, because damn, she hadn’t felt much of anything gentle in a while. It was sweet in a very genuine, kind way. Morgan was just.. Kind, so she guessed. But still, she was torn between just enjoying the small moment between them and questioning why the hell she was so cold. In fact, it was almost hard to enjoy the interaction because… Well, one of the reasons humans enjoyed physical touch so dearly was because sharing body heat was primal. But as soon as Morgan wrapped arms around her body, it was noticeable. Why the hell wasn’t her hug warm? Or even the kiss she’d pressed on the top of her head… I mean, she’s freezing. Before she really had time to process this, Morgan had already reached across her person to grab her carving knives. “Do you have circulation issues?” she asked, probably a touch offhand. “Or, like, low iron or something?”

Morgan laughed and snapped off a chunk of antler with one hand, too distracted to think of how weird that would look for a woman as small as she was. “That is probably the nicest way anyone has ever asked about my body temperature,” she said. “I can stop, if you want. I know it’s startling and unusual and not everyone wants to be close to an ice queen. But uh--yeah, circulation issue about covers it.” Being dead was kind of a circulation issue, right? She guided Dakota’s hands onto the table, careful to touch her sweater more than her skin. “I was thinking some of this would make a really cool pendant, but I think some designs would be better. So--” She snapped off another piece so they each had one. “You can sketch on the bone with a pencil, if you want, I’ve got plenty right here. Or if you already have and idea, you can just score lightly on the surface with this tool, before you start cutting deeper with this one ....” The larger blade was a little farther from her reach than she wanted, and as Morgan strained, the sharp edge sliced into the side of her finger, carving out a gash that did not bleed, but showed dark, liquid matter resting tepid beneath her skin. “O-oh shit! Uh--ow! Yikes, Sorry…” She pressed down on the wound, knowing it would heal soon, but the pressure of her fingers squeezed out more of her dark, dead blood onto her fingers, impossible to miss until she could wash them clean.

Despite the fact that Morgan just so happened to be unusually cold—more so to the point that Dakota was genuinely concerned for her health, to be honest—it was still nice to feel close to someone. Finally tucking away the emotions she’d let bubble to the surface, though, she truly was ready to let Morgan teach her a few things about bone carving. She was talented, to say the least, and Dakota thought it would be fun to just be creative with it. God, when was the last time she was creative with anything? Her attention was already drawn to the bone she had in her hand, and she had already started to think up a design she wanted to score into the surface, but everything came to a screeching halt when Morgan had reached for the larger blade. Almost immediately, mainly by instinct, Dakota jumped up to search for a rag or something to put pressure on the cut, but she’d only gotten halfway out of her chair before she was absolutely stunned by what she’d seen. “Jesus, Morgan! Did you—” she almost said hit an artery, but she’d seen too much blood in her life to know that whatever was coming out of her body wasn’t healthy. It sure as fuck wasn’t normal. She sat for a moment, clearly stupefied. All the science she’d studied was swirling around in her brain. Extremely low hemoglobin could be a possibility, but she’d never seen it so… No, that couldn’t be it. Early menopause affects menstrual blood, but even then… Well, that just didn’t make sense. Polycythemia vera..? No, it was too.. “What the fu— We should take you to the emergency room!” she exclaimed, finally snapping out of the shock she was in and grabbing the nearest dish towel she could find, running it under some warm water and bringing it back to Morgan, leaving the sink running in her haste. “Why aren’t you..? C’mon, dude, we need to go!”

“No, it’s fine! It’s fine! I just need to wash it off and uuh…” Morgan scrubbed her hand with the towel Dakota gave her, focusing more on the zombie blood stains on her hand than the cut. She ran to the sink and fumbled with the soap, hoping that maybe Dakota would think she was using disinfectant or something else human. Her skin had just started to stitch together and after a quick wipedown with her dish towel, it was good as new again. Morgan whirled around quickly and held up her finger. “See! Look, it’s not even that deep! You can’t even see it anymore!” Then, realizing she looked like she was flipping off her new friend, Morgan scurried over and showed her the proof. With the stains gone, you couldn’t even tell anything had ever been wrong. “It’s just a...uh...thing that happens to me sometimes. Everything looks way worse than it really is with me. I really uh….bounce back easy. I’m sorry to worry you, but look, it’s fine! See!”

Dakota never showed her true feelings, but she couldn’t not gasp when she saw Morgan’s finger. One moment it looked like motor oil was spilling out of her goddamn hand and the next, it was…? Her fucking finger was healed. Completely mended, as if nothing had happened, as if seconds ago she hadn’t needed to go to the emergency room. Given years of training herself to bite her tongue, Dakota still hadn’t mastered her facial expressions. She may as well just have said: what the ever living fuck? But instead, she started to back away, grabbing her coat from off the back of the chair she had just been sitting in, bumping into the table as she did. “I’m—Sorry, I just remembered, I.. Have a thing.” Seconds later, she was out the door, nearly ramming down the mailbox as she pulled out of the driveway like a bat out of hell.

“It’s really fine, you don’t have to go,” Morgan protested. She followed Dakota to the door, feeling helpless as she fled into the night. “You can stay, really, Dakota--Dakota?” But the woman was gone, and all the hope Morgan had built up for her vanished into the dark as well.