#i’m gonna sleep for a thousand years it’s the only way

[wretcheddthing]

i wasn’t built to yearn my whole body feels congested

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (2) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, part 2 (7.2k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

PART 1

Tradition is not something you are fond of.

It’s something forced on you. When you question it, it’s offensive–how dare you question these things, made sacred over time? Why would you want to betray thousands of years of history? Time makes it definitive. Your being makes it natural. You submit because that is the natural thing to do, so in that sense, you submit to it all.

That is your duty. That is your calling. When you are claimed, you belong to them. You are property. Autonomy be damned–your place is on your knees, keeping your mouth shut, and any behavior against that is nothing short of a punishable offense, proper. Disobedient omegas make for troublesome households.

To keep you in line, you must be held at a short length from your alpha. It is what is done. It is what is expected.

Tradition.

Simon keeps a hand on you, curled at the base of your spine as he leads you back to where the sleeping quarters are. You know it’s for your protection, but the better part of you wants to smack him off of you whenever you feel his palm press just slightly against you. When you make it back into your room, Simon pauses in the doorway after he opens it for you. He looks nervous almost, sheepish. You turn to face him, looking him up and down. “You can come in if you want. I’m not gonna carry all my stuff by myself, you could probably carry a fucking tank looking at you.”

Simon finally comes inside, ducking his head a little to make it in. You know this room wasn’t meant to house an alpha, but it’s still startling to see him do it, taking up way too much space to be anything but claustrophobic. He watches as you pack your things, stuffing your clothes into your bags and picking up small trinkets around the bedside table and desk. After the bag starts to get heavy, you shove it into his arms as you look towards the bed. It’s a standard issue twin-sized, with barely enough sheets to keep you warm and a lumpy pillow that you hate. You make a face at it before turning around and putting more things into Simon’s arms as you empty the closet.

“Tha’ it?” Simon mutters, still able to peek over the mountain of items that he holds, and you shrug.

“That’s it.”

Simon’s own room is like a hospital room. It’s too clean–there’s nothing personal anywhere, no pictures or barely any clothes other than military issue fatigues. The only civilian clothes he has wouldn’t even make you think twice if you saw him in a bar–Simon will always look like a soldier, through and through, and his room stinks like it. It smells clinical, and nothing about it is cozy or warm. You stand in the middle of the room as Simon puts your things down. You ring your hands together nervously, eyeing the bed with one single, thin sheet on it. It’s too small of a bed for the both of you. It’s too small of a bed just for Simon–you don’t want to think about the kind of sleeping arrangements you’ll need to fit with him on it.

“Wot’s wrong?” Simon asks lowly. You look over your shoulder at him. He’s putting your things into the closet. He’s divided it in half already, and some of your clothes are already hung up next to his. You look back at the bed, pursing your lips.

“There’s not enough blankets,” you say softly. “A-And…And the pillows, here, I don’t like them.”

Simon turns back to your bag, picking up another shirt to hang. You glare at the back of him. It doesn’t do anything; he doesn’t erupt in flames like you might have hoped, but it does give you a moment to notice how well those jeans fit him.

Fuck. Keep it together.

“I’ll get you more blankets,” he shrugs. “And a different pillow.”

The answer is immediate. No fuss. You want to complain, to bite back at him for it, but you don’t know how you would explain your displeasure. You’re looking for a reason to tell your omega that she’s a scheming, hopeless, naïve little shit.

“...I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” Isn’t that what he had said? Isn’t that what he had said when he gripped you by the throat and made you realize that everything you had thought about alphas was true? Hadn’t he already shown you that none of them are redeemable?

Not Kate. Not John. Certainly not Simon–they’re all scheming, terrible fucking people, and you cannot wait until you can sink your teeth into Simon’s jugular and rip it out.

Belonging to, being one’s own, fuck if you care. Simon can claim ownership all he wants, but he’ll never tame you. Your omega might be pulling the strings at the moment, but you’re going through withdrawals, you think. Your medication was your lifeline. It kept you from falling off the tightrope, and you just need to learn how to stay upright without it. You can. When you get it back, when it’s in your hands again, she’ll understand.

She has to understand that only you know what’s good for you.

Simon places the rest of your things on his desk. A couple personal things, like your jewelry and some knickknacks, and then your bag with the rest of your clothes to be folded and put away. You take a seat on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. At least before, you could pretend like things were still a little normal. You could pretend that in your own room, you were simply waiting for another assignment, that you were just waiting for Kate to give you a call and move you somewhere new, somewhere safer.

“Am I just supposed to stay here and wait for you?” You ask finally. Simon shuffles around the room. He doesn’t look at you; instead, he takes a seat at a desk way too small for him and spreads a few papers around, frowning when he reads something that he doesn’t like. “Is that…is that my job?”

“Dunno.” Simon takes his phone out of his pocket, and he starts typing. “Don’t really feel like babysittin’.”

“I can take care of myself, you know,” you tell him. “I…I have combat experience. I was in training before this.”

Simon snorts, still focused on his phone. He shakes his head a little.

“Cute,” he mutters. “Tha’s cute.”

Patronizing shit.

“I bet I can shoot a target ten times better than you,” you spit at him. His fingers hover over the screen for just a moment, irritated, before he goes back to typing. “And I can hold my own. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Simon puts his phone back into his pocket. He crosses his arms over his chest, letting out a deep breath before coming over to stand in front of you. You tip your head back, and he reaches down with a hand to cup under your jaw, holding you there. Just like that–your omega has you. You lean in, just that much. Simon sees it in your eyes, and he sniffs, looking you over.

Maybe he thinks you’re pathetic. In some sense, you agree with him, because what the fuck is wrong with me? You get one look into Simon’s eyes, and something chemical in you fires. You bend, and you relax, and you know if he asked you to open your mouth so he could spit in it, it would take a tremendous amount of effort to tell him no. It angers you and excites you all the same, and the conflicting flashes under your ribs bring tears to your eyes.

You hate yourself. You hate yourself for not being able to say no. You hate yourself for being everything they said you would be. You hate yourself for being nothing like you thought you were.

You’re soft. Sweet. All bark, no bite, a spiteful kitten that deep down, aims to please. The only thing that really baffles you, though, is why you only feel this way with Simon.

Is it because they told you that you were his mate? Is it because he’s done something, that he’s projecting some kind of scent? Has he already unknowingly changed your very makeup so your body knows that you are bound to him? When you look into John’s eyes, you see alpha. You see big, salivating dog, and if you could, you’d rip the hairs of his beard out just to see him in pain.

But Simon–it’s like you can’t move. Every time you look at him, and he looks at you, he holds you there. Just like now, he’s got you, and you feel like he can read everything you’re feeling. He’s being fed your secrets, and you hate him for it, but I can’t look away, please look away, please don’t make me–

“Need to get you somethin’ to eat,” Simon says finally. “And it’s time to meet the rest of the lot.”

Simon is starting to get used to keeping a hand on you. It annoys you a little, to feel his hand at your back, but the annoyance dissolves when you realize this base is filled with sneering alphas. They holler and yell, and they are very large and angry, but they still are small compared to Simon. They quiet whenever they walk past you, and even the whiff of omega doesn’t deter them with Simon behind you.

In the mess hall, you see Captain Price sitting at a table with two others. When you get closer to the table, you cough a little, stumbling back, and Simon catches you around the waist to hold you upright. The stench of alphas hits you like a truck, and Simon grunts as he tells you relax, fuckin’ hell.

You give him a hard stare–how the fuck would he know? There’s four alphas in your close vicinity, and they’re all puffing their chests and smiling, and it stings to smell them all at once. You turn your head a little to shield yourself, and when you filter everything else out but Simon, it frustrates you a little how much of him seems to calm you down.

Smells so good. Get closer. Press your nose to it, I-I want more–

“I see you two are getting along nicely,” John comments, leaning back in his chair. You roll your eyes a little, and when you lock eyes with him, you purse your lips and try to look anything but pleased. Simon guides you to sit down; he motions to the bench, just to the left of where someone else is already sitting–a big, burly soldier with crazy blue eyes. He has a terrible haircut, short along the sides with tufts of curls falling down the middle and over his forehead. He’s wiggling his eyebrows at his lieutenant behind you. Across from him, there’s another alpha with dark eyes and soft skin, and he’s smiling like an idiot around the rim of his plastic cup. You’re a little nervous–you had spent most of your time on your old base surrounded by betas who barely gave you a glance, and now you’re off your meds and being hit with a million different sensations everywhere you go. Simon’s touch on your back eases your shoulders a little.

“Tha’s Johnny,” Simon points to the one next to you. “Tha’s Gaz. ‘n I’m sure ya had the pleasure of our Captain.”

“Yeah, looks like your beard is still in tact, so glad to see it,” you say curtly, crossing your arms over your chest. The two sergeants laugh, ducking their heads, and John raises a brow before looking at Simon with a clenched jaw. Simon just shrugs, stretching his arm out on the back of your chair, and you get the feeling this happens often–John giving Simon that look, and Simon merely brushing it off. You smile to yourself a little, looking at Simon from over your shoulder. When you meet eyes, he stares back, looking over your face. He lingers on your lips for just a second too long before looking back up again.

I bet he tastes good under that mask. Let’s find out.

“Hungry?” He asks, and you blink. Your omega has never been inside of your head like this. You nearly opened your mouth and asked him for it, asked him please, please–let me taste, I won’t look, just let me taste you. You swallow her down a little, and you just nod to keep yourself moving. Simon stands up to make his way towards where the food is, and you watch curiously as instead of standing in line, he pushes open a door into the kitchen and disappears behind it.

“LT’s been gettin’ ye special meals,” Johnny says with a full mouth. You frown a little, and not just cause he’s chewing with his mouth a little too open.

“What do you mean?”

“He has the cooks make you somethin’ special,” Gaz says as he takes a sip of water. He leans back, smiling again, and it irks you a little. Alphas are brutes, disgusting big things with too many hormones, and you hate that this one gets to be pretty, too. Not that John or his sergeant aren’t attractive, but this one definitely enjoys a good mirror selfie, and it shows. “Something not on the menu. He didn’t like that you weren’t eating much, at the beginning. Made a fuss, and now he gets you better food.”

“He can do that?”

“Well, would ye say no to tha’ big man?” Johnny snorts, dipping his crusty bread in sauce. You look back towards the door, and Simon comes out holding a tray. He sets it down in front of you, and you bite your lip looking down at it. It smells so good, and you pick up your fork gently, sticking it into the pasta and twirling it. When you take a bite and sigh, Simon takes a seat next to you, and you can barely hear the sweet rumble in his chest of satisfaction.

Providing for you. Taking care of you. He’s so capable, isn’t he? Look at what he does for you.

If Simon notices you scoot closer to him, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t react either–it wasn’t a conscious choice.

Simon’s shower has hot water. Not that the showers you’d had were cold, but the communal showers were just that–communal. Shared, and although your escort always made sure you were the only one in there while you showered, it was still feeding off a water heater that always had barely any juice left. Lukewarm showers, so you tried to finish quick.

Simon’s shower turns the water scalding. You giggle with relief when you stand under it, letting it loosen your sore muscles and relieve your aching bones. It feels good, and you take a little longer in there, taking your time and enjoying the heat.

When it’s time to wash your body, you realize you’re missing your own soap. You look around for something else, noticing the unlabeled bottle that rests on a ledge. You squirt a pump of it into your palms, and when you raise it to your nose, your eyes flutter shut.

It’s the eucalyptus you smelled on Simon. A little plastic aftersmell, which you know is from whatever backwater dollar store the military buys it from, but on Simon, it smells so good. You lather it in your hands and hold it up to your nose, and you sigh deeply.

He’s just outside. Why don’t you call for him? I bet he’s listening. I bet he’s waiting for us.

You slide your hands down your arms. With the heat of the water, the whole bathroom starts to smell like it, and you let your hands slide down further, over your waist, between your thighs. When your fingers touch your puffy clit, you’re nearly jolted back into reality.

“Fuck–” You gasp, reaching for the level, shutting the water off. The last of the water curls down the drain, and you cough as you look around. You curl your toes, grounding yourself, and then you get out of the shower and reach for the towel. When you look into the mirror, your pupils are blown wide, and you feel like you don’t recognize yourself. You drop the towel and dress yourself, trying to keep your mind occupied with menial tasks.

Get your shit together.

When you open the bathroom door, Simon is back from his little errand he had run. He’s carrying a few blankets and a thick comforter, and there’s a few new pillows on the bed with it. You use the towel to keep drying the wet strands of your hair, and Simon turns around when he hears you walk in further.

You pass by him wordlessly as you reach the bed. You put your hands on the blankets that he put down, and you close your eyes when you feel how soft they are. Threaded cotton and fleece, lots of thick feathers in the comforter to make it nice and fluffy. When you turn to look over your shoulder, Simon does a terrible job of pretending like he wasn’t just staring at your ass in the little sleep shorts you’re wearing. You want to snap at him, but your omega pinches your tongue.

Take them off. Take them off. Take them off.

“So, what…” You clear your throat. “How are we supposed to sleep in that bed? T-Together?”

Simon tilts his head to the side. You start to despise the mask. You hate that you can’t tell what he’s thinking, not even a little, and after the rather joyous conversations you’ve had with Simon (barf), you can’t say you’re entirely excited to be in this close of a space with him.

“Don’t worry,” Simon murmurs. “I’ll be good.”

Oh, that totally makes you feel better.

Prick.

He makes you get into bed and turn facing the wall as he turns out the lights. He pulls at the edge of his mask uncomfortably, and you realize he doesn’t want you to see his fine. Fine, you think to yourself, throwing the sheets back with a huff, bet you’re fucking ugly mug would blind me anyways.

You cuddle under all the blankets, snuggling into the new pillow that sinks under your head. You hum gently, closing your eyes, and you aren’t able to see Simon rubbing his chest warmly as he watches you. He sucks on his teeth, not truly understanding what he feels, but knowing that it’s soothing the beast in him to take care of you.

It rattles him. Simon isn’t used to this. He’s not used to feeling like he doesn’t have control. He resisted this for so long. He tried so hard to fight, he said no to Kate over and over and over again.

Omegas to Simon were liabilities. To care was to have a target on your back. To be mated meant having something to lose.

Ask Price, is what he told her, ask the fuckin’ sergeants, anyone but me, but she wouldn’t hear it. It had to be him, it had to be, and then she locked him into a room with her, and she leveled with him.

She told him that you are special. That you are precious. That omegas like you don’t exist, that you are one in a single generation, and there isn’t anyone else in the world that will do except for him.

Price, married to the field. The sergeants, immature and might as well be titled barracks bunnies. But Simon–purebred, quiet, controlled. Terrified of himself and what he is. His unofficial pack that he defends with his entire being, that is the only alpha worth giving to you.

Kate had thought about it before. What it might be like to push the hair away from your neck and sink her teeth there. As easy as putting her signature to paper, she could have the CIA running laps to keep you protected, but she knew that wasn’t the life for her. It couldn’t be.

In every situation, Kate would have to choose that lesser evil, and in her world, it would mean her choice would unlikely be you.

Simon? Simon answered to no one. Unlike his sergeants, he cared little for authority; he wouldn’t blink twice saying no to his superior. Unlike his Captain, Simon didn’t mind choosing the bloody way out. He was the first with his finger on the trigger, and the last to sweep a room. Kate knew–if Simon had to choose between the greater good and the omega he claimed?

Fuck the greater good. That, she could count on.

If Kate only asked for one thing, it would be this. She did promise you. She promised she would keep you away from it all. She promised that she would make things right. She promised that she would protect you, but even Kate answers to others, and the reality of this kind of world is that the only way to really protect you was to give you away.

To put you into the same world that you had only begged to be kept away from.

Nobody likes playing matchmaker, but maybe putting together the most stubborn and angry people in the world might save you from yourselves. At least she hoped so.

You’re nearly asleep when you feel Simon come to bed. All the lights are off, and it’s pitch black in the room. There’s some shuffling around the room, and then you feel the blankets move. All of the sudden, a heat stronger than you’ve ever felt takes up the entire bed. Pressed against your back, a solid chest, and then a huge arm falls over your waist.

“We cuddling now?” You mumble sleepily, and Simon breathes out slowly, not responding. When you fall asleep, it’s unnervingly easy. Your omega purrs, digging her nails into you, and when you turn your head in the dark and feel the brush of his unmasked face against yours, she preens.

He’s right there–just a little taste. Just a little. Please, please, please–

Omegas cannot claim, but they can bite. It takes everything inside of you not to sink your teeth into him.

“You smell that? Smells like fuckin’ sweets, mates.”

You take off your headphones and safety glasses, looking over your shoulder. There’s a few recruits a few lanes down from you, wiggling their eyebrows and licking their lips. One of them crudely grabs his crotch, winking at you. You make a face.

Gross.

“Let me see you, baby. Smell so good.”

You holster the gun you’re holding, leaning against the counter with your hip. You raise a brow, tilting your head to the side.

“Are you done?” You ask, and they take that as their cue to start walking closer. An invitation.

They don’t get very far. You smell him before you see him. On instinct, your shoulders relax with that whiff of charcoal. You push off the counter just in time for him to come up behind you, and you feel the heat of his chest as it presses against your back. The recruits in front of you stop immediately, and you feel a disgusting sense of satisfaction when Simon bends over your shoulder to look at you.

“‘n wot’s this?” Simon growls. You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I don’t know. They wanna have a dick-measuring contest, but I think they’re afraid they’re gonna lose,” you say. You let out an annoyed sigh, turning again to put your safety glasses on. You put the headphones back over your ears and take the gun out of your holster, turning the safety off as you line it up with the paper targets near the back of the course. “You know. Cause my dick is way bigger.”

You unload the clip just for fun. You’re supposed to be practicing on accuracy, which for you meant slower, spaced-out shots to try and hit the same spot over and over, but the sound of the gun going off again and again helps distract you from the laughing, untrained dogs that are littered across the shooting range.

When you put the gun down after emptying the magazine, Simon is salivating. The paper target head is obliterated, each bullet almost next to its last. When you turn around, Simon tilts his head to the side. You holster the gun, starting to walk, and Simon lets his eyes drop to the sway of your hips as you pass by him. It’s not a conscious decision, the way his fingers curl into fists and squeeze hard.

“Told you,” you say to him. “Huge dick, right, baby?”

Something flares in Simon’s chest when he hears it. Like a switch, his legs start moving, following you, and when he passes by a recruit that is standing much too close to you, Simon shoves the recruit back so hard, they smack their nose against the wall and curses from the impact, blood dripping under their bruised nose.

The rest of the day, you don’t see another rookie walk even five feet into your vicinity. Even without a mark on your neck, you are claimed, and right before you leave your room for dinner, Simon is fitting a dark hoodie over your head. The smell overwhelms you. It’s soaked in his scent, and you turn to face him, looking at him suspiciously. Your omega keeps you from questioning him. She wants you to start walking, because she knows he’ll touch you when you do.

It’s that night that Simon asks John for you to join them. All Simon does is slide the shredded paper target across his desk. John picks it up, tacking it onto the wall. He chuckles, shaking his head. It’s an impressive piece of paper, but being a good shot isn’t the only reason someone is cleared to work with them. Even besides that, it’s forbidden.

“Omegas aren’t allowed in the field, Simon,” John reminds him. “You know that.”

“Think tha’s why we should take her,” Simon mutters. “She’s a distraction. A good one.”

“A weapon,” John frowns. He can already hear Kate screaming into his ear if she ever saw you geared up between them on an op.

“A tool.”

“And what does she think of that, eh?” John slips his hat off, tossing it onto his desk. He sighs, running a hand over his beard, and he shakes his head. “And Kate��Kate would hang my fuckin’ head.”

“Not Kate’s responsibility anymore, she’s mine,” Simon bites back. He knows it’s wrong. In all honesty, the sentiment tasted bad from the moment he said it to you, but it is easier to let you believe that he’s using you then try and make you understand him. You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t get his reasons, and that’s fine, so if he has to be the bad guy, so be it.

The least he could do is make himself useful. Put your skills to work, poke your mind. See what you can really do.

“Don’t let your girl hear you talkin’ like that, Simon,” John says lowly. “Not her, and certainly not Kate.”

“But you agree,” Simon continues, chuckling lowly. “I speak for her. ‘n I think she’d be right in on it, Captain. Wot else is she to do, eh? Sit in my fuckin’ quarters and wait f’me? Wot kind of life is tha’? She needs this. She’s good. I can teach ‘er. She’ll learn. Well and good she will, I know it.”

John sniffs, running a big hand over his short hair before tapping a pen over the target paper on the wall.

“I need her OK,” John relents finally. “I need to hear it from her. I get that, I’m alright with it. But she has to know what she’s getting into, Simon. And no one but you is responsible for her. If she gets into something, I’m not gonna risk Soap or Gaz for it–”

“I know,” Simon mutters. “She’ll be my shadow. I’ll teach ‘er.”

She’ll be good. She’ll be good because she’s mine.

“Bravo-7, sitrep.”

“Eyes on target. Waiting on confirmation.” Simon looks over his shoulder for a moment, where you’re sitting as his cover. You look cute, he thinks. All geared up. He lets his eyes sweep over the cargo pants that are cinched around your waist. Your nice curves. Thick thighs. Fuck, you smell good, even with all the sand up his nose and the smoke clinging to his mask. You have your rifle tucked into your elbow, and you’ve got it aimed towards the door of the roof.

“Is it always so fucking hot?” You ask, running your wrist over your lip. You’re sweating; you can feel it dripping down the back of your neck and along your back. You’re wearing a lot of gear, but you’ve done this before, and you don’t remember it being so uncomfortable. It must be the climate–you’re not used to this kind of desert, and you need to get it together.

Despite the irritation you feel every time you look at Simon, your omega wants to please him. She wants to show him she can do this, that she’s capable, and you’re starting to not like that she’s behaving as if you and her are one and the same.

I’m in control. Shut the fuck up. Let me focus.

“Just watch the door,” Simon mutters, turning back to focus. He adjusts the scope of his rifle, taking a deep breath as he leans into the stock. He gets his target into his line of sight, and he narrows his eye a little more to watch the group more closely on the ground. It’s hard to ignore you. Normally, the person covering him goes almost unnoticed. Their scent never affects him, not enough to make him look away from his scope, but there’s something in the air way too close to him, and he scrunches his nose a little as he adjusts his position on the ground. “You stink, by the way.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap. “Not my fault.”

“Certainly is y’r fault.”

“You reek, too, you ass,” you mumble, wiping your forehead again. You adjust how you’re sitting, clearing your throat. It’s scratchy, and you’re starting to itch a little all over, too. “Like wet dog.”

Simon smiles under his mask. He keeps his index finger next to the trigger, and you keep yours on it.

“How much longer do we have to do this? I mean…I thought you were SAS. Don’t you guys…get your hands real dirty? I mean, don’t you go tearing doors down? Get a lot of action? I mean, we’re just sitting ducks on a roof here right now.”

“Wot, you wanna go kick some doors down now?” Simon asks. He shakes his head. “The real job is boring. We do things nice and clean, we only get dirty when we ‘ave to. If I can get a target from 1000 yards away, then tha’s wot I’ll do. Besides. This is wot I’m good at.”

“Yeah, you look real good there on your knees, honey.”

Simon blinks hard when something strong hits his nose. It stings, makes his eyes water. He coughs a little, dropping his head for a moment.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Simon hisses. “Wot the fuck is wrong with ya?”

“I-I don’t know,” you whisper. You take your hand off your rifle for a moment to adjust the collar of your shirt, but it doesn’t help. You shift a little, loosening your tactical vest. You want to take it off, but you know that’s a bad idea out here. It’s hard to think clearly, though, when your brain is cloudy and you’re starting to see things in double every so often. “It’s…it’s too hot.”

Simon huffs, “‘n when was the last time you had a heat?”

“I’ve…I’ve never.” You clear your throat. “I’ve never had one.”

Can you smell him? I can smell him. He smells so good.

Simon nearly leaves his post. He grips his rifle tight, gloved hands squeezing the metal, and he turns to look at you incredulously.

“Fuckin’ repeat tha’?”

“I know you’re blind and dumb, but don’t tell me you’re fucking deaf, too,” you mumble. You swallow, wiping your face again, and Simon presses on the radio on his shoulder.

“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, how long do we got?”

“Just observation on target for now. Why?”

“Need 10 minutes.”

Simon shuts off the radio. You blink, starting to see double pretty consistently now, and you take a shaky breath as you grip your rifle a little tighter. You hear shuffling behind you, and you look back to see Simon moving from his position.

“What are you doing? Simon–”

“Get over ‘ere.” Simon sets his rifle down. “Tha’ wasn’t a fuckin’ suggestion, tha’ was an order!”

There’s something different in his voice at the end. Something more animal that lilts his drawl, and it makes you coherent enough to start moving–like his voice made all the fog clear up for just a few moments, long enough for you to realize you need him.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

You put your rifle down, crawling over to him, and just as you stumble, Simon catches you. You put your hands on his shoulders, falling into his lap, and he hoists you up until you’re straddling him. You feel him starting to tug on your cargos, and even in your daze, you squeeze his shoulders.

“S-Simon? What are you…What are you doing?”

“Y’r gonna go into heat soon,” Simon mutters. Alarm bells go off in your head, and you dig your nails into his shoulders. He can see it clearly–the panic on your face.

“H-Heat? R-Right now?”

“Not right now,” Simon clicks his tongue. “More like a��pre-heat. Get y’r bloody pants off–”

When Simon tugs your cargos down enough, you gasp when you see the mess your panties are in. They’re soaked, drenched until the cotton is a darker color, sticking to your cunt, and you whimper as Simon tugs you back into his lap with your pants around your ankles. It’s awkward and messy, and you’re sweating bullets, hot and bothered, and your chest feels tight. There’s nothing romantic about it, nothing sweet about the way Simon turns you in his lap. It’s hurried, but you’re just as desperate, clawing to whatever piece of him you can touch and trying to sink into him. If you could, you’d pry him open and force yourself to tuck yourself inside of him. You want to live there forever. You want to be in his skin, soaking it all in–you want it. You want this, don’t you?

He’s touching us! He’s touching us! Let him in!

“W-What’s happening t-to me?”

“‘s olright,” Simon whispers in your ear. “I’ve got ya. There we are…” He cups your pussy, making you squirm. You jolt in his lap, throwing your head back against his shoulder, and he hums as you sink into his touch. Something inside you curls and lights on fire. Your vision blurs, and his scent surrounds you. “Oh…fuck…tha’ wot ya needed, swee’eart? Yeah…”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

“Simon–” Your back arches, and you push your hips into his hand. When he touches your clit, your omega seizes inside your head, and it’s a feeling like you’ve never felt before.

She takes the reigns; and God, does she fucking pull.

You palm at the zipper of his pants. There’s something there, something you want–and you need it. There’s something in your chest that blinds you, that familiar voice in your head that chants–take it out, take it out, take it out.

“‘m workin’ on it, love,” you hear from behind, and you realize you’re talking. You’re out of your body, you think. You’re not yourself. When you feel him in your daze, big and throbbing under your hand, you whine. It comes from deep within your chest, a bubble of nonsense, and Simon coos. He drags your hips closer, and his cock slips under you, between your folds, and you use your palm to keep him pressed to you. You can’t see him, but you felt him when you first met him, and you’re feeling him now.

If there was any doubt that he was anything but an alpha, that thought disappears when his fat tip kisses your clit. He’s hot and throbbing under your hand, and he is more than enough to appease the voice in your head that’s screaming for some kind of inherent relief that it knows he can give.

“Simon, I need it–I need it–”

“I know, love.”

Fuck, Simon would win any dick-measuring contest, you think. Barely the tip of him, and you’re baring your teeth, gripping his thighs and digging your nails into him as you try and breathe through the stretch. He’s not even fully hard yet; the blood is rushing to his cock, and you moan and cry as he sits you down further and further and further–

“What the fuck–what is it you have in your fucking pants, a-a fucking pipe–?!”

“Y’r so much prettier when y’r mouth ain’t runnin’,” Simon mutters. “Ahh–fuck–’s mine, oll mine–”

You put your hands on his knees and throw it back. You’re feral, brain foggy, and all you can think about is getting yourself off. Your body clings to Simon like a thick, curling vice, pussy clamping around him and taking him to the root. You’re dripping down your thighs, wetting his cargos, and you’re thankful that he’s wearing black, otherwise you can’t think about the mess you’d really be leaving on him. The sounds are lewd. Frantic smack, smack, smack against his thick thighs, and the sound is only making you drool for more. He’s so big. He’s hitting you deep, and you swear your insides have never been stretched this far, but it’s like your body is molding itself to fit him. Like you’re making room for him.

It’s so good. It feels right. Your omega growls like an animal, crying with relief. It’s the only thing she’s ever wanted, and she has it in her hands, and she licks at your scent gland until it practically vibrates. Simon’s face is pressed to it, like he can hear her calling. His mask is the only thing separating you, but you can feel his teeth straining against the fabric. They cut over the gland, wet like his tongue is poking against it, too, and your omega screams.

Bite me, bite me, bite me.

“Not yet,” Simon grunts. “Won’t take.”

“You’ll make it take.”

He laughs, and then he punches the air out of you with a nice thrust. Then he’s on you. Suddenly, you’re on your knees, your tummy against the sandy rooftop, with a stallion of a soldier on top of you, taking you like his last meal.

He sounds like more bear than man. Growling, spitting, both hands on either side of your head as he fucks you into the floor. There’s a smile on your face, soft relief that leaves you in your pretty moans and gurgled pleas. It feels so good. The tip of his cock curves and hits against the same place each time, sending pulses that rack your body over and over and over again. Your thighs are shaking, and then Simon slips one hand under you and cups your pussy, fitting it just right until you can grind down on his palm in perfect timing with the way the fat tip of him hits you just well enough. It should hurt. You’ve never taken anything so big–of course you’ve practiced, but nothing can prepare you for the real thing.

This is still practice. You’re not in your heat, not really, and Simon hasn’t lost his fucking mind yet.

Like a fiend, you chase it. The stars, the mountain to climb, the beautiful end. You get up a little more onto your knees and you wrap a hand around his neck, force him against your jaw. You goad him on with pretty words, soft moans–that’s it, right there, please.

It’s not his first time. It’s not his first time relieving an itch he can’t scratch, and it’s not his first time taking an omega by the neck and pounding into her until she can’t speak, but it’s the first time his resolve shatters.

He wants to bite. He’s never felt the urge to bite. If it wasn’t for the mask, his teeth would be an inch deep in your neck, and he’d be memorizing what your blood tasted like for the first time. Your scent is just that much off that he knows it isn’t the right time, but fuck–the need is there. It’s clear.

Special. One of a kind. No one like her. Soft. Sweet. Mine.

His knot swells a little, but it doesn’t lock. You’re not in a proper heat, so it’s not right just yet, but you can feel the edge of it, like the preface to a glorious poem. Thick and spongy, hot, and when he comes, your eyes roll back in your head. It feels like being thirsty for days on end and finally getting that sweet drink of crystal clear water. He pumps you full, creamy and thick and dribbling between your thighs as you squeeze them together. Subconsciously, you’re trying to keep it inside, and Simon groans when as he latches his mouth over your scent gland under the mask and sucks–so hard, it pinches you just right.

The stars align. The tide wanes. You mumble softly, dopey smile on your face, and when your own high hits you, and you’re squirting into his hand, you let his rumbling, low voice pull you back to earth.

“I ‘ave ya, swee’eart,” he says. “Shhh…easy, kitty…Shh…yeah, easy.”

You sigh with relief. Simon handles you with ease. He picks you up, gets you to sit back on your heels. You don’t see it, but Simon fits his wet fingers under the mask, and you keen when you hear him suck on his fingers and hum.

He likes us. Hear that? He likes us.

“Want you to eat me,” you giggle suddenly, and Simon wipes you down, picking your pants back up and zipping them. He pats your ass gently, smoothing a hand over the back of your neck. He knows you’re still in a different headspace. He knows there’s still something else drawing your breath, but he’s trying not to think about it too much. It sounds so much like you.

“Do plenty o’tha’ when we’re in the thick o’it, kitty.”

Back in the humvee, Johnny is smiling like an idiot. He’s sitting next to Kyle, hitting him with his elbow as he wiggles his eyebrows at you and Simon sitting across from them. You tilt your head to the side, glaring.

“What?” You snap, and Johnny cackles. His eyes are flashing, and he reeks like happiness.

“Smells like ye had fun.”

“My gun is loaded, shithead,” you warn him. “And I know how the fucking safety works.”

When Johnny moves to sit in the front near your captain, you try not to think about the sudden warmth over your knee, and the squeeze of Simon’s hand on you.

NEXT

[vxnuslogy]

— lost to time ft. sae itoshi

— warnings: angst, character death, slight ooc?

— author's note: a reupload of my favorite work on sae while i finish editing the next 2 chapters of my hazbin series. enjoy!

— first recording

“hi sae! i heard from rin that you’ll be leaving for spain. i’m really sorry i couldn’t come to see you off, i’ve been busy studying, you know, for exams and stuff. but that’s beside the point! i wish you all the best sae! do your best and when you come back home, you better be the world’s best striker yeah? don’t worry, everything will pass by quickly so don’t miss me too much ok?”

sae hated planes. he hated them quite a lot. in was a constant reminder of that time when he was only 14, leaving home to go to spain to live out his dreams only for it to be crushed 4 years later. sae hated the airport, it was always so busy and so stuffy and so cramped. he hated the feeling of being surrounded by unfamiliar strangers, hated the feeling of people brushing up against him even if they didn’t really mean it. sae hated winter. it was the season he severed his bond with his precious little brother after all. it was the season he turned his back on him and it was the season he had wished to never relive again.

-

— second recording

“hey hey guess who’s sending you another voice message? it’s me obviously, why didn’t you tell me you were back already?! if you did i would’ve picked you up from the airport!

……

is something the matter sae? you haven’t picked up any of your parents’ calls and their really worried about you. you can always talk to me remember? i’ll always be here to listen, ok? don’t bottle everything up, it’ll do more bad than good. well, i have to go now. talk with your parents every once in a while will you? ever since you left for spain you’ve pretty much cut off all contact, even with me. that’s all, good night sae.”

sae didn’t really like flowers. he thought they were a hassle. plants that require specific needs and if not met, they’ll wilt. sae was never fond of them but here he was, standing in front of the counter of a local flower shop as the elderly shopkeeper wrapped a bouquet – filled with carnations, gardenias, lilies, roses, and chrysanthemums. 

everything passes.

— college; third recordings

“i got into my dream college sae! can you believe that! honestly, i was really nervous when i took the entrance exams, but thankfully i studied real hard and managed to pass! i’ll be moving into the dorms soon. i’m gonna miss home. oh and rin! i heard he got into a soccer program recently, isn’t that nice! he’s following your footsteps in becoming the best striker in the world. i know, i know, you aren’t a striker anymore but it’s still nice to know that you’re still into soccer at least. by the way, when will you come back home? i kind of miss you, you know. i never got to see you off and when you did come back i was out of town and really busy. what about we plan a meetup or something in the near future? you know, make up for the times we lost? oh, i have to go now! my parents are helping me move in to my dorm. catch you later sae!”

sae didn’t really like coming home. the house he grew up in for the first 14 years of his life felt too foreign to be called home anymore. his parents felt like distant strangers that he just met a couple weeks ago – they felt more like acquaintances than his mother and father. the photos framed around his home felt like ancient relics from thousands of years ago, he didn’t recognize them. sae didn’t recognize himself. 

maybe he spent too much time in spain to the point where it felt more like home. how ironic, he began to realize. he had flown back to japan to escape from his hell that was spain but here he was, in his home, in the bedroom he used to sleep in for endless nights, wanting to go back to the place that left his heart hollow.

“there’s nothing else i could do.” he tried to convince himself as he sat down on his childhood bed, the bouquet of flowers at his side. he could only sigh and let himself fall back into the bed of his long gone home. “everything passes.”

“hey hey hey it’s me again! how have you been sae? i’d like to think that i’ve adjusted pretty well in college. made a few new friends and met some old ones. honestly, i almost didn’t recognize them! i mean, do you remember makoto from middle school. he was a such a problem child back then and now look at him! he’s a scholar now! i guess everyone just starts to become more mature after hitting 18, who knows. thank you again, for the gift. i was definitely shocked when my roommate told me i had a package from you. i can’t believe you still remember that i wanted ‘no longer human’! thank you, i’ll be sure to treasure it. well, that’s all for today. call you some other time sae!”

everything passes.

-

— drunk recordings; the words i wish i could’ve told you sooner

“how do you work this again? ah got it! hehe, hi again sae! i’m at a party right now, man maybe you were right, i do have shit alcohol tolerance. but it’s fine. don’t worry, i’m already on my way home and the driver isn’t some creepy dude that might kill me.

……

you know, i like you very much but i don’t think you’ll believe me. i know i jokingly said that we should marry each other if we aren’t dating someone if we hit our 30s, but i kinda wanna marry you even if we aren’t 30 yet. is that weird? i really miss you. please come home.”

……

“hello? god that was so embarrassing… sorry, could you just forget about what i said in the last recording? um just, gosh i don’t even know. denying it won’t really help right haha… it’s in the past now so don’t mull over too much ok? please, just disregard that last recording. i’m really sorry, it was just me being drunk.”

sae did not in fact disregard that recording. in fact, sometimes in the dead of night he’d think about it and wonder, if he had replied to that specific recording would things have ended differently? 

sae didn’t like deep and evoking questions about ‘what if’s’, he finds them annoying most of the time. and yet here he was now entertaining the idea. bouquet in hand as he casually walked around the neighborhood that the both of you had grew up in. the same twists and turns, same houses, same playground, same everything.

yet the silence was too loud, even for him.

everything passes.

-

— graduation recordings

“well, i think it’s safe to say i survived. i graduated sae, are you proud? man i still can’t believe i was a few point from getting the valedictorian spot but oh well. alls well that ends well i suppose. i heard you won your recent match congratulations mr best midfielder! kinda wish i was there to see it, but don’t worry! in your next match i’ll definitely save up enough money and buy those tickets to spain and your match one day! just you wait, i’ll be the screaming my lungs out and support you, i’m still your number one fan after all!”

sae had some feelings of dissatisfaction when you did not in fact get those tickets to spain and his match. maybe it was his wishful thinking but he really did wish you were there. but he knew it was impossible. 

he remembered the feeling of anger and frustration running through his veins, cursing the heavens above because he felt the need to show the gods his emotions. sae hated thinking about you in that moment. he hated how he felt like he was in a new version of hell whenever you just happened to cross his mind. sae hated you very much.

everything passes.

-

— recordings from 2 years ago

“i’m sorry. i know you should’ve heard it from me but i guess my family beat me to it haha. to be perfectly honest with you sae, i had no plans of telling you. i’m sorry. its just, the thought of breaking the news to you. how could i ever do that to you? i’m sorry. god i’m so sorry sae.”

……

“hey. i received the gift you sent me. you didn’t have to , you know. now i kinda feel bad about having you go on break in the middle of soccer season because of me. but still, thank you. i appreciated you being here, with me. it was a refreshing feeling, talking to you again and just hanging out. work has been really stuffy and felt like i was being caged but you came. you suddenly appeared and suddenly everything was alright again. i know we only said goodbye a couple minutes ago but, i miss you already. sorry. this sounds really weird doesn’t it? anyways, thank you again for the gift. i’ll be sure to wear it everyday. that’s all, have a good night sae.”

……

“hey. sorry for calling at such an odd time. i just. i just felt a little lonely. i sound so stupid i’m sorry. good night sae.”

……

“makoto dropped by today. god he was as annoying as ever but he really cheered me up. he managed to confess to this girl he’s pining over since sophomore year. i’m happy for him. but it really got me thinking about us. i know i told you to forget about that one recording because i was drunk but now that i look back on it, i wasn’t really honest. to you and myself. i know this may be the worst timing to confess but yeah, i like you very much. since primary school, as cliche as it may sound i think it all started when you stood up for me from those bullies. now that i think about, i practically glued myself to your side ever since that day didn’t i? i’m glad you didn’t really mind that. i remember always using homework as an excuse to always have you hang out with me even though i completely understood the lesson. man, where did i get the confidence to do that stuff? but i guess those times are lost in the sands of the past i guess. oh right, sorry, i forgot you didn’t really like those type of stuff. getting all deep and whatnot. well that’s all, i’m getting pretty tired already so i’ll head to bed. good night sae.”

everything passes.

-

— present

“hi. thank you by the way. i don’t know, i just don’t think i’ve ever said that you recently. so, thank you. its a bit funny isn’t it? i would almost always talk your ear off every recording but this time, i can’t even find the words to say. my parents came over, talked to them a bit. rin visited as well. he’s gotten a lot taller than i last saw him, he’s probably taller than you now!

……

sae, thank you. for everything. i’m glad we stayed in touch. i’m glad we stayed as friends.  thank you for making my days seem just a tad bit brighter, though sometimes i wonder what it would be like if we were, you know, dating. wonder what the difference would be. i mean we’d still talk to each other right? maybe holding hands and kisses but that’s pretty much it right? but thinking about it is useless right now. maybe in an alternate universe were actually married and adopted a cat like how we used to talk about.”

“you know, before this very moment. i accepted my fate already. i was content, i was doing fine but now. sae, i don’t want to die.”

“please remember me ok? and i’ll be sure to remember you. i’ll see you again, sae.”

“nii-chan..”

sae could only put his phone back in his pocket. his younger brother standing a good distance away from him. he could only imagine how rin looked like right now. was he pitying him, grieving with him? he’ll never know because he will never turn to look at him. not when your right in front of him.

how many times had he played all your recordings for the past 2 years? maybe a little over a 100 times? maybe close to 200 now?

sae removed all those thoughts as he placed the bouquet on the ground, the wind seemed to answer to his call – you seemed to answer to his call. despite all the pain, all the misery, all the bitter waves of grief that flooded his being whenever he played your recordings, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. he didn’t want to forget what you sounded like. your voice reminded him too much of home.

“happy birthday you idiot.” he said to you, keeping his hands in his pockets, watching the leaves of the flowers in the bouquet sway with the wind. two pieces of paper underneath it threatened to be blown away. “you said you wanted to come visit me and watch my match, well now you can.” two pieces of paper, one a plane ticket to spain the other a ticket to his upcoming match two weeks from now. “you better come watch me alright?” he could only bitterly smile. 

“you’re 30 now,” he whispered, before getting on one knee. placing a velvet box in front of your gravestone. “you should’ve waited for me, you idiot.” sae could only mutter those words to no one in particular. it was as if the world had stopped for a moment, the wind had stopped howling, the sun was nowhere to be seen. he could only see you. “i wanted to marry you too, y’know.”

sae could remember every occurrence where he would sit at his balcony in spain every night after your passing. phone to his ear, listening to all your recordings. but you’ll never know how he replies to them, every single one of them with his own. 

“i told the stars about you and what we could’ve had.” he chuckled, “you’re by far the hardest lesson i had to learn.”

standing up from his kneeling position, he gave you one last look before walking away. rin followed suit, but not before placing something at your grave. a pink book that you had loved till the very end. 

sae hated planes, but he flew back to japan every year. sae didn’t really like flowers, but every year he’d get you a pretty bouquet. sae didn’t like coming home but if it meant getting to visit you, he’d come back over and over again. sae didn’t like reading or any deep and evoking questions but he always humored you whenever you asked him.

sae hated all those things but they reminded him too much of you to let them go. 

and just like your favorite author, when osamu dazai asked to die, he simplu agreed; but just before his death, he suddenly felt obsession with life.

everything passes. just like how you’ll eventually get lost in the sands of time.

© vxnuslogy 2024. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

[the-90s-music-colosseum]

Quarterfinals, Match 2

expand to see all propaganda received! (wall of text warning oh my god this is a severe cautionary message)

Lauryn Hill:

"she paved the way and was hot as fuck the whole time"

"Girl c'mon. Look at her. You're gonna try and tell me that isn't the most beautiful and attractive person alive? Okay. You're lying but okay."

"if u freaks don't give ms. lauryn hill the respect she deserves..."

"actually one of the prettiest women ever I'm such a lesbian for her. like irl I'm already a lesbian but she is helping"

Damon Albarn:

"Don’t think Damon should be here? Why don’t you get your head checked by a jumbo jet? Maybe you’ll feel heavy metal and calm down."

"If Damon is in the “some guy” category, he’s the heavenly and heartbreaking version. Damon is the sort of significant stranger I’d see on the train out of Colchester but could never speak to, just a face seen in passing yet too radiant to be real. I’d fall in love for an hour and carry the ache for a month."

"Damon sets the standard for me. I think he’s the most fascinating man alive. What I find attractive in Damon is not just his gorgeous bone structure and boyish charm, but how wholly he’s committed himself to music. Damon is an artist who walked the walk: in one of his roughest years with some of his rawest songwriting, he said he was no longer excited by anything except the creative process. He was disillusioned with the celebrity of it all, with his relationships suffering for it, and only wanted to make art: nothing more, nothing less. He would go on to compose film scores, write operas and stage musicals, produce other artists’ records, form collectives to fulfill his passion for world music, and create some of the most globally successful music of his career in a completely innovative format that placed him as the phantom behind the characters. Whenever one band takes a break, he makes a solo record or puts together a supergroup to stay busy. He’s uniquely collaborative and still writes personal letters inviting artists to record with him, and yet can function as a one-man show, acting as a multi-instrumentalist, a singer-songwriter and a producer. He’s been a constant voice of bringing British music to the world *and* bringing world music into Britain. Sure, he’s won Brit Awards and a Grammy among others, but he also has a Guinness World Record and was named an Officer of the British Empire for his services to music; his long work with Africa Express earned him respect even from peers who’d previously dismissed him, and his commitment to support his Malian collaborators in the face of violence earned him the title of Local King in Mali. There is so much talent in the world, but there is truly no one else with a career that looks like Damon Albarn’s. Damon is far more than just a prettyboy to look nice on a magazine cover, but looks are the ultimate point of this tournament, so make no mistake: he was terribly, terribly pretty. You watch him performing in the 90s, you sift through photoshoots and interviews and documentaries, and it feels *cruel* how beautiful he was. If his talent was god-given, so was his face. To put a bow on this thesis: I don’t know if Gorillaz and Damon’s musical universe would be the experimental, globe-trotting, boundary-pushing community affair it is if Blur hadn’t become such a central figure in Britpop and if Damon had not been made such a media spectacle, and I don’t know if Damon would have been that spectacle if he wasn’t so ungodly pretty. The domino effect is that Damon’s cherubic face launched a thousand multimedia art school projects for decades to come."

"I wish I was basically any bloke in the 90s so I could tongue Damon Albarn down. Damon will see a man and ask “is anyone gonna kiss that?” and not wait for a response."

"I have a pillow with his face on it. I sleep with it every night 😊"

"“I’m more homosexual than Brett Anderson, always have been. As far as bisexuality goes, I’ve had a taste of that particular fruit, or have been tasted you might say…” is just the rawest most Shakespearean statement ever"

"he is the ultimate Pretty Boy ™. his glorious golden locks, his electric blue eyes. he is if Princess Diana was a Britpop Dude. he is the Regina George of Britpop. he is if Aphrodite took male form. Zeus would come down to earth to fuck him if he knew. he is a caffeinated orange cat let loose. he is deranged. he is unhinged. you never know what will come out of his mouth. he had sexual tension with every single man who knew him. he pulled justine fucking frischmann. his aura knows no bounds. he is a siren. he is a weird guy. but being so gorgeous stunning ethereal didn't stop him from also being one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation"

"THE MAIN BLUR"

"literally where do i even begin. i could write entire essays on this man. a good place to start would be the beetlebum music video, i suppose. i'll never forget the first time i watched that music video. something in me changed, my brain chemistry was altered, my life was never the same, i view the world a lot differently now. and a lot of the viewing i'm doing is of pictures of damon albarn's face because of boy do i have a lot of those saved. every time i try to look for a photo of something on my phone i can't find it because there's so much damon. okay that's maybe an exaggeration but this man has the most unfathomable beauty ever. his eyes? HIS EYES. god dammit i love his eyes i want to stare at them until the end of time like nothing else exists. i'm so normal about this man (lying) and while i'm usually very shameless about my interests i'm actually incredibly glad this propaganda is anonymous because otherwise. yeah. but the world deserves to see damon albarn's beauty and also hear his fantastic voice because what the fuck. his voice is literally the most gorgeous sound ever produced like bro sounds like that and expects me not to fall in love? i want this man to sing his silly songs and talk absolute nonsense to me until the sun eventually blows out and the world ends. cmon damon girlies let's demolish this tournament i know there are a lot of you."

"He’s beautiful. He’s a little rat. He’s a sweetheart. He’s a dickhead. He’s a musical genius. He’s a dumb bitch. He’s a jock. He’s a weirdo. He’s real. He’s an illusion. He’s everything. He’s just Damon."

"DAMON DAMON DAMON where do I begin oh jeez I've hyperfixated on this man for a solid 4 years and still going strong. Damon makes me wish that British people are real. That says A LOT. This man created a whole ass ANIMATED BAND WITH A SHIT TON OF LORE as a SIDE HUSTLE??? Not to mention, what other man has collaborated with Stevie Nicks, MF DOOM, Del the Funky Homosapien, Snoop Dogg, AND Beck?! People, we're literally in the presence of a god. And he's STILL GOING. Anyways, TL;DR, damon is so so so neat and cool and he should definitely win this competition. Thank you."

"Okay 90s Damon is The Perfect Boy yes yes, but the people who parrot the Daily Mail and say "he's ugly now" will never understand. I would still suck every drop from him on his deathbed."

"Vote for whoever you want to. But Damon is so pretty."

"i did not spend hours admiring this beautiful man's face on pinterest just to see him lose."

"Damon Albarn just brings me joy. When I'm watching him perform, following along as the camera lingers on and adores his pretty face, I get butterflies like I'm 15 again. It's nice to still feel that totally unguarded giddiness sometimes."

"God let the intrusive thoughts win making Damon. What if he's a beautiful blond twink with eyes like saucers and dick to his knees, he reads Herman Hesse and plays footie and is insufferable about both, he'll be the most prolific musician of his generation and write operas and seminal albums in 5 different genres and also he's gonna be the dumbest bitch alive? He'll also be kinda bi, but only kinda. And send."

"when i found out about his existence, my life was changed forever. i wish i could use him like the hannah montana boot milk pillow and chuck him at the wall so he makes a loud thud"

"Think of the drama and anon fights it'll cause if Damon wins it all! And think of how quiet it'll get after Damon's out. You'll miss him when he's gone, like memories of a noisy house years after it's grown silent. Choose Damon, and keep the messy train chugging."

"Even the Gallagher brothers have the hots for him."

"Kiss kiss I love him also you can't vote for any of the Seattle men they're literally copy and paste it's not fair. We need Brit representation"

"I want to take care of him, I want to provide for him. I need to gauge his baby blue puppy dog orbs out to I can clean them with wood varnish, paint shades of Pantone 320 C in his eyes, spray eau de parfume by dior in them and sew it back into his eyes like that scene in Toy Story 2."

"Seeing as simply filling the page with ‘Damon’ written 10000000 times isn’t going to cut it 😅 may I admit/submit: I DO have him tattooed on my being (no descriptive, is this anon?); he’s inspired somewhat unhinged late night/early morning fandom conversations in which I’ve served as ‘parish’ priest hearing confessions from all manner of folk about what they’d like to do to him/receive from him; sadly I lost an essay where I detailed why the letters that make up his name suit him so well, and described him as the hot caramel sauce to Graham’s cool vanilla ice cream. He’s a faerie princess with a nose that makes people weep and a voice that feels like the warmest home and he gives amazing hugs. He loves trains and chickens and his tuxedo cat. He’s annoying and sweet and somewhat unhinged and his music saves people and all this is on top of that fantastic dick. He’s a dream yet very real and we’re fucking blessed to be on earth at the same time as him, amen"

"Damon Albarn was a beautiful, beautiful boy. The world saw that, regardless of if every individual reading this has the same taste in men; it felt like a truth of the universe at the time. They don't make celebrities that angelic in face and erratic in personality anymore."

"I need to touch his eyebrows, nose and prostate just one time JUST ONE TIME COME ON"

[getitoutofmymindwrites]

The crushing | joel miller x f!reader, 5.2k

Summary: This is the story of a man who had everything in the palm of his hand and traded it all for an empty space in the hollow of his heart. Or This story follows Joel, two to three years after he cheated on his wife.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, ANGST, cheater!Joel, Joel's POV, this is NOT “The Falling” from Joel's POV, brief mention of smut (p i v) but nothing too graphic (I think), self-loathing, depression, therapy, flashbacks and memories from the past, alcohol consumption, Tommy being a supportive brother (eventually), as always let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: Ok, so, Joel gave me a whiplash on this one, he was either staring at me through the screen giving me nothing, or he was mumbling unintelligibly in my ear while I was trying to keep up with him. It started out as a final chapter, but I really think that this part should be Joel's POV and the next and -probably- final one should be the resolving, however that may come. I guess it can be read as a standalone, but if you're interested, it's a sequel to “The Falling”. I edited it seven thousand times because I kept adding things along the way, so I hope it all makes some sense and there are not too many mistakes.. Thank you for taking the time to read anything I write! Love you all! 🥰😘

P.S.: I just wanted to take a moment and let you know that I really appreciate everyone who has read, liked, commented, reblogged and asked about “The Falling”. I honestly didn't think a single soul would take the time to read that kind of story. It means more than you know and I didn’t take lightly how close to home this fic hit for some people; yet you’ve given it a chance, sharing some of your own experiences with me. I love you all, take care and I'll see you -hopefully- in the comments! 🥹🫂

Dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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...need your reassurance...

...your only focus…

...for the foreseeable future...

He did make it his sole focus. Because of course, he closed the deal, even after he left that damn table like a madman. He still found a way to get what he wanted. That's the man he was. And he wasn't sure if he hated himself for it or not. But self-loathing was a daily occurrence now, so one more reason added to the list was nothing he couldn't handle.

For two years he would wake up every day, is it called waking up if he doesn’t sleep at all?, he would work his ass off, he would go home, he would sink into despair and then he would start all over again the next day. A vicious cycle consisting of 730 days in a row. The deafening silence within the walls of the house was excruciating, the loneliness was unbearable. Even the light penetrating through the windows seemed different than when you were there with him, a dullness surrounding every corner of the now barely lived in space.

You. He hadn’t seen your face in 730 days. He hadn’t smelled your scent or touched your soft skin. He barely listened to your voice anymore, any form of unavoidable communication, you preferred to be conducted by the lawyers, or via text messages, at the most. At the 731st one, he finally knew, something had to change. He couldn’t repeat another day, like all the others that came and went. He simply couldn’t.

Tommy suggested that therapy might help Joel, a few times, but he refused every one of them. Maria was keeping her distance, her place was delicate, being his brother’s wife but also his wife’s best friend. Surprisingly, she was the one who finally got through to him.

“Are you gonna stay a recluse for the rest of your miserable life, then?” Maria wonders, switching her gaze between Joel and the dining room. Everything was untouched, as you left them when you moved out, but the place felt empty, depressing, probably mirroring Joel’s existence.

Joel sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “I’m not a recluse..”, he snarls through his teeth, rolling his eyes at her. He was more than eager to be done with the dinner his sister-in-law insisted on having in his house and be left alone, in his natural state. Alone. Infuriating woman.

“What do you call that?”, Maria persists, goddamn lawyer to the bone.

“What?!” Joel spits back pissed off, looking at his brother next, for support.

“That!” she gestures around his body and his surroundings. “The way you go on for the past two years! Either get over it or do something about it!”, she doesn’t hold back, even when Tommy proposes a gentler approach. Yeah, look where it got you, is the paid answer, so Tommy steps back, shaking his head and raising his hands up in surrender.

“You’ve got him on a leash, hm?”, Joel jokes absentmindedly, “Can you breathe alright, Tommy boy?”, earning himself a hard glare from Maria.

“Maybe the wrong Miller is on a leash..” Maria mutters, causing Tommy’s eyes to widen in horror.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, Joel retorts doing a double back at her.

“Means that freedom is for those who can bear it.”, Maria throws her napkin on her plate and leaves the room. Joel remains silent, pondering the meaning of her words. It would be a long time before he understood what she meant.

Therapy was hard.

Therapy was hard because he had to do it for himself. He had to concentrate on himself. He thought, being the contractor that he was, that he would walk into the room, get the answers he needed and fix his marriage, just as he rearranged the bricks and the wood and the steel on the construction sites.

But this wasn’t about his marriage. His marriage and the way it crumbled down was the aftermath, he came to learn. It was the outcome of insecurities, selfishness, lack of communication, ungratefulness.

He got it all wrong. Everything. Every little thing. He had to rewire his brain and change every point of view he was holding onto. Honesty. Honesty was the key.

“Why didn’t you reach out to your wife after that night?”, his therapist insists.

“I respected her boundaries.”, Joel was quick to respond.

“And what were those?”

“She didn’t want to see me.”

“Did she say that?”

“No-, I mean-, the way she left that night, she didn’t say much in general. But she blocked my number, so.”, he shrugs in defence.

“So, how can you be so sure that she didn't want to see you? Even if you're right, it doesn't mean that she didn't expect a reaction from you, or that you weren't allowed to try, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Why would she? I upset her, she needed time to think, work things out.”, Joel explains.

The therapist swipes her fingers over her lips, contemplating her approach. “Joel, you walk into your bedroom, into what is supposed to be a safe place and you see your partner with another person in an intimate moment. How does that make you feel? Just say the first words that come to mind.”, his therapist changes the point of view.

Joel shudders just at the thought of it. You, naked, flushed, lips parted and swollen, skin sweaty, breaths short and pupils blown wide, coming for anyone other than him. It would utterly destroy him. “Furious, pissed, betrayed, heartbroken.. I think I would lose it, if I’m honest.” he admits instantly, in his haste to throw the abomination of this image from his thoughts.

“I see. But in her case, you think your wife was just upset?”

“No, of course not.” Joel slightly frowns, shaking his head.

“Do you think she felt all those feelings that you just described to me?”

“I believe so, yes.”, god this is so hard.

“You believe so?” the therapist pushes, again.

Joel’s nostrils flare from the sharp inhale, “I know so.”

“So, she wasn’t just upset.” the therapist concludes and Joel agrees without meeting her eyes, “No, she wasn’t.”

Over time, Joel came to realize that his choice of words was a subconscious attempt to diminish the seriousness of his actions.

“You said in a previous session that you gave space to your wife to work things out.”

“Yeah, it was only fair.”, Joel confirms.

“So, it was hard for you to give her that space?”

“Yes, of course, I missed her every day.”

“Was that a constant in your relationship?”, the therapist wonders.

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“How did you work things out as a couple, before? I assume you had difficult times as partners, no?”

“Nothing major to be honest, my wife was a very calm and reasonable person. If anything occurred she would talk to me about it.”

“And how did you respond to that?”

“Uh, I was there to listen, we always found a solution together as a couple.”

“Hmhm, so, what changed this time?”

“What do you mean?” He knew exactly what she meant.

“Why didn’t you talk to her? Communicate with her? Maybe help her see your side of things, like you did before, find your way out of this together, as partners.” his therapist explains. “And even before the infidelity, did you let her know that something was bothering you, that you felt differently?”

"I didn't feel differently about my wife. My feelings for her never changed.", he immediately corrects her. "My love for her was never the problem," he confesses and it's the first time since his therapy began that he's shared something so personal, so private.

“But there was a problem, something was wrong if you felt the need to be intimate with another woman. So, why did you keep that from her?”

Joel opens his mouth already knowing he does not have an answer. Or that he doesn't want to give one. He shakes his head, raising his brows in a silent admission that he can’t answer that. Or he won't. His gaze is fixed on a loose thread on the fabric of the couch, his fingers keep picking on it.

“Joel?”

“I- I don’t know what you want me to say, I don’t know.” he keeps shaking his head. He can’t answer that. He won't.

He was so angry when he left the session that day. He was so angry at you. He was angry at your honesty, your clarity, your courage to have a mind of your own and to speak it freely, knowing full well that probably no one else shared the same opinions as you did. That's what he loved most about you, but now he hated it.

“Own it, Joel. Own what you have done. At least that way it will be worth something. Otherwise it was all for nothing.”

This was one of the last things you said to him on the phone, while he was trying to persuade you to change your mind about the divorce. You were always so brave about those matters. Matters of the heart, of integrity. He remembers you always talking about things that he found admirable but utopian. Easy in theory, hard in practice.

“I need to be able to sleep at night. I need to own my decisions; not because I’m always right, far from it, but at least I know I’m being honest with myself. And that matters.” he recalls one of your late-night talks.

You usually found it easier to share your most vulnerable thoughts once you were thoroughly fucked and satiated. When Joel held you in his arms, your breaths almost shared over the same pillow, your scents and your fluids mixed together.

“We’re all imperfect beings, flawed; we all feel embarrassed when we fuck up,” you continue, “it’s hard to admit our mistakes to others, I get that. But deep down we always know what we’re doing and why we’re doing it. Admitting it only helps us to be present in our lives.”

“Be present?”, Joel seems fascinated by the way your mind weaves your thoughts together into deeply rooted beliefs.

“Yes, my love, there's no greater freedom than to live your life truthfully.” you smile at him, softly. Your sleepy eyes roam his face affectionately. Your fingertips caress his jawline, your thumb pressing lightly against the bare patch of his beard. He can feel your devotion pouring from your fingers and sinking into his skin at that moment.

“That’s one of my greatest fears, you know. Living my life in ignorance, in a lie.”, you whisper your deepest insecurity against his soft lips. His hold on you tightens as he rolls you onto your back, nestling his hips between your welcoming thighs. You are safe in these arms. His arms. You surrender to him, body and soul. You can feel his growing erection pressing between your folds, already wet from your combined releases. He tenderly brushes his lips against yours and slowly licks his way into your parted mouth, as he intertwines his fingers with yours. He enters you in one fluid, slow thrust, his warm exhale cooling your wet lips. “Then let me give you something real.”

Thinking back to those moments, Joel couldn't reconcile himself to the fact that he was the one who had brought that fear of yours to life. What broke him was that it was not a lie. Your life together had not been a lie. He loved you. In fact, he was burning up for you. He was a man of control, but not with you. Never with you. You consumed his every thought; being around you for too long made his lungs constrict in pain, begging for a deep breath. Sometimes he was worried sick that if he completely let himself love you like he needed to, he would suffocate you. He loved you. And it killed him that his actions suggested otherwise.

But at some point he had to be honest with himself. He was just protecting his ego. He was trying to get the upper hand out of a shitty, compromising situation. He wasn't being thoughtful, he was being selfish. He was biding his time. He thought the longer he left ‘it’ untouched, the less it would hurt when the inevitable time of confrontation came. He was scared out of his mind that he would lose you forever. No second chances, no redemption, no reconciliation.

No lingering scent on his pillow as your hair pools there, under his chin, as you nestle your face between his neck and shoulder, breathing him in. No laughter through the enormous house, damn, why did he build it so big; you never clarified what the disbelief in your eyes meant when he said he built this house for you, while he pulls you up on your feet for a silly cowboy dance.

No more gentle touches, no more noses brushing together as a silent goodbye in the kitchen before you rush off to work. No more turning around just before you open the door to leave, running to him like a little girl, giving him quick, hungry pecks on the lips while he laughs on your mouth, squeezes your butt cheek and slaps it playfully to say goodbye. Later, baby, he would promise you, his teeth nipping at your earlobe and he could feel your skin crawling with anticipation.

No more I love yous, either breathed, either whispered, either panted, as he makes a home for himself inside your warmth.

When did he fuck you last? He used to have you every day. You craved it every day. You craved him. Why did he stop telling you he loved you every chance he got? When was the last time you said it?

A week before that fateful night, when you touched him longingly, aching for him to touch you back and he told you he had work to do, he wasn’t a teenager anymore. Why the hell did he say that? Why did he sit there and watch the light fading from your eyes? I love you, you said with a sigh against his temple and walked out of his office defeated. Why did you say that? Did you know? Did you suspect? Why didn’t you fight him? You should have said something, anything, pushed him, punched him in the chest, woken him up. Would he have woken up? Or did he need that to come to his senses? Does he have to fall? Does this falling ever stop? Does he have to let you go? Will you come back to him? Does he deserve you?

Days blurred seamlessly into one another. Joel drifted further and further away from everyone. The house haunted him, all the progress he was making within the therapy walls was dissipating once he stepped inside the cold space of his empty house. Leaving the confines of it was his first thought in the morning, while he hurriedly dressed to go to his office far earlier than necessary and his last when he closed his eyes, as he laid his weary limbs on the couch, chasing still your now long gone scent on its fabric, knowing another sleepless night was his only companion until the first rays of sunlight hit the floor-to-ceiling windows to announce the beginning of another day.

People at work tiptoed around him, not knowing how to act. It was as if he was there, but not really. He was focused solely on the Marks project, mechanically going through board meetings, paperwork and supervising the construction site. He. Just. Wasn’t. There.

Joel, will you please sign the papers?

He simply stares at the text message for a good full minute, his thumbs hovering over the screen of his phone. This was one of the rare occasions you had initiated communication with him, always about the progress of the divorce.

No, no, I won’t, the little toddler in him screams, stamping his little feet on the ground.

The papers are not ready.

Joel texts back. He keeps it simple, frightened he might not get an answer back.

Joel, we both know they are. I don’t want any of your assets or your money; this is an easy signature, please.

An easy signature? You think he cares about the houses, or the cars, or the money?

You know I can’t accept that. The house is yours and so is a good part of the money.

The point was to share this house together, Joel, don’t you think us splitting up kind of defeats the purpose? And what on earth makes you think I would ever want to go back in there?

So, there’s nothing I can do to make this easier for you?

Easier? You think money or property can make up for what you’ve done?

Of course not, I wasn’t implying anything like that. Just wanna do something for you, anything.

Can you turn back time?

Of course, he can't. So, he doesn't know what to say to that. He just keeps staring at the screen, lost in thought. After 2 minutes another text follows.

?

You know I can’t..

Sign the papers. Please.

“Is there anything in particular you want to talk about today, or should I take the lead?”

“Actually I’ve been thinking a lot about that night.”, Joel suggests for the first time. He usually lets the therapist decide where to steer the conversation, then simply refuses to elaborate until he feels ready to talk.

“What about it?”, he shifts his gaze from the window to the direction of her voice.

“I should probably rephrase that. I’m always thinking about that night, repeating it in my head again and again and I’m troubled by something I realized.”

His therapist nods to signal that she's listening.

“Why did she just leave? The more I think about it, the more it doesn’t make sense to me. She just left. No shouting, no breaking things, no attacking either me or-”, her. “Why she didn’t stay? Why she didn’t insist that I leave? She was just- so quiet.”

The therapist smiles in recognition of Joel's near breakthrough. They were beginning to get somewhere, his empathy nudging him under the surface.

“I'm really glad you mentioned that, Joel, so I'd like to take you back to that night and try to understand what might have been going through your wife's mind at that moment," she explains.

“So, she walks into the house, finds her safe space violated by her husband, and she chooses to handle the situation calmly and quietly-” Joel tries to stop her, but she already knows what he's going to ask. “I can't tell you why she chose that path, that's for her to answer, only she knows why.” His therapist continues, “She is making one request of you and one request only, can you tell me what it is?”

“She asked me to leave the house.”

“Hmhm.” the therapist looks at him expectantly.

“I just wanted to talk to her.”, Joel elaborates, “I thought that if I refused to leave, she would accept to listen to me.”

“So you forced your needs on her, while she was in a particularly fragile state of mind.”

“I should have made my intentions clearer, you mean?”

“I mean, that maybe you shouldn’t have had any expectations in the first place. Why do you think was so important to you, to explain yourself right at that moment?”

“Because I knew it was probably the last time I would see her for a while, I just wanted to ease her pain, why is that so wrong? Should I be indifferent? Would that be better?”

“Did it ever occur to you that you might be depriving her of her right to choose?” Come on, Joel, break some eggs.

Joel now begins to make connections. He rubs his hand over his face, the realization of what has really happened crushing him. “Oh, god, I-” He's been so selfish from the start. He hasn't shown you any respect, not even at this delicate moment. He didn't give you a choice as to whether you wanted to listen to him or not. He didn't even let you choose where you wanted to stay. He just made you leave the house. Did he make you believe he wanted you to leave? That he wanted her to stay? Because he didn’t. Fuck. “-I never thought about it like that.”

Fuck.

How could he be so blind? Why was he so blind?

His therapist insisted on it. Because no matter how much progress Joel made over the course of a year, he never revealed the true reason behind his infidelity.

“Joel, we’ve talked about a lot of things; you’ve tried really hard to make this all about your wife and about understanding what she was feeling and how your actions have affected her, but as I keep reminding you”, she smiles understandingly, “you’re the one in therapy, you need to heal your wounds before you even attempt to heal hers. And although it is in fact a really noble thought, this” she gestures between them, “can only work if you do it for yourself. I know it may sound selfish, but I promise you, it is not. It is the exact opposite.”

Fuck.

“Yeah?”, his voice hoarse from sleep as he answers the door after the insistent knock at it. Tommy looks at him surprised once he opens it, “You’re sleeping, already?”. No, he wasn’t. He wouldn’t call it that. But when he goes almost a week without any proper rest, passing out is the right word for what he’s doing. “Yeah, I guess I dosed off..” Joel lies. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.” Tommy responds as he squeezes himself through the door to enter the house. “Yeah, sure, come on in.”, Joel mutters under his breath. “You just saw me at work this morning, is everything all right?”

“I just came to check on you.” Tommy confesses uncomfortably.

“You could have called.”

“Would you have answered?” Tommy deadpans.

Touché.

“Tell Maria I’m fine, Tommy, no need to worry about me; go spend the night where it counts.”, Joel replies in an attempt to push him away, as he walks farther into the house, rounding the kitchen island.

“Hey, brother, I’m here, I am here for you.” Tommy’s eyes narrow in pain and concern as he stares at his sibling's back, following behind him.

Joel exhales hard through his nose, his grip tight as he grabs the edges of the counter, his head lowering between his shoulder blades.

“You shouldn’t, nobody should.” Joel sighs, rubbing the pads of his fingers across his forehead.

“Ok, that’s enough.” Tommy snaps at him. “Enough self-loathing, enough resignation. Enough. You’ve punished yourself enough.”

Joel laughs at that. “Is that right? Is it enough for you? What about her?” he asks, his head turned to the side, looking at his brother over his shoulder.

“What?” Tommy is genuinely confused.

Joel turns his back, resting his waist on the edge of the counter, now looking straight at Tommy. “I should have what? Just get on with my life? Let it all be water under the bridge? Disrespect her even more?”

“Jesus..” Tommy mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, the other resting on his hip, his eyes shut in frustration.

“Are you doing this for her? Does she even know that?”

“It doesn’t matter, Tommy!” Joel raises his voice, exasperated. “I’m not doing this for her, I’m not doing anything for her, apparently and that’s the problem.”, his voice breaks, the lump in his throat too big to push down. “She’s not here anymore, Tommy.” he’s standing fully on his feet now, pushing himself away from the counter, leaning slightly forward, like he’s trying to make his brother understand; his eyes are glazed, Tommy had never seen him so devastated before. “She’s gone. I’ve lost her.”, his palms clenched in fists in front of his chest, resisting the urge to wrap them around his shirt and rip it to shreds, as he wants to do with his heart.

“I thought therapy was working..” Tommy whispers, his eyes dropping to the floor beneath him.

“Oh, it’s working, all right!” Joel chuckles in irony, sniffing his nose. “I’m getting a front-row seat, witnessing what a piece of shit I am-”

“Hey!” Tommy tries to cut him off.

“-what on earth was she doing with me to begin with, is beyond me.”

“HEY!” Tommy's eyes bulge out of his sockets, angry at his brother's self-deprecating words. Joel bends his waist forward, puts his elbows on the island in front of him and lets his head sink in again.

“Ok.” Tommy breathes deeply to ground himself, his hands in a position of a prayer in front of his mouth, “Ok, we could both use a drink.” he realizes, as he moves to open the cupboard to grab two tumblers and the whiskey from the shelf with the drinks. “..or five.”

The two brothers drink their first round in silence, both calming their nerves down. Tommy refills their glasses without asking; he knows this is going to be a long night.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Tommy begins, pushing Joel’s drink back towards him. Joel wringles his brows in confusion, “What are you talking about? You’re always there for me.”

“No, I haven’t, not really.” Tommy admits, “I let Maria take over when all this happened and I’m sorry.”

“There was nothing you could do, Tommy, don’t sweat it.”

“Let me say this, please.” Tommy raises his hand, his palm facing his brother. “I was just- fuck, we all knew how much you loved her, how much you loved each other, so when it all went down, I just didn’t know how to deal with it. What to say to you, how to comfort you. I didn't know how to deal with you.”

“You blamed me.” Joel says matter-of-factly.

“No-”, Tommy weakly refuses but Joel shakes his head dismissively, interrupting him. “It’s ok, Tommy, you should.”

Tommy looks embarrassed, his cheeks slightly pinkish, not only from the whiskey. “It’s just that I- I couldn’t reconcile the image of the man you were with her, with.. you know..”, he stutters.

“..the image of a cheater. Say it.” Joel adds.

Tommy shakes his head, like he still can't believe what's happened. “Besides, while she was staying with us those first few weeks I saw how devastated she was, man- she was a shell of a woman, so I was confused, I didn’t know how-”

“Tommy. Tommy, it’s fine.” Joel feels his skin crawl visualizing you like that in his head, cutting his brother off once again; he deserves every ounce of mistrust and he knows it.

“No, it’s not.” Tommy insists. “Yes, you fucked up. Brother, you really did. You did a number on her-”, Joel’s body tenses instantly at his brother’s words, his jaw clenching as his eyes darken, moving down to his hands, his grip on the tumbler tightening, his knuckles turning white and Tommy stops abruptly, “shit, sorry, I didn’t mean-”, his face twitches with regret.

“It’s the truth. That’s exactly what I did.” Joel’s gaze seems detached as if he's somewhere else right now.

“What I meant to say, is that I should have been there for you in spite of what has happened. I can see you're suffering, it's taking its toll on you, it has been for some time now; tell me what I can do. How can I help you?” Tommy seems almost desperate, like he’s the one in need of redemption.

Your text flashes through his mind, can you turn back time?, making him smile bitterly.

“Can you turn back time?” Joel's repeating your question and as the words leave his mouth he can feel your presence next to him. That's the most he felt of you for the last three years. He's almost blissful.

“You know I can't.” Tommy sighs. Joel laughs earnestly, the irony of the moment too good not to appreciate.

“Joel, brother, please, just talk to me. Help me understand. You act like you’re the one who’s been cheated on. So, what happened? Why did you do it?” Tommy is pleading with him to give him anything.

Silence fills the room for much longer than either of them would like. Joel feels torn between telling his brother everything or keeping his mouth shut. He wants to tell him, he hasn’t told a soul, but he’s not sure he can get the words out. He’s not sure he can bear to hear the words coming out of his mouth. He’s not sure he can substantiate it, make it real. Because that’s how it feels. He talks about it and it becomes real.

But maybe this is the right thing to do. That’s what needs to be done. He needs to talk about it. He needs to tell the truth and admit the pain he’s caused. Make it real for you, too. Perhaps it is time for him to give you what is rightfully yours. Acknowledgment.

Joel’s made up his mind. He’s gonna talk to Tommy. He lifts his glass to down his drink for some liquid courage, freezing his hand in mid-air as the next words fall from his brother’s mouth. “First of all, who was it?”

“What?” Joel's eyes search Tommy’s through his glass for an explanation.

“Who did you do?”, Tommy clarifies.

Joel feels like he’s been struck by lightning. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Who did you fuck, Joel?”, Tommy begins to feel confused, are they not on the same page here?

“You don’t know?”, Joel can barely speak now, his voice low in shock.

“No one does, not even Maria; she never told anyone.”

You told nobody? Not even your best friend? Why on earth would you do that? Did you feel ashamed? Was it just too much to talk about?

But his brain takes pity on him, helping him for once to understand. He’s connecting the dots while your voice fills the corners of his mind through his memories. His head is swarming with images of you standing in that walk-in closet, remembering what you said the last time he saw you. You’re the one I married, not her. I expected better from you, Joel, not her.

You were right.

It didn’t matter who it was. That is why. He was the one making the choice. He was the one breaking his promises, breaking your trust, breaking your heart; breaking you. He was the one who should have known better. He was the one who should have been honest. Easy in theory, hard in practice.

He feels a fresh wave of pain scattering through his body. He welcomes it. Damn, he’s craving it. He’s glad you chose to withhold the identity of the woman. Not because somehow it’s making it easier for him to defend himself, on the contrary.

There’s no one else to blame. Nobody. Just him. All of the anger, the resentment, the disappointment, all of them on him. He embraces them all. Everything. He will take it all, swallow it down and let it rot inside of him.

Joel tells Tommy everything. Everything, but her name.

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Taglist: @southernbe, @orcasoul, @auteurdelabre

[satorusugurugurl]

My Wedding Date is an Escort!

Summary: When invited to your best friend's wedding, you panic. One of the groomsmen, Toji Fushiguro, is your ex-fiancè. Not wanting to deal with probing questions and the embarrassment of being single, your friend Haibara recommends using an Escort! Taking a leap of faith, you book one my, the hottest one. Gojo Satoru is hot, sweet, and funny! The package deal! Men and Women pay thousands to go on a date with him (even more, which he doesn't do often). So when your request comes in, the desperation and pleading tone of your voice. Gojo’s heartthrobs, even more so when you tell him you don't want to have sex.

Pairing: Escort!Gojo x FAB Reader

Word Count: 5,818

Warning: dirty talk, language, making out, wedding duties (lol), oral sex, smutty smut

A/N: Our final part 🥹💚 wow what a journey! There will be an epilogue for our sweet beans next week! Along with the start of the Best Friend!Suguru series.I'm so sorry for the late post, I was so sick yesterday and sleepy from my medication! But better late than never! ! If you want to be included in the tag list, YOU MUST HAVE AGE LISTED! Thank you!!

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Eight

For two days, two days, you and Satoru spent most of the time in your room. Wrapped up in your sheets, him on top of you, you on top of him. You only separated for the rehearsal dinner and getting your nails done. But the second you were back in his arms, he made up for the lost time like you had been gone for years. His lips were on yours in slow, gentle kisses that became passionate.

Those same kisses would end on the futon, which probably had seen more action in the last forty-eight hours than since the inn opened. Satoru bent you in all different positions, twisting you like a pretzel, stretching you in ways you didn't even know was possible. He made it his goal to make up for the year and a half that you didn’t sleep with anyone. Gojo Satoru turned you into a mess- a withering mess.

“Oooh holy shit.” you cried out, gripping the blanket, “fuuuuck oooh fuck Satoru.”

“Yeah~? Does that feel good~?”

“S-So good~!”

“Mhmm~ good.”

Fingers moved gently, expertly making your back arch, jaw opening in a soft cry of pleasure. Satoru bit his lip, his fingers increasing the pressure against you. Cerulean eyes narrowed, focusing on your face, watching how your eyes rolled back and your face flushed.

“T-Toru~Toru.” Toes curled as you cried softly, eyes watering.

“Oooh yeah~ you gonna cum~?”

Blinking, you lift an eyebrow, watching Satoru wiggle his at you. His fingers are massaging into your sore feet, kneading away knots and easing the aching muscles. Both of you were fully clothed, sitting on the back porch overlooking the gardens. Anyone around would have assumed you both were doing the deed from how loud you were being.

“Oh my god, was I being that loud?”

“What~? No!” You relaxed a little, your feet still in his lap. Thumbs worked at a particularly sore spot, making you whine again. “I’m pretty sure Suguru heard that whine, and he's in Tokyo.”

“Ya’ know what—”

You try pulling your feet away, only to have Satoru yank them back into his lap, inadvertently pulling you closer to him. “Stop, I'm just teasing. Let me do this.” his fingers continue working, moving gently over your feet. “You were in the kitchen all morning, making a three-tier wedding cake. Then those ‘friends’ of yours make you wear heels to take pictures. And you have to wear heels for the wedding tomorrow?” Satoru shook his head, white tufts of hair swaying.

“I offered to bake the cake, the benefit of having a baker as a friend.” His thumbs hit a sore spot, making you jolt. “But the heels are torture.”

“They seem like it.”

A soft, comfortable silence filled with chirping crickets and a distant wind chime grew between you. You just sat there while Satoru rubbed at your sore feet under the blanket of glittering stars. You had one more day together here in Kyoto, then a train ride back home, and you would be back to reality. A reality that had changed drastically over the last week.

When you both retired to your room, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling in thought. You had gone from a woman who was quiet, shy, and hell-bent on not needing anyone to this giggly, joyful woman who couldn’t be any happier. Satoru had peeled away at the layers of scar tissue you had hidden yourself in. He brought a certain confidence out in you. Being with him was as easy as breathing; even when you returned home to your mundane lives, you had faith you both would continue to strive forward. To keep your relationship going strong.

Strong as the urge to stay in bed with him all day despite your fellow bridesmaids pounding on your door the next morning. Satoru grumbled in horny frustration; his cock was pressed firmly over your barely clothed core. You pulled your lips away from his neck, pushing your hair back, groaning at the sudden interruption.

“I have to go, Toru.” You pulled off of him, giggling as he threw his head back. “Hey~ don’t be like that; we’ll pick up where we left off tonight.”

“Wedding sex is the best kind of sex. Especially when you’re on a sugar rush.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, grinning ear to ear. “That sounds enticing.” Satoru sat up on his elbows, licking his lips.

“Oh, it’s gonna happen tonight,” Satoru promised with a shake of his head. “I promise you that.”

Another knock at the door, “If you don’t come out! We’re coming in! Regardless of how indecent you two are!” A series of knocks sounded from the other side of the door by several different hands from the sound of it.

”I better go before they knock down the door.” With a pout, you leaned down, kissing Satoru goodbye before heading out. “I’ll see you later!” just before you shut the door to the room, you pouted as Satoru watched, sticking his bottom lip out. “It’s just three hours, babe!”

Three hours flew by before you knew it. The excitement of getting ready for the wedding and seeing your best friend practically buzzing in anticipation fueled everyone's energy. While you were bouncing up and down eagerly waiting to see Satoru in a tailored suit. Just imagining him had you grinning as you stared out the bridal suite window, looking towards the garden decorated for the joyous event.

“So, when are you and Satoru getting married?”

”Eh!?” All of your friends surrounded you, devilish smiles gracing their faces. “I-I—we are not getting married!” At least not yet. “We’ve barely started going out.” Literally. “There’s no indication that we're even considering that!”

“Oh, please!”

“Says the girl that’s been locked in her room with said boyfriend for the last two days!”

Your face burned like a fresh sunburn. “S-So! That does not mean that we’re getting married anytime soon!” All of your friends booed in protest. “Will the whole lot of you stop? Seriously, I don’t want you guys scaring off Satoru!” The bride stepped forward in her gown and all of her glory. “Finally, Mina, will you please talk some sense into them!?” Your best friend looked amongst the other girls, all dressed in a beautiful sky blue. For a moment, you thought she might take your side. But the second a smirk at the corner of her mouth, you knew she didn’t have your back.

“I was going to ask you the same question! The man would’ve fucked you against the wall at the bar no one stopped him!”

“Oh my God!”

“I’m serious! I think I’ll hand you the bouquet when I toss it!”

“Please don’t.”

“Oh, I think I will!”

“We are not getting married—not yet!”

Satoru sat off to the side, right next to your parents, as the wedding started. He watched with wide and sparkling eyes as you walked down the aisle with a groomsman. Your hair was styled beautifully, and the flowing sky-blue dress looked stunning on your figure and complimented your skin tone. His mouth felt suddenly dry as you looked at him, giving him a gentle, sweet smile. Cupid himself must have shot him through the heart at that moment because fuck, he was falling so hard for you.

“Ma’am—“ he learned next to your mother's ear, “just so you know, the next wedding we host here will be ours.”

“Huh?!”

Her reaction didn’t even seem to faze him. All he cared about was standing near the front of an outdoor arch decor with flowers of different colors—a gentle breeze brushed by you, making your hair and the dress flow. Even when the bride made her grand entrance, everyone turned to see her walking down the aisle towards her future husband. Satoru had his eyes locked on you.

You could feel his eyes, and that burning sensation had your focus transfixed on him. Was it wrong to be looking at your wedding date instead of the bride-to-be? The chances of that were very likely. But how could you not stare back? When his eyes burned holes into your very soul and left your heart racing like you had just run a marathon. It was impossible to pay attention to anyone else.

He was so handsome. Satoru was wearing a white button-down shirt with a blue tie that matched your dress. His navy blue jacket and pants were tailored to his body perfectly. You could tell by its appearance that it was expensive. It was probably more expensive than your best friend's wedding dress. You wanted to rip it off of him and let him take you right there in the garden.

Yes, he was extremely good-looking. But it wasn’t his clothes or his appearance or the fact that he had money that made you so attracted to him at that moment. The way he looked at you, eyes trailing over your body, with a soft grin, told you everything you needed to know. Satoru truly cared for you. This wasn’t just about sex, and it wasn’t the magic of the wedding to be. Chemistry, connection, and attraction were one hundred percent genuine.

After exchanging vows and rings, hundreds of pictures were taken with everyone. You were finally free from your wedding duties. The first thing you did as soon as you broke away from the rest of the group was run to Satoru’s side. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you tight to his chest. Lips pressed against the temple of your head, and you could’ve sworn he let out a little sigh of happiness to have you back in his arms.

“You look so fucking beautiful.” He cupped a strand of hair behind your ear before gently reaching down, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Is it wrong for me to say you’re even more beautiful than the bride?”

“Satoru!” you playfully punched at his shoulder, “I am not.”

“Oh, you are; that’s a god-given fact, sweetheart.” His thumbs brushed ever so lovingly over your cheek. “But there’s just one thing I would change about the outfit.”

“You and me both.” You winced, moving your arm away from the scratchy sequins top. “This material is an absolute nightmare for my underarms. I’m serious. You’ll probably have to put lotion on them for me later.”

“Oh.” Satoru deadpans. “ I wasn’t talking about the material.”

You hum in thought, looking over the dress for any flaws he may have noticed. “Oh?” When you didn’t find anything else wrong with the dress in your eyes, you tilted your head, looking up at Satoru. “Well, what would you change about it then?” His hand gently pulled your face closer to his own; he leaned down, the fresh smell of minty lemonade coaxing your nostrils.

“I’d change the color.”

“Wait, what?”

Your date says nothing for a beat of silence. “So anyways! Let’s grab our seats; I’ll get you one of the cocktails!”

He rambles on while you’re still stuck on how he would change the color of your dress. Surely, he meant he would do a different shade or maybe red instead of blue; there’s no possible way that he was talking about it to white. Yeah, he didn’t mean that at all! Your friends just put the stupid notion in your head that you guys are going to get married next. You didn’t even know what the two of you were yet. You hadn’t put a label on your relationship.

What you did know was that Satoru wanted to make your relationship work. So you knew for sure that you weren’t just another fuck buddy or client. This went deeper than that. What you both had was real, which was a lot more than other couples had. So who knew, maybe your friends were right? Perhaps Satoru had thought that white would make your dress look one million times better.

These were questions and answers for another day. You weren’t going to rush into things. Both of you wanted to take your time and get to know one another.

And you learned a lot of things about him as the party began. Like how he despised the taste of alcohol, he had mentioned it in passing when he walked you to the bachelorette party. But when he accidentally took a sip of a cocktail unintentionally, not knowing it had alcohol in it, the man sputtered and choked. His hands grabbed a cola from the bartender, chugging it like water. You learned that he was a pretty good dancer. He bumped and ground with you on the dance floor while the music blared. You learned how gentle his hands were as he slowly danced with you to one of the many love songs the DJ played.

He was so tentative to you. He’d always make sure you had a drink of some kind. He insisted that you drink plenty of water to avoid getting drunk. He even went to the room and grabbed your sandals when your high heels bothered you. God, he was everything and then some. If you hadn’t called for each other, he truly would have made this wedding a lot of fun for you. There was no doubt that he was worth every penny you were willing to spend to have a good time.

The party has toned down almost entirely, a few stragglers drunkenly laughing and drinking while others chat while eating the vanilla and raspberry compote cake you had made. Your best friend and her husband are one of two couples on the floor dancing to a slow song. The other was Satoru and the flower girl who had been smitten with his white hair and blue eyes. She was convinced he was Prince charming and begged him to dance with her. Satoru jumped at the opportunity. Gently placing her little feet on top of his shoes as he danced with her to the slow beat of the music.

Your gaze was locked on him as you nursed a cup of coffee between your hands. He was so perfect in every way, shape, and form. Satoru had made this one of the best nights of your entire life. God, you don’t think you’ve ever had so much fun at a wedding before. It was all thanks to him that you were having one of the most memorable nights of your life.

Those deep, happy thoughts are cut short when a tiny, chubby hand gently smacks your cheek. The sudden contact has you jumping, nearly spilling the hot coffee over your hands as you turn to see who has smacked you. You’re met with beautiful, big navy-colored eyes—dark tufts of hair spill over the head as the baby gently smacks your cheek again.

“Please don’t hit me, I have my kid.” a familiar voice speaks, “and don’t yell, please.”

You scoff, cocking an eyebrow up at Toji as he sits down in the chair next to you. “Are you seriously using your kid as a human shield?” Your ex shakes his head before looking over his shoulder, searching for someone.

“I cannot confirm nor deny that.” He cradles the babbling baby in his lap. “But if my wife is around, I will deny every word.”

“So you are using your child as a human shield.”

“Well, it’s working, isn’t it?”

“What do you want, Toji?”

He cradles his son in one arm, reaching into his suit jacket with his free hand. Toji pulls out a manila envelope and places it in front of you. Gingerly, taking it off the table, you open it and find the money you had left in the kitchen the other day. The money he almost ruined your relationship with Satoru over and the money you’d spent on him

He exhales deeply through his nose before clearing his throat. “What I did was wrong.” His son babbles, chubby little hands pulling the sleeve of his jacket. “I just wanted to apologize for everything that happened. I broke your heart, not once but twice. You, of all people, don’t deserve to be treated like that.” You cock an eyebrow. “And no, I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I just wanted to say that I was sorry. For breaking off our engagement the way that I did. For almost sabotaging your relationship with that brat over there.” His head jerks in Satoru’s direction.

“Yeah, you almost fucked that up for me.”

“Well, luckily, you guys worked it out.”

“Yeah, we did.” For the first time all week, you don’t feel the slightest bit of dread being near Toji. Maybe it was because you slapped the shit out of him, or perhaps it was because you felt as though your last confrontation was able to heal your wounds. “He’s a great guy.”

“Great for an escort.”

“Former escort.” You correct him with a smug smile. “Satoru sent in his resignation letter on Thursday after we talked.”

Toji’s eyes went wide before they softened with a gentle gaze that you hadn’t seen since high school. “Well shit, I guess I had him pegged wrong.” Taking another sip of your coffee, you giggle before resting your chin on your fist.

“I thought you said you were the greatest PI.”

“Nah, I’m one of the best.” Toni leans back, and in this light, you can see the slight discoloration on his face from both you and Satoru’s hits the other day. “I’m far from being the greatest. I wasn’t for you, but—“ he pressed his lips against his son’s head. “I’m trying to be a better person for this brat and my wife.”

“You always were an asshole.” Your point-blank statement had him wincing. “But if you hadn’t been an asshole, I wouldn’t have become the person I am today. So thanks for being a dick.”

Toji tilts his head, chuckling. “You’re welcome, I guess.” A squealing babble has both you and Toji glancing down at his son. He gently gums at his father’s jacket, drooling over the fabric. Toji sighs and gently lifts the baby to stare at him. When he does, those navy blue eyes glance towards his chest that's straining against the fabric. His son smacks his lips in hunger. “Fuck, I gotta find my wife; the little shits hungry again. And I’d rather not have him gnawing at my pecs.” He stands and pauses before turning his child to face you.

The tiny human gurgles at you, tilting his head. “Uhm, Toji, I can’t feed him.” Your ex rolls his eyes so hard you can almost hear it.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know, I just—“ he sighs, “this is my son, Fushiguro Megumi.” You can’t help but smile at his name; a blessing.

“Well, hello there, Megumi.” You gently pet his hair back. “It’s nice to meet you; whatever you do, don’t turn out to be like your father.”

Toji barks out a sharp laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah, that’s for sure.” Megumi laughs loudly, smacking his hands against your face.

“Toji!” Both of you turn to see a woman with dark hair waving at him.

“That’s the wife, we’re leaving.” He cradles Megumi into his side ever so gently. “I’m sorry again for all the shit I put you through in the past and well in the last week.”

“Well, all that shit led me to someone pretty great.” Your eyes drift back to Satoru, who's walking the little girl back to her parents. “All those years of putting up with you gave me some good karma.”

“For putting up with me, you deserve the world.” He scoffs hurriedly to join his wife. “Later.”

You wave goodbye to him, returning to your cup just as Satoru joins you. Two plates with cake in his hands. “Was that Toji!?” His ocean eyes meet yours, searching for any sign or tears of frustration. “The hell did he want?” He shoves the sweet cake into his mouth before offering you a bite, which you eagerly take.

“Mhm, he just wanted to give me the money he owed me.”

“What you should have given him was a knuckle sandwich.” Your soft giggle has butterflies swarming inside his stomach.

“I already gave him one, so I’ll gladly take the money this time.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He takes another bite of cake. “It would be a shame for you to bruise those knuckles again.”

You press your body against him, relishing in the warmth. “You know I don’t even care anymore. I got hurt in the past. I wallowed in my self-pity for over a year. But things are starting to look up for me now.” He hummed, turning to press a kiss against your forehead. “All thanks to my—“You hesitate, not sure if you want to be the one to put a label on your relationship.

“Boyfriend.” Satoru finishes for you, making your hearts swell with joy.

“Yes, my boyfriend.”

Satoru takes one last bite of his cake before wiping the mixture of whipped cream and buttercream off with his thumb. “Mmm, I love hearing you say that. It sounds so damn pretty rolling off your tongue.” You grinned, gently gripping his hand on your own, squeezing it as you stood.

“Wanna see what else I can do with my tongue~?”

Without hesitation, your boyfriend stands up from the table, following you down the hall. “Oooh? Is the sugar kicking in?” Satoru quickly takes the lead from you, dragging you down the hall and towards the guest rooms.

“It’s not just the sugar.” You correct him. “It’s you.”

The second you step into the room, and the door is slammed shut, Satoru’s on you, cupping your face, kissing you deeply with a guttural moan. You return the kiss, tasting the sweet, tangy remains of the cake on his tongue that worked its way into your mouth. You’re moaning, pushing his jacket off, letting it fall to the ground as you start working on the buttons of his shirt.

While you do that, Satoru runs his hands down your back, searching for a zipper or buttons, only to discover an intricate series of strings. He breaks the kiss, looking down at the saliva connecting your lips before he forces you to turn around so he can start working on the corset holding you hostage. His fingers struggle with the silky strings; he’s far too excited to sit down and take the necessary time to care for this.

“Hey, sweetheart, this isn’t a rental, is it?”

”No, I wish it was; I seriously haye the sequins, Toru.” You huff out, feeling his hands gently grip both sides of the back of the dress.

”So you wouldn’t be heartbroken if anything were to happen to it?”

”No, I guess I woul—“ RIIIP!! “Oh fuck!” You tumble as Satoru uses all of his strength to rip down the back of the dress—the thin fabric pools around your feet before Satoru turns you back to face him. The second you do, he drops to his knees in front of you and kisses down your bare chest, all the way to your lace panties. “S-Satoru~”

“Mmm, I wanna show you what I can do with my tongue.” He states flatly before tugging your panties down. “I get to eat two sweet treats tonight. Your amazing cake and your delicious pussy.”

His tongue instantly slides over your clit, making you grip his hair for support in fear that you are going to buckle over. Your hand grips the soft strands of hair, winning the softest of groans from him. While your fingers run through his hair, only make him move his tongue faster, with the sole purpose of making you cum.

Unfortunately for you, even if you were willing to hold off, Satoru is just too good at what he does. He teases your clit, going between gentle flicks, suckling on it, and writing his name against it with the tip of his tongue. His antics and techniques leave you nearly falling over, wishing you were on the futon. There was something about towering over him, though, bucking your pussy against his willing mouth that gave you a certain sense of empowerment.

You could see why men would like a woman on their knees. It was fun holding all of the power to make Satoru do what you wanted, to keep his face in place with you humping his tongue. You could have cum from just thinking of riding his face like this. Doing it though, fuck, it was so hot.

Satoru thought so, too; his jaw opened wide as he flattened his tongue, allowing you to use his mouth as you saw fit. His hand gently reached around, grabbing the fat of your ass, encouraging you to move and grind faster against him, wanting for you to cum. His squeezing you had your head falling forward, strands of your kiss-messy hair falling as you came hard, rolling your hips in time with the waves crashing over you. Satoru hummed happily, lapping up the juices you kindly offered him.

“Fuck, oooh fuck Satoru.” Your knees were buckling as he gently peppered hisses down your inner thighs. “I don’t think I can walk after that.”

”Hm? Oh, don’t worry about that.” He lifted you gently, placing you down on the futon. “I have a perfect place for you to sit.” You watched in awe as your boyfriend stripped out of his clothes and slipped on a condom before standing completely naked in front of you. “Now, what do you say,” Satoru laid down, grabbing your hips and pulling you to straddle him. “We pick up where we left off this morning before your friends rudely interrupted us.”

”Mmm, I love the sound of that.” Sitting back ever so slightly, you gently grabbed his cock, easing the thick throbbing tip inside of you. “Ah~ fuck I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how thick you are.” You cry out as you slowly begin to slide yourself down his shaft with a whimper.

”And I’ll never get over how tight and warm you are.” Large hands gently grip your hip, holding you as you sit down on him, his cock fully buried inside of you. “God, I can’t wait to feel how wet you are one of these days.” He hisses through his teeth as you slowly begin to rock back and forth on him. “Y-You fuck, sweetie, you feel so fucking good!”

“Yeah, so do you, Toru; I feel you getting bigger inside me.”

“And I can feel you clamping down.”

Knowing that he could feel just how good you were feeling was the only entice you needed to pick up your pace, your gentle rocks becoming a bit faster and harder as you gently began bouncing up and down on him. Your sudden increase in speed had Satoru choking on a raspy whine, his head tilting back as you placed your hands on his chest, steadying yourself. This position was one of your favorites. You were able to watch Satoru’s face contort with pleasure while his cock hit all the right places deep inside of you.

Satoru also loved this position because he got to see how relaxed you were, how he was able to grope your perfect tits, his thumbs brushing gently over your sensitive nipples. But his favorite thing about this position was being able to touch you. Not just your breasts, as great as those were. Running his large palms down your hips and over the top of your thighs, feeling your muscles twitch made happy, satisfied grunts leave his mouth. But it was when you interlace your fingers with his that got his heart pounding.

Your hips were moving faster, harder against him. Your smaller fingers held on to his for support, squeezing them gently as your tiny whines turned into desperate moans as your fucked yourself on him.

”Toru, oooh fuck~”

”Yeah, you close?” His fingers gave yours a gentle squeeze. “You gonna cum? Make me cum with you? I feel it coming back, god, I feel it; you’re going to make me cum so fucking hard.”

”Y-Yeah wanna make you cum, cum with me, Satoru, please I need it, need it so fucking bad.”

Satoru groaned, nodding his head as you slammed yourself up and down on him, his hips bucking up to meet you, fucking the tip of his cock directly into your cervix. You both are moaning so loud you know people will be calling the front desk to file a complaint, but you could care less about all of that. All that mattered right now was you and Satoru.

“Ooooh fuck me.” You cry out, releasing your boa constrictor grip on his hands, digging them into the bedding as you fall forward onto his chest. Your hips bounce up and down faster and harder, skin slapping against skin as your ass slams down. “Satoru, I’m gonna—“

”M-Me too, baby, holy fuck me too!” Satoru’s hands grip the sides of your hips, forcing you to move faster, which seems almost impossible. “Fuck, oooh fuck, fuck shit!” He’s gritting his teeth as you cry out into the side of his neck. “Oh, holy fuckin shit, baby! I’m cumming! Cumming inside you!”

With one final slam, both of your bodies go rigid as the orgasms hit you at the same time. Your pulsating walls have Satoru’s cock throbbing eagerly deep inside of you, filling the condom. Leaving both of you shaking, sweaty messes. Satoru recovers first, his hands gently caressing your sides as you lay all your weight on top of him. While you gently press open-mouthed kisses over his collarbone.

It isn’t until your muscles are protesting the position that you’re in that you finally move. Satoru helps you push off of him gently, laying you down next to his side. His fingers brush some of your hair back before he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss against your lips. You kiss him back burying yourself into his chest as his hands gently move up and down your back.

“So, how was our first date?” The gentle tone of Satoru’s voice has you happily humming.

“One of the best dates I ever had in my entire life.”

“Yeah, I have to agree with you on that one.” His hand continued to rub up and down your back gently. “I can’t wait to go on another and another, and god, I just want to go on countless dates with you.” He waits for you to respond, to say anything. When you don’t say a word, he peers down, finding you sleepily snuggled against him. Your hard work from the last few days has finally caught up to you. “Get some sleep.” He whispered, disposing of the condom before pulling the sheet over your body as he shut his eyes, too, following you into a deep sleep.

The next day was a blur at the inn. From packing your bags, checking out, and bidding farewell to your parents before you at Satoru took the train back to Tokyo. Where you both leaned against each other, still tired from the last week and the wedding from the night before. You only fully regain consciousness when the train pulls up to your stop. You grab your bags in silence as you slowly leave the train.

It didn’t feel real that the week was finally over. That tonight would be the first night you would be alone in a week. Part of you dreaded the night you were about to spend alone in your apartment. But you didn’t want to be clingy and ask Satoru to stay the night.

While your relationship had been entirely out of order, you didn’t want to ruin it right when it began. There would be another time for Satoru to spend the night with you. You are almost certain he would love to go home to his apartment and unwind.

So you stopped in front of the coffee shop where you met each other for the first time. Turning around, you adjusted the backpack on your shoulder, winning a slightly confused look from your new boyfriend. Swallowing hard, you hugged him tight before pulling back.

“Thank you again for everything.” You wet your bottom lip with your tongue. “I can’t thank you enough. Text me later. Maybe we could meet up for coffee or dinner sometime this week. Go on our second date.”

Satoru said nothing for a moment as you fiddled with the handle of your suitcase. “Hey.” He finally broke the silence, his hand gently grabbing yours. “Would now be too soon to take you on our second date?” Light shimmered in your eyes as Satoru put his sunglasses on. “I know this great spot for brunch.” You felt your heart swell as he rubbed at his slightly slushed neck. “I just—I don’t want to say goodbye yet.” Round sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, revealing his breathtaking eyes. “But if you’re too tired or busy, later this week would be fine, I gue—” You reach up, pressing your index finger gently over his lips, silencing him.

“Brunch sounds great.”

“Great!” Satoru beams gently, interlocking your hands as you make your way up to the surface. “You’re going to love it.” You gently squeezed his hand as you stepped into the bustling streets of Tokyo. A week ago, you never would have thought the man you had hired to be your wedding date would be taking you out on your second date, hopefully leading to many more.

Tag List! (AGE MUST BE IN BIO!!)

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Forever Tag:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart

[atlabeth]

price of dreaming

series masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of poseidon!reader

summary: luke's spiral and the part you play in it.

a/n: this is so sad i'm sorry. like it's just a couple thousand words of luke being sad with a cute little flashback and a percy mention to make it all more sad. i don't know what's wrong with me why did i start writing this series

wc: 4.1k

warning(s): pretty severe angst bc this takes place after hurricane's death and goes up to mid tlt. death ideation, minor descriptions of injuries, luke isn't the best person, just a whole lot of sadness.

Luke returns to camp two weeks after your death, nothing more than a shell of himself.                      

Half of his time was spent sitting in an interrogation room in a Boston police station, mumbling his way through questions he doesn’t know how to answer. It’s not every day that a teenage girl is found nearly ripped apart in the middle of a city with her boyfriend completely broken next to her. Two EMTs had to literally drag him away from you—at least, that’s what they tell Luke. Everything after your heartbeat stopped is a blur for him. He doesn’t really even know how he got to the station.

And that’s how it is for a while. He talks to detectives who don’t believe him, he stares at the wall and wishes you were here, he goes home with your mom. She’s being asked just as many questions, and she refuses to leave him out on the street or take him back to camp. She doesn’t understand that Luke’s done it all before. 

Eventually, the officers settle on a freak animal attack. It didn’t make sense for an animal capable of doing that to be in the city, but mortals see what they want to see. Luke is just thankful to be out of it. 

But he doesn’t know what to do next. There’s a huge gaping hole in his chest and in his life without you, and he doesn’t know how to live without you. Every time Luke closes his eyes he sees your face, and he hasn’t been able to sleep through the night since it happened. He only really manages to stay out when his body practically shuts down from exhaustion. 

Your mom treats Luke like a second son while he’s living with her, and it pains him more than anything. She asks him if he wants to stay with her, try and finish out the semester. He was surprised she still wanted anything to do with him. 

Luke declined. He loved your mom, but being in that apartment without you—walking past your room and knowing you would never be there again, seeing a space you carved out for yourself knowing the most integral part was missing—was just too much for him. The full reality of you being gone still hadn’t sunk in yet. 

He’s soured on the city of Boston as a whole. He’s felt your blood on his hands since the moment it stained his fingers, and for as long as Luke lives he will never forget the look on your mother’s face when she showed up at the police station. 

Your mom offers to drive him back to camp, and though he wants to say no to that as well, he doesn’t. Luke can tell that she needs a distraction, and he doesn’t really know how else he’s gonna get back to camp. They don’t talk very much on the way there, but neither of them burst into tears, so he considers it a victory. 

She parks at the bottom of the hill and hugs him so tightly he can’t breathe, but he welcomes any kind of feeling. 

“Stay safe, Luke,” she says, her hands on his shoulders. “And if you ever need a place to stay—”

“I know,” he interrupts. “And I’ll try.”

She nods a few times, and she blinks back tears as she looks up at him. “Thank you for everything you did for my daughter. For all those years that you kept her safe.”

It clearly wasn’t enough, Luke wants to say. If it was, he wouldn’t have lost you back then, and he wouldn’t have lost you now. But that wouldn’t help anyone, so he nods. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his throat still dry as a desert. 

“Always.”  

“I know how much you meant to each other,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry, Luke.” 

He holds back his emotions. “So am I.” 

Your mom nods again and they say their goodbyes once more, hugging one last time. When Luke reaches the top of the hill, he looks back to see her still standing there. He wishes he could do something to ease the pain, but he doesn’t even know how to deal with his own. 

Luke stops at Thalia’s tree, and he already feels that lump in his throat. 

“I hope you’re together in Elysium,” he murmurs. “I always thought you would like each other.” 

The beginnings of tears prick the back of his eyes and he clears his throat, shaking his head like it’ll help silence the millions of thoughts scattered around his brain. If Thalia lives on like this, he hopes your spirit is still around somewhere.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “And I’m sorry I failed both of you.”

Nobody at camp knows. How could they? 

Luke wasn’t expected back until the summer, though, so his presence at the top of the hill is telling in of itself. Especially alone. 

He ignores everyone that tries to talk to him and gets to the Big House to break the news to Chiron. Thankfully, when he dissolves into tears, it’s behind closed doors. Chiron takes it in a saddened stride, and Luke wonders how many heroes have died in his lifetime. 

You have no siblings to make a burial shroud, so the Athena cabin takes up the responsibility. Annabeth invites him to take part, but he can hardly stomach the thought. 

It’s beautiful. They emulate the ocean through embroidery and Annabeth even gets a little Red Sox patch in. They let Luke burn it, and he’s amazed he even makes it through the ceremony. But the entire camp shows up, and there isn’t a single dry eye. He hopes you at least know how many people care about you. 

Chris takes over as counselor for the indefinite future, which is probably a good thing when Luke can barely muster the strength to get out of bed most days. He picks at his food when he’s able to make it to meals, and his prayers to Hermes have never felt emptier. He used to do one for Poseidon every so often, especially when you were at school, but the thought makes him sick. His eyes never stop trailing over to Cabin Three’s table. 

The Poseidon cabin is empty again. 

Luke doesn’t fully realize the path he’s taken until he’s standing in the doorway and the scent of salty air hits him. He’s so used to hanging out with you after dinner that he just went there automatically. 

It feels unfinished. It is unfinished. You had a whole box of things back in Boston that you wanted to bring back to camp to decorate. 

Your posters still hang on the walls—Blondie, Pearl Jam, Alanis Morisette. Fairy lights are falling down in the corner, and they’re unplugged. Luke had to remind you to unplug them before you left for the school year. 

You should be standing next to him, smiling and laughing and dragging him in behind you as you rant about capture the flag or the canoe race you definitely didn’t cheat in. He blinks away the tears building in his eyes and he takes a step back. 

You should be here. You’re not. 

(How many more times is he going to end up here chasing ghosts?) 

There are some things a person just can’t get over. 

And that’s how his days go. He barely manages to get out of bed, picks at meals that taste like sand, musters what little strength he has to lead sword lessons, endures pitiful looks and sympathetic speeches. 

Luke gets lost in the past more than he should, oftentimes sitting on the beach talking to you as he watches the waves roll in or sneaking out to the dock in the middle of the night to be in the company of the only person he can stand. 

By the time summer comes back around, Luke is sure of three things. 

He isn’t ever going to be the same again. 

You should still be alive. 

He won’t rest until he’s torn Olympus down brick by brick. 

-

“It’s quiet here,” Luke said.

“That’s what happens when you don’t have any siblings,” you murmured. 

His eyes trailed over to the door and you nudged him with your shoulder. “What do you keep looking over there for? Scared someone’s gonna catch us?” 

He shrugged. “We’re technically not allowed to be in here together.” 

“They can’t say anything,” you said. “We’re both counselors. And no one’s in this place anyways. Besides,” you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips, “we’ve earned all the time in the world.” 

Luke smiled and snaked an arm around you, pulling you closer to him. “You think so?” 

“We lost two years together,” you said, laying your head on his chest. “Far as I’m concerned, no one can say a damn thing to us.” 

“It always feels like we talk about the past,” he said. “What about the future?” 

“All I know is I want you in it,” you mused. You always loved resting on his chest because you could hear his heartbeat, could feel the slight rise and fall from his breathing. It meant he was alive, and after what you’d been through, that was more valuable than anything. 

“Obviously,” Luke said coyly. “I want you in mine too. But what about the details?” 

“We gotta finish high school first,” you said. “Have you thought about what I said?” 

“...Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s just been a while since I’ve left camp. Going back to school seems rough for someone who hasn’t been in classes since elementary school.” 

You shook your head. “Which is exactly why my school would be perfect for you. We left at the same age, remember?” You took his hand and began to trace the lines of his palm. “It took some getting used to, but I made it. If I can, so can you—and I’ll help you every step of the way.” 

Luke chuckled softly. “I’m a little worried about leaving Annabeth.” 

“Annabeth of all people would support you going for your education,” you said. “And it’s not like she’ll be on her own—everyone likes her here.” 

“...Talk me through it,” Luke decided. “Say we both go back for the school year. What does a sophomore year for the two of us back in Boston look like?” 

“Well, we’d be living together. We have an extra room in our apartment, and I’m sure I can convince my mom to let you take it.” You let out a sigh as you shifted, moving closer into Luke’s side. “We’d take the T together to school, but you don’t have to worry because I can show you around everywhere.” 

He chuckled. "I could use a refresher on Boston. Don't have the fondest memories there."

"We'll just make some new ones," you promised. “I’m on the soccer team, too. I was JV this year, but I’m gonna make varsity next fall—mark my words.” 

Luke rubbed your shoulder as he hummed. “And I’d come to every game.” 

“You better.” You glanced up at him with a smile. “You could try out for something too. I think you’d make a killing in basketball.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you not remember all those pick-up games we played when we were younger and bored? I was gods-awful.” 

“This’ll be different,” you insisted. “You’ll actually be sleeping on a bed every night, and eating consistently. I think that makes you a better athlete. Plus, you’re not three feet tall anymore.” 

Luke laughed as he intertwined your fingers together. “The star soccer player and the mediocre basketball player. We make quite a couple.” 

“You’d be better than mediocre,” you said. “Anyways—we’d play our sports and kill it, I’d introduce you to all the friends I made last year, I’d show you all around Boston, and I’d get you hooked on the Red Sox.” 

He leaned back against the headboard with a chuckle. “You’re really never gonna let this go, are you?” 

“It’s my sovereign duty to put you onto the Red Sox,” you said, “especially surrounded by all these Yankees. I’m gonna get you to a game one of these days. And after we kill sophomore year, we’ll kill junior and senior year.” You tapped on his chest for each year with your free hand, and his smile grew. “Then we’ll graduate high school together. With honors, and monster-free.” 

“You have such high standards,” Luke said wryly. “I’ve always thought I’d be lucky to pass with C’s.” 

“You haven’t always had me,” you mused. “And when we’re together, we can’t lose.” 

Luke smiled as he looked at your intertwined hands. “Y’know, I think your plan sounds pretty good. I’m pretty sure I could put up with school if it meant more time with you.” 

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. Luke moved his hand to keep you there, and when you pulled away, a delicate blush painted his cheeks and pure love danced in his eyes. You couldn’t help but smile. 

You were the luckiest girl in the world. 

“Thank you,” you said. 

Luke offered a sideways grin. “For what?”

You shrugged. “For being you.”

“Thank you, then,” he said. 

“For what?” 

“For sticking with me,” Luke said. “Through everything.” 

“I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else,” you murmured. 

-

The second year isn’t any easier. 

Luke is back to being year-round. There’s no point in going home—not when Connecticut hasn’t welcomed him in years. Not when he would just be another problem for your mother in the midst of her grief. 

So he stays at camp. Endures the pitiful looks from everyone, lies his way through attempted therapy with Chiron, trains more than ever before. No one seems to know how to treat him, because he goes from completely alone to swarmed with sympathy to completely alone again. It takes two months before his friends are acting like he’s a normal person again, and even then it still feels like they’re walking on glass. 

Luke can’t find enough inside of him to care. 

He practices with his sword until he feels like his arms might fall off, only narrowly avoiding the harpies each night. His siblings ask how he does it, why he does it, and he just says he wants to get better. 

But Luke refuses to let it happen again—not when his surrogate sister is all he has left. Not when he sees you every time he closes his eyes. 

His birthday comes and goes, but seventeen is empty without you. He replays your past conversations in his head, about traveling together and graduating together and maybe even going to college together. Demigods aren’t meant to think about the future, but he dared to dream with you. 

And the worst part was that you were right. You made varsity. You were in the middle of killing sophomore year, despite Luke struggling his way through with C’s and the occasional D—you had always been smarter than him. You got him out to a Red Sox game, and gods forbid, he actually enjoyed it. 

You were living the life you deserved, a life of happiness and success and with Luke, and you didn’t even make it past sophomore year. You were meant for so much more, and every day he questions why it was taken from you. Every day, he questions why you’re gone and he’s not. 

The year chugs on in all its misery, and for the first time since he all but rejected him as his son, Hermes appears to Luke. 

His father gives him a quest, and he takes it despite the inherent insult of it. Maybe some part of him hopes he’ll die out there and finally get to see you again. 

(Another part wonders if he’s even worth Elysium. Luke lost you once, then he lost Thalia, and now he’s lost you again. Some kind of hero he is.) 

He goes it alone. It takes him back to the first couple of months before he met you, and when the thought hits him, it almost overwhelms him. Everything makes Luke think of you, but it makes sense. He’s only living half a life—he’s missing the other half of his soul. 

Luke fails his quest. He manages to get a claw and he manages to nearly lose an eye. There’s no glory in a repeated quest, but there might be even less glory in this. 

And once more, Luke staggers back to camp as a victim rather than a hero. Someone only worthy of pity, someone so weak that Chiron bans quests unless they’re absolutely necessary. It takes weeks for the scars on his body to heal, and the mark on his face even longer. He becomes well-acquainted with the cycle of Apollo kids that take shifts in the infirmary.  

He feels nothing but disgust every time he looks in the mirror. After all, the claw marks ripping their way through his body match yours. Sometimes he wishes Ladon finished the job. 

It doesn’t make sense why, after everything, he’s still here. 

Luke can hardly stand to be at camp, but he’s got nowhere else to go. He gets better at hiding his emotions, better at acting like he’s gotten through it. New demigods show up and he’s not the bereaved counselor anymore—he’s not introduced with his grief. He hides it away.  

No one wants to deal with all the problems he’s racked up. His mom, his dad, Thalia, you.    He’s a demigod. Demigods are resilient. So he plays the part—he’s been through a lot, but he’s past it. He promises he’s not a burden anymore. He’s just a normal kid. 

And for a while, Luke is almost able to believe it himself. He’s never going to be over you, but he starts feeling like a person again rather than a ghost of one. He’s fully taken over the mantle of counselor again, and he’s actually present during sword-fighting lessons. He even manages to get a six-month-long capture the flag winning streak going on. 

And then Kronos appears in his dreams. 

Luke knows Greek mythology. It’s hard not to pick up a couple things when you’re fighting stuff from the history books, but they teach some lessons at camp. It’s nice to know what you’re up against before you die a brutal death. 

Kronos killed his father. He ate his children. Every wicked deed was done for power, and power is what he offers Luke. 

And maybe there’s something wrong with him, because it’s the first time he’s felt hope since he left Boston. 

Luke finally has an answer to something. He’s been silently cursing the gods for years, trying to figure out a way to tear everything down without getting himself immediately killed, and he’s got one. 

Kronos speaks to him most nights. He remembers the dreams you shared with him in your final year, all the restless hours spent sitting together on the fire escape as he soothed you. You thought Kronos was the reason for it, but he couldn’t have been. His dreams were nothing like yours. 

But still, Luke wonders every day what you would say if you were here, if you knew the treacherous path he’d embarked on. Kronos promised power, freedom, an end to Olympus and the reign of the gods. 

He doesn’t care about power. He just wants to hold you again. He wants to hear your laugh again. He wants to see your smile in more than pictures. 

But he can’t. And he wants to destroy everyone responsible for it. 

So he does everything the Titan Lord asks of him. He hones his skills even further, he lays low, and when the time is right, he steals Zeus’s bolt and Hades’ helm. Luke even nearly beats Ares when he’s caught, but Kronos doesn’t lead him astray—he speaks of divine war, and he gets out of it. 

He continues to see you. Kronos doesn’t lead him astray, but he punishes him for such a close call. Luke wakes in the middle of the night, eyes wide and chest heaving with labored breaths, and he feels your blood on his hands all over again. He sees you die over and over again and he can do nothing to stop it.  

You always told each other about your nightmares. 

That’s the hardest part of it all. You’ve always been so closely intertwined with Luke’s life since the moment he saved you in that aquarium years ago, and he can’t see any way to let go of you. He can’t—even though you’re gone, you’re still a part of him. His first instinct in any situation is to tell you, and it kills him that he can’t. 

And maybe things would have turned out different for Luke if you were still around. He’s never going to forgive himself for your death, and he’s certainly never going to forgive the gods. Thalia pushed him to the edge, but you were the breaking point. Luke is only nineteen and he’s loved and lost more than most.

Maybe things would be different if you were here. But you’re not, and they aren’t. So when a new demigod shows up, covered in monster dust and nearly dead on camp’s doorstep with Grover in tow, Luke doesn’t hesitate. 

He killed the Minotaur, and his mom is dead. Skilled enough to take on a quest, desperate enough to ignore a couple warning signs. Percy Jackson is the boy Kronos told him about. 

So Luke takes him under his wing. Shows him around camp, welcomes him to the Hermes cabin, trains with him one-on-one. 

Something about his spirit reminds him of you. It’s the grit, he thinks. The determination. The refusal to back down even when it’s the smartest option. When he asks about you that night in the Hermes cabin, Luke’s heart stutters. The kid is too sharp for his liking. 

It doesn’t take long before Luke manages to cement himself as one of his friends, maybe only third to Annabeth and Grover. He’s a lost kid that’s been thrust into a world he doesn’t understand, and Luke is the closest thing to a rock most campers have got. 

It’s supposed to just be a guise, but sometimes, he forgets himself. He likes Percy too much—he just feels too much like a younger brother, and that’s not really good for the already growing guilt in his chest. 

Maybe it’s because Luke sees himself in Percy. Someone playing a part he’s not aware of, an unfortunate pawn with no choice in the matter. Luke tries to push it away. Kronos wouldn’t lead him astray—this was the path he had to take if he wanted anything to change. 

But it’s not like that makes it easier. Because gods, Percy has never looked more like a kid than when he’s suited up in armor for capture the flag. It almost makes Luke regret the plan he has to enact. 

Almost. 

Annabeth has a plan as usual, and thankfully Percy plays the part of bait. Luke tunes out of everything else and lets his battle senses take over—things have already been set into play, and now all Luke can do is hide in plain sight. Soon enough he’s got the red team’s flag past the boundary line, and he’s hoisted up onto his teammates shoulders. Luke is almost able to forget what he’s done. 

…Almost. 

A howl rips through the forest, and the hellhound Luke summoned after the start of the game launches itself at Percy. He’s on the ground before he knows it, the flag forgotten in his hand as he rushes over with the rest of the campers. 

For some ungodly reason, Annabeth tries to step in front of him, but she’s thankfully too slow. The monster swipes at Percy and its claws shred through his armor. For a split second, Luke is back in Boston and his chest stills.

Chiron solves the problem with a cluster of arrows, but the camp is in immediate disarray. Clarisse instantly accuses Percy, Annabeth is trying to make sure Percy doesn’t die, and Luke just hopes his shock is believable enough to hide his annoyance. He’s just a scrawny kid—how the hell is he still alive? But then the unthinkable happens.

Annabeth tells Percy to step back in the lake. The instant he’s in the water, what should have been a fatal wound starts to heal. 

And then a glowing blue trident appears above Percy Jackson’s head. 

Luke feels sick as he lowers himself to one knee with the rest of camp. As the hellhound he summoned melts into the shadows, as he stares at the sacrificial lamb of a demigod meant to unknowingly enact his plan. 

“Poseidon,” Chiron says. “Earthshaker, Stormbringer, Father of Horses. Hail, Perseus Jackson, Son of the Sea God.”

Your brother. 

[baphometsss]

On Solas's romantic history

Okay. I know what the consensus is. That he’s way too smooth in Inquisition to be inexperienced but... (and I’m fully prepared to get shat on for this lmao don’t kill me)

When he kisses Lavellan, that doesn’t read to me like he’s super suave and seductive. It reads more like—endeared by them trying to run away after kissing him, then being so surprised by how good the kiss felt, that he grabs Lavellan, kisses them again, pulls back with a surprised look on his face, and then goes in for more. It’s touch-starved, desperate, hungry. It’s not really all that smooth because he’s literally bending them over backwards lmao like Solas can you chill maybe

He is very smooth when flirting with Lavellan, but he's also an absolute gobshite who's spent thousands of years sassing the hell out of wannabe gods so that's not a surprise. He's witty af and enjoys some back and forth.

Solas is a very lonely man. He keeps everyone at arm’s length because he’s seen what getting close to people can do to him. His biggest fear is dying alone, and he almost gives into that because it’s what he believes he deserves for all he’s done. His life has been so stressful for so long that he's almost totally unable to consider anything else but his battles. He even says explicitly that he's tired.

That doesn’t make me think of someone who was out there in Ancient Elvhenan sleeping around all those years. No doubt he considered it, but he likely didn't pursue much with anyone physical; he enjoyed spending as much time as possible in the Fade. (The banter with Blackwall doesn't count to me personally since Solas himself thinks the whole idea is preposterous, which speaks for itself really.) Especially after being a slave/servant to Mythal seems to have voided him of his agency for some time. Then he led a rebellion and fought for thousands of years against brutal tyrants. Any one of the people he was close to could’ve been trying to kill him. Lavellan, however, has no reason to do so, so he can flirt with them freely. In all that time, it seems as though the only people he allowed to get close to the real him were Felassan and Mythal. I don’t think he slept with either, because the relationship was familial. Felassan was also loyal to Mythal, but didn’t burn his vallaslin off. (Is this a right hand/left hand of the Divine parallel again? Two brothers and their mother? Idk, I need to think about that one). For creatures with bodies made from the blood of Titans, they don’t have blood families. They would’ve had to forge their own, which is what Solas did with Mythal and Felassan.

And then there’s his ‘it has been a long time’. Most have taken this to mean that it’s been a long time since he’s been intimate with someone, but given what we know now and that he spent thousands of years in the Fade while his body was in uthenera… I wonder if he’s actually saying-- ‘it has been a long time since I lived in a body’-- ie. ‘it has been a long time since I felt physical drives, a long time since I have felt so physically real’. To me, this makes a lot more sense than the ‘he’s thousands of years old he can’t possibly be a virgin/inexperienced’ take bc like... My friends. It probably didn’t feel like thousands of years to him bc he’s essentially always existed. Time is different for spirits. It’s not like he’s gonna go: ‘well I’m nearly 4000y/o, better lose my v-card’. Time is no object when you are a timeless being. Then, given the path his life took, it wouldn’t make a lot of sense for him to be that experienced given how hard it is for him to trust.

I also personally headcanon him as heavily demisexual/demiromantic too. His true nature is so non-physical that the idea of him being very promiscuous or something just doesn’t fit his character. He needs a mental connection, to feel something, before sharing much of himself, or allowing himself the vulnerability intimacy brings, something he clearly feels with Lavellan based on how shaken up by it he is.

And it’s also canon that Solas has never been in love before meeting Lavellan. So. If he went however many millennia without falling in love, it’s also possible he went without intimacy for a long time too.

To be clear I’m not trying to say that this is the correct conclusion. My opinion has just changed a little since Veilguard (I used to think he was being smooth etc bc he's old af/v experienced, but with confirmation of former spirit Solas it’s changed my perspective somewhat)

Also:

‘Things have always been easier for me in the Fade’

‘I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams’ my man is shooketh guys SHOOKETH

[vrystalius]

Can you please make one where Muzan has this maid he was fond of when he was still human, he'd rest his head on her lap and have her sing to him everytime he couldn't control his temper when he was still human. And bow she's turned into a demon like himmmm

Demon king’s maid

Being Muzan’s maid during his human years made him absolutely smitten for you.

(Muzan x fem!reader, sfw/fluff)

Muzan still remembers the exact feeling of laying his head on your plush thighs while your fingers brush through his black strands. Your skin would feel so warm in contrast to his cold, pale and sickly skin. Your thighs were so soft and squishy and always managed to take his mind off the stupid servants that failed to recreate how he ordered his tea, or his incompetent doctor being lazy and not researching his sickness properly. You are the only person in his estate that did things correctly…

Your singing was the most enchanting thing about you. Your voice, no matter what time or day, always sounded like heaven’s singing to him and only for him. For the duration of your song all his pain would disintegrate, his frustration and anger turning into something similar to happiness and calmness.

But Muzan made peace with never seeing you again.

What a shame that you ran away from him once he became a demon. Muzan would’ve loved to keep you around for longer, maybe even make you his personal demoness-maid. What an honour it would’ve been for you to serve the demon king.

Thousands of years of passed since the last time Muzan saw your enchanting face and felt your touch on his skin. He should’ve caught or at least try to find you. That way, you would had been around for longer. He could’ve savoured your presence, your warmth, your beautiful voice… perhaps he’d even marry you and make you stand right beside him as he demolishes the Ubuyashiki clan an the rest of the Demon Slayer corps.

He’d never thought that if he’d see you again, that he would find you amongst the cultists Douma offered showed off to him. That demon proudly presented you as one of the oldest demons in existence, and oh how happy he is to have you here in the Eternal Paradise Cult. You greet looked different than before, your eyes looked much more tired and scared, your hair a little matted, your delicate skin very dirty, and those robes you’re wearing definitely do not show off the figure you had beneath those sad excuses of clothes.

Muzan bathed you by hand and by himself. He wanted go make sure no other demon even came near you and was able to catch a single glance at your heavenly body. That sight is only reserved for his and his eyes only. His sharp nails grazed over your wet skin as he ran a damp cloth over your shoulders and neck. A small smile rested on his face after Muzan soaked the cloth in the warm water.

“So, you still remember me, hm? Your body tenses when I touch you.” His smile faded away for a moment as he lifted your arm and carefully held it, running the cloth over your soft skin. He felt how your muscles tensed up beneath his touch. A sigh escaped his lips as he leaned down, pressing a kiss on your wrist. Muzan nuzzled into your palm, taking in your perfect features.

“You’ve been hiding from me since day one, after I accidentally turned you.” He planted kisses all over your palm.

“You must’ve been so scared and confused… I am sorry for not being there. But now we can be together, forever. How do you like the idea of you marrying me? If you like, you can continue your… “maid” duties.”

💠

Feels so good to have another ask down! I’m gonna work on them the next few days, I missed it so much! I’ll try to post another fic tonight. Requests are still open!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!

Take care of yourselves <3

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Letters to Christmas: The Letter

Hozier x fem!reader

Author's note: Defying the logic of mail to bring you this subpar fic.

Fic summary Hozier masterlist

Summary: when Y/n's letter to an old flame ends up in the wrong mail box, Andrew decides to respond to a stranger across the pond.

Warnings: angst

Hey,

I know its been a while and I know I have no right sending this after everything, but its hard to see trees go up and not think about you. You always picked the best ones. I caved last year and got one of those plastic ones, from that department store we always went to. Its tall with frosted tips, and fills up that little space between the window and the fireplace really nicely. And there aren’t any pine needles to get caught in the floorboards, so that’s great too, but it doesn’t smell the same, but I guess a lot of things aren’t the same now. I haven’t decorated it yet, not like it matters, there’s no one but me here to see it and it feels awfully silly to decorate a tree that no one else is gonna see.

How’s the job going? And country living? Hopefully its everything you thought it would be, if there's anyone on this fucked up planet that deserves every shread of happiness that comes their way, its you. You deserve everything you’ve ever wanted. Its funny how I used to know exactly what that was and now…..now we’re practically strangers.

Milo’s gone. I can’t remember if we’ve spoken since it happened, but we should’ve, you were his favorite person. But anyway, he was a happy cat, and it was quiet and easy. He just went to sleep on your chair one night and never woke up, he missed you so much, until the very end.

But enough of that.

If you do reply, send me a picture of an Irish winter, hopefully its prettier than Seattle around this time. Though, it doesn’t take much to be prettier than gray skies and slush on the sidewalk. Tell me about what work’s like, and your life there. Say anything.

I don’t know why I’m writing this, I guess I’m lonely. Or maybe bored, like you said. Maybe I’m looking for something that I only ever had with you – maybe I'll never have it with anyone else.

Love always,

Y/n.

There’s something in-between the penultimate and last paragraphs, but its been scratched off with such vigor that it isn't legible in the slightest. The dark patch of ink almost resembles those redacted documents in movies about rouge spies and wayward government agents and it makes Andrew think that whatever the letter’s author had written there must be so personal that they have no choice but to keep it near and dear. Its a secret that can’t be shared with someone she loves so deeply, so why should she share it with him, a total stranger thousands of miles away from her?

Then it hits him – almost an hour after pouring over this obviously personal letter, scrawled in slanted penmanship that reminds him of his own – these words were never meant for his eyes. He’s a stranger looking in, dragging his thumb along a little bleed in the ink that resembles a tear stain like the intruder he is. Its almost as bad as looking into someone’s window, except this person, whose face he’s never seen and whose voice he may never hear, won’t ever know that he is doing something that borders unspeakable.

Or will she?

Andrew has had the overwhelming urge to pen a response since his first reading of the letter that accidently made its way into his postbox. An accident – it couldn’t have been anything but that. It was addressed to a house one block over; 124 Crescent Avenue – his house is 124 Crenshaw Avenue, so he understands the mistake. Though, when he’d bundled himself up and walked over to Crescent Avenue, the house that the letter should have been delivered to was vacant with a ‘for sale’ sign pitched in the damp grass.

He should have taken it back to the post office, but snow had fallen on his mailbox, and subsequently melted, skewing the name on the front of the envelope so much that he could only make out a couple letters. It would have probably just been stamped with the words 'return to sender’ anyway, so really, he’s doing this person a service by offering them the illusion of receipt.

But that’s just an excuse concocted by prying eyes and a curious mind – and it does not deal with the itch to reply.

There’s just something about the ache welling off the page that resonates with him. Coming off a break-up himself, Andrew understands the sense of hopelessness that gets tangled up in an end. The ‘what if’s and ‘what could I have done?’s. Far too often, he thinks about the things he did that caused the demise of his own relationship;

It had started off as blaming her for not trying hard enough to understand him, but eventually, he’d come to terms with his own, albeit larger, role in the matter. Perhaps he should have tried harder to be someone she could understand.

Most days, Andrew tells himself that he’d do everything in his power to be different if she ever gives him a second – or rather third – chance. Though, he has very little faith in his ability to change. But he does know he’ll do anything to have things go back to the way they were before.

Rereading the bit about Y/n’s store bought tree, Andrew contemplates the amount of time he expends lately, watching his own, undecorated tree and thinking about the woman that used to carefully hang tinsel off the branches and hopes that she’s missing him the way he misses her, if only it would mean that she would allow him some undeserved opportunity for redemption.

Sloane. He was so sure it was going to be her for the rest of his life. They'd been together for so long that he isn't really sure that he quite knows how to do life without her.

The way things were, clearly they weren’t very good so why is he so eager to relive them?

He wonders if the writer of the letter in his hand – Y/n – feels the same way about her nameless person. Does she think about all the things she’d change if she had a second chance? She seems as lonely as he does right now, so perhaps she would.

Andrew wonders what she did to warrant the idea that her letter wouldn’t be welcome. As he does, he runs his thumb over her name at the bottom of the page, and suddenly his imagination is running wild with all sorts of thoughts. He wonders what she’s like, how she sounds and if she’s the sort of person that writes letters often. Maybe it was something special between her and the person she’d been hoping to reach, or maybe its something she just does. Anyhow, he likes it. he’s always wanted someone to write to when he’s away. Most of the people in his life prefer texting, because its faster, and its no easy task to converse via pen and paper when you’re on the road, covering three states in a week.

The rest of the day goes by so listlessly that he can’t help but let his mind stray to the letter over and over. It feels almost comical that he's sparing all this time thinking about words on a page, written by someone he’s never met.

By the time he gets to bed at around one am that night, a good fifteen hours since he first read Y/n’s letter, Andrew is staring at it again. The edges have now been softened by the number of times he'd picked it up and the words "Love always, Y/n" are underlined in his mind like a quiet echo, lingering longer than he liked to admit. He keeps wondering what she’d sound like if he could hear her say it which only serves to make him feel even more like an intruder, a stranger peering into someone else’s heartbreak.

Yet, he can’t shake the pull. It isn’t just her words; its the way they mirror his own thoughts. The hollow ache of losing something—someone—without ever knowing if you could have done better. Her loneliness is so painfully familiar, matching his own.

"She deserves her privacy," he mutters to himself, running his fingers over the previously untouched notebook that he’d brought along to bed. He keeps telling himself he’d only picked up because he’s been meaning to flesh out a couple ideas that have been swirling around over the past week. But the only person he’s lying to is himself, and he’s not doing a very good job of it.

Leaning back against the headboard, he exhaled sharply. "But what if..."

The thought was absurd, but it stuck. What if replying made things better, even if just for her? What if this small act of acknowledgment meant she didn’t have to feel like her words had been sent into the void?

Wouldn’t he like it if someone did it for him? He isn’t quite sure.

Nonetheless, Andrew reaches forward, pulls the notebook onto his lap, and uncaps his pen. The words started slowly, stilted, but they came:

Dear Y/n,

We don’t know each other, and I know I shouldn’t have opened your letter……..

Y/n feels awfully stupid about sending that letter, but what makes her feel even worse is checking her mailbox in the lobby everyday only to find it empty. Its been a week since she sent it off, and she’s almost certain that its reached its destination by now.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to you, a small voice insists. Y/n doesn’t think she has any right to grieve over it, she’s the whole reason their relationship met its ugly demise. It was her selfishness, her stubbornness, her putting her own needs over his. So really, she had absolutely no right to the privilege of his time or attention, but that doesn’t mean she can’t miss him.

Shaking off the memory, she slaps the little, brass door closed, locks it and trudges towards the elevator, defeated. Maybe its time to accept that he is not going to write back – maybe its about time she starts accepting that its over between them. For good, its done; she ruined it. She stomped all over the best thing she’s ever had and there’s no use crying about it now – though, after a couple glasses of wine, she probably will.

For almost ten years, they used to be each other’s everything, doesn’t that mean anything to him anymore?

"Ten years, Y/n. Ten fucking years," he stresses, running worn fingers through his wind touseled hair, "you can write from anywhere in the world. Seattle.....Ireland. Doesn't this - us - mean enough to you for you to give it a try?"

As the dull, metallic doors slide closed, effectively shutting out all the activity in the lobby, Y/n presses the worn button that’ll take her to the seventh floor and just when the elevator starts going up, a familiar Christmas tune comes over the speakers. Pressing her back to the cool reflective wall, she finds herself humming along to it. Even if she isn't in the grandest mood, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice never fails to lighten the weight on her shoulders. For a minute, Y/n shuts her eyes and lets a little fantasy take her;

He’ll write back, say he misses her. In another follow-up letter, she will apologize and ask if there’s still any chance for them. He’ll say yes – in her mind, he always says yes because, sometimes, you can love someone enough to give them a second chance.

In her silly little unmade memory, it all works out somehow. They do the long distance thing for a while, until he’s ready to come home to her.

The ding of the elevator startles Y/n out of thought, and with a jump, she pushes off the wall and awkwardly tugs at her cashmere scarf. “So stupid,” she mutters, shoving the strap of her bag higher up on her shoulder, clad in a heavy, gray long coat. Stepping out into the long hallway, she twists her frame awkwardly to reach into her handbag, rummaging around for her keys.

Y/n is within a few feet of her door, the last one down a hall that houses four other apartments, heeled boots wet with melting snow thumping softly on the long strip of burgundy and gold carpet. “Y/n!” The door right before hers swings open with the sort of enthusiasm that can only be mustered up by her eccentric, and frustratingly nosey, neighbor. “I’ve been waiting for you!”

“Gladis,” Y/n tries to hide her groan under a bubbly smile, “me? Why?” God, please let this be a quick conversation.

“Gosh, I swear, its like I never see you,” the older woman bulldozes right over her earlier question, “I'd never think you lived next door if it wasn’t for all those packages that get dropped off – a little shopping addiction, have we?”

Y/n chuckles wearily, quickly thinking up excuses that would validate an escape from the clutches of small talk with Gladis. “Ha, maybe,” she licks her lips and rubs her thumb along the side of her house key, “you know, i’d love to chat but I have a meeting in…..” pretending to check her watch, she summons a gasp that would make her highschool drama teacher proud, “thirty minutes, so I really should get going.”

“Oh, well, then,” Gladis frowns, “let me just give you this, I think your mail got mixed up in mine,” she explains, handing over a brown envelope littered with stamps on the front. “Coming all the way from Ireland, Peter’s out there, isn’t he?”

The envelope feels heavier than she’d expected. It wasn’t just the weight of the paper; it was the promise of something inside. A response. From Peter? Her heart twisted at the thought, but the handwriting on the front didn’t match his neat, precise script. This was different—messier, almost rushed.

Furrowing her brows, Y/n stares at the address that she’s certain isn’t Peter's. “Huh,” briefly, she glances back up at Gladis, “What? Oh, yeah, he is,” she rattles off, now even more eager to muster up a quick good-bye and be on her way. “Look um, I should go.”

“Oh, of course. Busy busy,” Gladis chuckles softly, then, as Y/n starts walking off, she adds in a tone of pesky judgment, “too busy to even decorate, I see.”

Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Y/n slips her key into the lock. Of course, even she can admit how sad and plain her door, lacking a wreath like Gladis’ and her other neighbors, but Y/n just can’t seem to bring herself to decorate. Every time she looks at the boxes she’s pulled out of storage, it makes her a little sad – no Peter to insist on mistletoe in every doorway, or Milo to swat at twinkling lights with his tiny paw. “Yeah,” Y/n licks her lips, “something like that. Take care Gladis,” she manages soberly before slipping inside.

Upon shutting the door, Y/n presses her back to the cool, white-painted oak she gives the brown envelope another long look. She hesitates, her fingers trembling as they finally slide under the flap to tear it open. The crinkle of the paper fills the silence of her apartment as she unfolded the letter, joining the slight shake of her breathing.

Getting it out, the name at the bottom catches her eye first: Andy. Not Peter.

Y/n blinked. Confusion giving way to curiosity as she reads the opening lines.

“We don’t know each other, and I know I shouldn’t have opened your letter...”

A stranger. A stranger had read her words. Her cheeks flushed hot, and she almost crumpled the paper on instinct, shame pooling in her chest. But something stops her. She can’t just do that, not when this stranger has given her time out of his day to offer whatever comfort he can muster up for someone oceans away.

So stumbles out of the foyer and into the living room, dropping herself unceremoniously onto the long sofa as she keeps reading.

Dear Y/n,

We don’t know each other, and I know I shouldn’t have opened your letter but I hope you don’t mind me writing this. I know this is wrong—it wasn’t meant for me, and for that, I’m truly sorry. But I promise you, I tried to do the right thing and take it to its intended address, but the house is empty and up for sale, and the snow has all but ruined the envelope. So here I am, writing to a stranger, hoping I’m not overstepping by responding.

I’m Andy. Well, Andrew. You know, I’m not really sure how to do this.

But your words stayed with me. They remind me of something I’ve lost—or maybe, thrown away. I can’t explain it, but your letter didn’t feel like something I could just set aside. It was raw, honest and that kind of loneliness…….I think understand it. I know what it's like to feel like you’ve screwed everything up. To become a stranger to someone you used to know better than the back of your own hand. Its funny how that happens, how someone can become such a huge part of your life and know everything about you, and you think you know everything about them. And then one day they just…..leave, but you can’t really blame them because its all your fault.

I’m also sorry about your Milo, losing a pet is like losing a piece of your home. But for what its worth, I’m sure he appreciated you being there with him until the end. It's such a simple joy, having someone that stays until the end, not that I would know anything about it. I seem to have a knack for driving people away.

As for your tree, I have to admit that mine’s just as sad. It’s just sitting undecorated in the corner of my living room, looking a bit sorry for itself. I keep telling myself I’ll get around to putting up the lights and ornaments, but it feels strange doing it alone, I used to have someone to help me decorate too. But she’s gone now, and maybe this is my way of avoiding the reminder of what’s missing.

You asked about Irish winters. If I’m being honest, they’re usually pretty gray and the cold kind of seeps into your bones. Wicklow is never short on snow, or rain, so we’re no stranger to slush. And iced-over driveways. But so far, we’ve had a good one this year, no too much rain so the snow stays put – my driveways still frozen, though. Sometimes, at least where I’m from, it gets so quiet, almost like the world’s holding its breath. Its beautiful, its lonely.

I’m not sure why I’m writing this, except that it feels like the right thing to do. I don’t know what you were hoping to find when you sent your letter, but maybe this reply means that neither of us has wasted the effort. If you do write back, I’d like to hear more about your plastic tree—and maybe even see a picture. I’ll send one of mine in return. Let’s make it a contest. May the best tree win.

Take care, Y/n. And thank you for making me feel a little less lonely.

– Andy.

By the time she reaches the end, Y/n’s chest aches in a way that isn’t unpleasant. The tone isn’t mocking or dismissive. Its... kind. Empathetic. This Andy doesn’t know her, but somehow, he understands.

It takes her a handful of minutes to process everything that’s happened; her hope of reconnecting with Peter, this newfound affinity with a man she’s never met. Suddenly, and quite surprisingly, Y/n doesn’t feel the loss so greatly anymore.

Though, the longer Y/n stares at the letter, its neatly folded edges sharp when she drags her fingers along them, the more she starts feeling a tightness in her stomach. The kindness in his tone, the shared loneliness in his admissions, the unexpected warmth that radiated from every line—all of it made her chest ache in ways she couldn’t untangle.

But she can't shake the shame curling in her stomach.

Letting it go, she presses her fingertips to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. What was I thinking? She hadn’t been thinking, that's the truth. Sending that letter to Peter—an impulse born from desperation and the relentless tug of the holiday season—was foolish enough. But now, knowing a stranger has read her most private thoughts, her rawest emotions? Its borders unbearable.

Her cheeks burn at the memory of her own words, the confessions she’d stupidly spilled without thinking. “Maybe I’m looking for something that I only ever had with you.” How could she have written that? Would she even say that to Peter had they been on the phone, or in the same room? Probably not. And now, Andrew—a stranger—had seen it, read it, felt sorry for her.

She swallows hard, a lump forming in her throat and embarrassment suddenly gives way to anger that boils up and makes her skin hot. “He shouldn’t have opened it,” she mutters to the. “He had no right.” But the protest sounds hollow, even to her own ears. The house was vacant, and the envelope had been damaged by the snow. Andrew’s apology seemed sincere, and his intentions genuine.

But writing back to him feels... wrong. Like a betrayal of something she isn’t ready to let go of. She still loves Peter, these are thoughts meant for him, these feelings belong to him – she can’t just give her innermost thoughts to someone else like that.

Y/n spends so long wrapped up in turmoil that she almost forgets that there were other things besides Andrew’s letter in the envelope, until she goes to move it off her jean-cald lap and two photographs slip out. Drawing in a sharp breath, she collects them off the tweed cushion. The first one is of a backyard she’s never seen before, the pool is covered and there are patches of snow gathered near tall trees with white flecks peppered on the bare bones of ornamental bushes. The yard retreats into what she guesses is the forest, and she wonders what it must be like living so close to wildlife; she’s lived in the city all her life with only a couple vacations to the likes of Aspen and Maine – both with Peter – but seeing that much foliage in person is still foreign to her.

The second picture is of a sparse Christmas tree standing in front of a wide, floor to ceiling window. Its so tall, it almost reaches the high ceilings of what seems like a spacious living room. Her finger traces the outline of the tree, and she thinks back on what he said about not having someone to help him decorate. When Y/n turns it over, there note scrawled on the back and it reads: "Mine’s a little sad too."

Then, for the first time in days, Y/n smiles……and the anger wans.

[adventuringblind]

Every Step of the Way

Oscar Piastri x Reader x Logan Sargeant x Liam Lawson

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, sick fic

Summary: With a new diagnosis, sometimes things can be confusing and scary. Oscar, Liam, and Logan do their best to help make things as easy as possible.

Warnings: Authors limited knowledge of cancer and chemotherapy

Notes: To the requester, I hope this brings you some comfort. I understand the fear of a new diagnosis. It's a difficult things to navigate.

Masterlist // Request Form // My Website // buy me a Ko-Fi

The appointment feels like it was years ago, yet she's still sitting in the office. The weight of the words sinking in, the new diagnosis still registering.

Cancer. The single word nobody wants to hear. It is a life changing thing that could pose to be fatal.

And right now, she feels alone. At the mercy of her own emotions. Her phone buzzing beside her, but her consciousness is too far away to notice it.

She hadn't been feeling well for some time. Oscar had suggested seeing a doctor, but she claimed allergies. She'll have to admit to him that he was right (again, as per usual).

The boys have been busy lately, off racing and traveling. She's been stuck home trying to get through all these appointments. The one time they are home, she wishes they weren't.

How is she supposed to tell them her body is trying to kill her? They have too much going on in their own lives right now to worry about her on top of it. The lovely anxiety she's been having over being a burden to her boys sets in once more.

She hates it. These dejected emotions want to escape from her via tears. Yet they don't come. They pool in her eyes instead, just on the cusp of sliding down her cheeks.

Her phone buzzes again. She looks at this time and sees the spam from Liam and Logan asking if she's been kidnapped or something. So much for not worrying them.

She drives him in silence. Only her thoughts to keep her company. The ones that tell her maybe she did something to deserve this. She thinks back to anything that could've cause this kind of karma.

She pulls into the driveway and tries to put a smile on her face as she walks through the door. "I'm home!"

Liam nearly tackles her to the floor as he scoops her up and tosses her onto the sofa. The one all three of the boys have turned into the perfect comfort spot with blankets and snacks and a movie already on the screen.

“Figured you might want some reprieve after your appointment.” Logan tosses a blanket over her.

“You don’t want to now the results?”

Oscar wraps an arm around her and tucks her close to his chest. “You were supposed to be home two hours ago. whatever it is, we can talk about it after you’ve had some time to wind down.”

She ends up falling asleep during the movie. the comforting presence of all three boys has her mind drifting off to somewhere that isn’t her own failing body.

She tries to soak up the normalcy of it all before things get worse. The voice in the back of her head is telling her that they won’t want her around when she’s too exhausted to do anything. when she starts draining their bank accounts because of all the medical bills.

The sleep she got was restless despite not waking up. They’d moved her to bed at some point. The cuddle pile and soft snores tell her it’s probably still early.

She maneuvers herself out of bed without waking the boys. A dance she’s done a thousand times before.

The glass of water is in her hands, but she doesn’t remember walking into the Kitchen. Everything is too much right now.

Her knees find the floor and the water spills everywhere. The glass shatters when she throws it in anger.

So much for not waking anyone.

Footsteps hastily make their way towards her. She can hear them whispering as they come around the corner and see the mess that she’s made.

“Love, I’m gonna come get you alright?” Strong arms wrap around her and bring her off the floor. She zones out listening to the song clatter of glass being picked up.

Back on the sofa again. The boys don’t push but she can tell they want answers. all three of them share nervous gazes.

“Cancer.”

She waits for anyone to say anything, to get angry and scream, maybe even cry. Instead she is hugged with such a gentle kind of love that she breaks. The tears don’t stop until she is dehydrated and choking.

“We’re not leaving you, alright? This diagnosis doesn’t stop us from loving you.”

The next week is torture. Getting ready for and starting chemotherapy is a nightmare.

It hurts, she’s sick, and the exhaustion makes everything worse.

But she also has people around her who love and care. They stick with her on the bad days and the worse days. they make the best out of the good days.

Oscar makes sure she sleeps, Logan makes sure she eats, and Liam tries to kidnap her when the other two get over protective.

It’s certainly a hard road. Some days are harder and she can barely function, but she’s trying.

Plus, it does help having people who love her around.

[sctigthethird]

Bubbaverse incorrect quotes I got from an incorrect quotes generator cause why not

(disclaimer, might be a little ooc for some of them idk)

Bubba Badass by @blues-of-randomness

Clay Paclayderm by @funny-critter-blog

Dumba Dumbaphant by eggrit0s

Manny Mammoth by @anothersmilingcrittersau

Reborn (R!) Bubba, Tusker Tiredon, Selfish(S!) Bubba by me

OG Bubba: *Holding up a picture of a seemingly young anime girl* WHO IS SHE?! IS SHE TWELVE?! 
Badass: No! She's a thousand years ol- 
OG Bubba: *Cocks shotgun* 
Badass: NO! NOOOOOOOOOO-!

Clay: Do you know the ABCs of first aid? 
Dumba: A. Bone. Coming out of the skin is very bad.

Badass, at an awards show: Well, first of all, I’d like to thank Manny, the homie of my life, for telling me Clay was going to win so I shouldn’t bother preparing a speech.

R! Bubba: A mosquito tried to bite me and I slapped it and killed it. 
R! Bubba: And I started thinking. 
R! Bubba: Like, it was just trying to get food. 
R! Bubba: What if I went to the fridge and it just slammed the door shut and snapped my neck? 
Tusker: Are you ok…?

Clay: Does anyone know how to relax? Asking for a friend.

S! Bubba: Well you see, the explanation is perfectly simple and scientific. It was because shut up. Shut up is why.

Badass to Manny: We smell of sweat and loss.

Badass: We’re getting married (platonically), bitches! 
Manny: And we're about to make it everybody else's problem.

Manny: Don’t worry, I have a permit. 
OG Bubba: ...This just says “I can do what I want”.

Clay: Quacking in my boobs over this 
Clay: QUAKING* 
Clay: BOOTS* FUCKER.

Manny: Anybody got any crayons so I can color in my Ph. D.?

Tusker: I only have 6 weeks left to live…
OG Bubba: Oh my god, really?! 
Tusker: It's just a guesstimate based on the choices I've made…

OG Bubba: You’re a loose cannon, Manny. 
Manny: No, I’m not. I’m a cannon, maybe, but a loose cannon? Is that what you think of me? 
Tusker: I think you play by your own rules…
Clay: No way, they think rules were made to be broken. 
OG Bubba: Those are all attributes of a loose cannon. 
Manny: No, I’m just a reckless renegade. R! Bubba is a loose cannon. 
R! Bubba: *smashes a chair* Aah! You shut your trap, Clay! 
Clay: I’d say R! Bubba’s more of a cop on the edge with nothing to lose. That’s an entirely different thing. 
Tusker: Now I’m just confused… Is Manny a loose cannon or not?…
OG Bubba: All right, put on a pot of coffee. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this. 
Clay: *groans* 
R! Bubba: Aw, man.

Clay: :) 
Manny: >:( 
Clay: Turn that frown upside down! 
Manny: ):< 
Clay: Not sure what I was expecting...

Manny: God has let me live another day and I'm going to make it everyone's problem.

R! Bubba: What the fuck. 
R! Bubba: ESPN is showing 2003 national jump rope championship. 
R! Bubba: Who the hell watches jump rope competiti- ooh bouncy.

Clay, to S! Bubba: Are you peanuts? Because I want to boil you alive.

Clay: What starts with F and ends with Uck? 
Manny: No it doesn't. (completely fucking with them)
Dumba: Firetruck! 
Badass: FUCK!

Dumba, holding a kettle: Coffee or tea? 
Clay: Tea. 
Dumba: Wrong! It's coffee.

Badass: I really like Eminem. 
Dumba: I prefer skittles. 
Clay: They are talking about the rapper. 
Dumba: Why would they eat the wrapper?

OG Bubba: Badass, are you drinking… drinking hydrogen peroxide-?
Badass: It says H2O2! That means it’s the sequel to water!

OG Bubba: It's called cauliflower, not ghost broccoli. 
R! Bubba, eyes wide: I know what I saw.

Manny, to OG Bubba: If Badass doesn't say "I'm King of the world" within an hour on that boat, I will give you my next pay check. 
Badass, within 5 minutes of getting on the boat: I'M KING OF THE WORLD!!!

Dumba: We’re going to a candy store?! 
Clay: No! It’s nighttime, candy stores are closed. 
Badass: We’re gonna ROB a candy store?!?! 
Clay, sighing: No-

Tusker: I’m doing my best…
OG Bubba: You’re not doing anything. 
Tusker: Yes… that’s what I’m best at…

Badass: Why aren’t you sleeping?

Manny: I’m too busy plotting your murder to sleep, Badass.

Badass:

Manny:

Manny: ...The nightmares.

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Betrayal part 2:

Synopsis: Sam and Dean are at odds after what happened, and Sam tried to make up for his mistakes

Author’s note: not my best work, but I wanted to wrap up the fic a little more, so enjoy!

Sam had never wanted to share a bed so badly in his life. In all the years that he and Dean had been responsible for you, it was always a good day when he got a motel bed to himself. He and Dean would trade on and off with who had to share a bed with you, and who got a bed to himself.

But now, it had been two weeks since the demon blood incident. Fourteen nights, and each and every one of them you slept in Dean’s bed, even after Sam had completely detoxed from demon blood.

Sam was beginning to wonder if it was you choosing this, too scared to be that close to Sam without Dean in between you, or if it was Dean, too angry at Sam to trust him near you.

Either way, each night was just a reminder of how completely and utterly he had screwed up. He couldn’t decide what was worse; his own guilt eating away at him, the way you seemed to gravitate towards Dean whenever Sam got too close, like you were looking for protection, or the way that Dean refused to let you anywhere alone with Sam. And Dean was barely speaking to him, which was also pretty bad. Dean wasn’t one to hold grudges, at least not against family. But this was different. If Sam had failed you somehow, that would’ve been one thing. But this was so much worse. Failing you as a big brother would’ve been letting you get hurt somehow. But what he did…

He didn’t let you get hurt. He hurt you.

That wasn’t something he was ever going to forgive himself for. But a little part of him was still holding out hope that Dean could forgive him. He wasn’t worried about you forgiving him, he was pretty sure you already had, which almost made him feel worse. The idea that you could forgive him so quickly, before you’d even stopped having nightmares about what he’d done to you, just made him feel even more like a monster for hurting you.

Dean, however, wasn’t about to let this slide. There was nothing Sam could do except try his best to make up for what he’d done, although he had no idea how.

“Hey, we gotta case,” Sam snapped out of his thoughts just in time to catch John’s journal that Dean had thrown at him.

“What is it?”

Dean shrugged into a jacket, “Not sure. Three mysterious deaths, only about an hour away. I’m gonna go talk to the families, you do some research.”

Sam noticed you putting your coat on and frowned.

“And she’s going with you?”

Dean turned, “Yeah, and?”

Sam scoffed.

“Well she’s a little young to pass for an agent.”

“So she’ll wait in the car.”

Sam glanced at you. You didn’t seem ready to jump into the conversation, so he kept going.

“Or she could stay here. Work on homework, help me with research. It’d be easier for everyone.”

Dean placed a hand on your back, leading you out the door.

“Nah, she’s fine. Have fun.”

The door slammed shut before Sam could protest.

…

Sam was ready and waiting with everyone’s favorite fast food order when you and Dean returned to the motel.

Dean gave him a gruff nod, but Sam grinned when you smiled at him. Any little thing that showed him you were coming around was basically Christmas morning. Well, not his definition of Christmas morning, but a normal person’s.

Sam and Dean compared notes on the case while you sat on one of the beds watching tv. By the time the boys were done, Sam looked over to see you fast asleep.

Dean stood, heading for the bed, but Sam grabbed his arm.

“You should get your own bed,” he insisted. “You need a good night’s rest, you did all the leg work today.”

Dean shrugged his hand off.

“I’m fine.”

Sam scoffed, “It’s more than that, Dean. You can trust me with her.”

Dean gritted his teeth.

“I would’ve thought so too, two weeks ago.”

“Dean, I’ve apologized for that a thousand different times, an-and I’m trying to make up for it! Let me do that.”

Dean stepped away from Sam and sat next to your sleeping form on the bed.

“No, Sam. You do what you think you should, try to make amends if it’ll make you feel better. But that won’t include asking me to trust you. Not after this, not until I say so. You don’t get to make that call.”

Sam dragged his hand over his face, dropping his head so he wouldn’t have to look Dean in the eye.

“Alright, yeah. Your call.”

…

Sam awoke to the jarring feeling of someone shaking his shoulder. He bolted up to a sitting position, eyes scanning for some kind of danger. Instead, he vaguely made out your figure in the darkness, standing beside his bed. He remained alert, unsure of why you would’ve come to him.

If you were in danger, surely you would’ve just woken Dean, who wasn’t even six inches away from you. The soft sound of your crying made him feel both relieved and hurt. If there was a danger, you’d be yelling, not crying, but he’d really prefer neither to be happening.

“Baby, what is it?” Sam kept his voice quiet, not wanting to wake Dean.

“The demons…the demons got you,” you were trying to whisper, but the lump in your throat made it hard to get the words out quietly. “And-and you wouldn’t wake up, and I-I thought…” you broke off, your whole body shaking as you tried to breathe through your sobbing.

“Hey, hey,” Sam pulled you into his arms, letting you climb up on the bed with him. “It was a dream, you were dreaming, honey. I’m ok, I’m just fine.”

“You wouldn’t wake up,” Sam felt you fisting his shirt in your hands, pulling him as close as possible.

“It’s ok, I’m awake. I’m sorry, N/N, I must’ve been sleeping pretty deeply.” Deep sleep was a pretty rare occurrence for him, and he was annoyed that now was the time for it to happen. How long had you been trying to wake him up, afraid that he was dead?

“It felt so real,” your tears had stopped, but you still clung to Sam with all your strength. He held you as though you were made of glass, too afraid to hold you tightly. Perhaps he was too used to being treated as dangerous.

“I know it did, I know,” Sam rested his chin on top of your head. “But it wasn’t. I’m ok. You should go back to sleep.”

You shifted in his arms, turning your head up to look at him.

“Can I stay here?”

If you weren’t so distressed, he would’ve grinned.

“Of course you can.”

He tried to lay back on the bed, and his stomach twisted when he noticed that you wouldn’t let go of him, not even for a second. He didn’t pull you away, instead he held you tighter and struggled a bit to lay down with you still in his arms. He didn’t want to scare you anymore than you already were, so if that meant letting you Velcro yourself to him, that was alright by him.

Once he was settled back on his pillows, he felt you shift so that your head was resting in the middle of his chest. He felt your whole body instantly relax, and he knew you must be listening to his heartbeat. He kept his arms around you, almost as comforted by your presence as you were by his.

To think that you were ok with being this vulnerable around him, even if it was because of your nightmare, made him think that maybe, just maybe, everything would be ok again.

…

Dean awoke with the sense that something was off, and it took him a moment to realize what. He was alone in the bed.

He forced himself to remain calm as he scanned the hotel room. Surely you were around here somewhere.

His brief look around gained him nothing, so he quickly stepped out of bed and did a thorough sweep of the room. Nothing; even the bathroom was empty. He was about to head out to see if you’d gone outside to stretch your legs, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

A flash of Y/H/C nestled under Sam’s chin, the lump under the blanket too big to be just him. When Dean stepped closer, he saw your face, leaning against Sam’s chest, the two of you breathing softly, almost in sync.

At first he was taken aback, then confused, then torn. He still didn’t trust Sam, he couldn’t, not after what he’d done to you. Dean was determined to keep you at arm’s length from Sam, and he was even more determined to keep you close to himself. He hadn’t been watching you closely enough, and that was why Sam was able to hurt you in the first place. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

But at the same time, there was only so much he could do if you were this determined to forgive Sam. If you were this ready to just hop into Sam’s bed and fall asleep next to him, without Dean’s protection between you and Sam, how was Dean supposed to protect you?

He didn’t have long to ponder his dilemma, however, because just then Sam started to stir, and you let out a soft whine when he sat up, dislodging you from your comfortable place using him as a pillow.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes, turning his head to look at Dean. “Hey. We got any new leads?”

Dean just shook his head, his eyes still trained on you as you sat up groggily, rubbing your face.

Sam followed Dean’s line of sight before turning back to his brother, shrugging and mouthing, ‘nightmare’.

Dean resisted the urge to grit his teeth. A nightmare? He should’ve expected that would be the reason, but lately your nightmares had been about Sam hurting you. So why had you gone to him?

“Can we get breakfast? I’m starving,” you mumbled, slipping off the bed and walking up to Dean. Dean couldn’t help the way his body relaxed when you were close to him, close enough so he could protect you if he had to. He was really starting to hate this part of him; somewhere, deep inside, he knew that Sammy wouldn’t hurt you, but Dean’s protective nature wouldn’t let him let go of the image in his head, the image of your blood running down Sam’s chin, seeing you cry out to your big brother to help you, only for him to hurt you.

He wanted to trust Sam again, he really did. But that image was seared into his brain, and as long as it remained there, so did Dean’s instinct to jump between you and Sam any chance he got.

“Dean?” Dean blinked as your hand waved in front of his face. “You ok?”

Dean cleared his throat, a light smile coming to his face.

“Yeah, I’m good. Look, we got some work to do here, so why don’t you grab us some stuff from the vending machine for breakfast, alright?”

Dean handed you a few dollars, and you shrugged and left to find some food.

“When did she…” Dean barely waited for the motel room door to close before he turned to Sam.

“I don’t know, middle of the night sometime. Look, I know you don’t want me near her, but she was really freaked. I wasn’t about to push her away.”

Dean shook his head, “No, and I wouldn’t want you to.”

“Ok,” Sam sighed. “So what do you want?”

“I don’t know. I know I want her to be safe.”

“She is,” Sam’s voice was resolute. “She’s safe with me, I promise. Look, I know how bad I screwed up. I know I hurt her. I would do anything, anything, to undo that, but I can’t. And I know you’re never going to forget this, and that’s fine, because neither am I. I can live with that. But what I can’t live with, is you keeping her away from me. I need to show her, and you, that I’m sorry. And that this is never gonna happen again. So, do what you have to do, hate me, keep me in the doghouse forever, but just…just don’t keep her away from me.”

“I wasn’t trying to take her away from you,” Dean stood, checking out the window to make sure you weren’t coming back yet. “I just needed…” Dean dropped his gaze from Sam’s penetrating stare. “I need to keep her close, Sam. You think you’re the only one who screwed up here? You were in detox, and I didn’t watch her close enough.”

“Dean, it’s not your-“

“Yes, yes it is my fault,” Dean interrupted Sam before he could finish the thought. “You were unhinged, and unpredictable, and I didn’t keep her close enough. And she got hurt. I can’t let that happen again, she won’t get hurt on my watch, never again.”

Sam nodded, “Ok. I mean, I don’t agree with you but I get what you mean. So what, you just can’t let her be alone with me, ever? Because you think that-“

“No!” Dean cleared his throat, trying to calm himself before he spoke again. “No. I’m just saying…I’m not trying to shun you from her life. Just know that…and if I start to get a bit overprotective, or if I don’t let you near her sometimes…I just wanted you to know that it’s not all you. It’s not just you that I don’t trust, it’s me.”

Sam gave Dean a melancholy smile.

“Ok then. I get it.”

Dean nodded.

“Ok. So…I’ll try to give you a little more room with her, but you gotta let me be protective sometimes.”

Sam’s smile turned real.

“Deal. Hey, I understand protecting her. I’m her big brother too.”

Dean returned the smile, “I suppose you are.”

The door to the motel room opened, and you entered with an armload of snacks.

“Sorry it took so long, the close one was busted to I had to walk all the way around.”

Dean ruffled your hair and snatched up a bag of pretzels.

“Thanks, squirt.”

You looked between the two brothers, and they knew that you were sensing the difference in atmosphere already.

“You guys good?”

Sam smiled at you and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, reaching over you to grab his own snack. He was happy to see that Dean didn’t tense in the slightest.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re just fine.”

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith thinks he might actually sink into his bed, that’s how goddamn tired he is.

It’s just been — such a long day. Painfully long. Keith thought dragging his brother out of Black’s astral plane would make things less stressful, but nooooo. Of course not. That would be too easy. Of course Shiro decides he doesn’t want the Black Paladin title back, and that, actually, he’d like to retire. Of course Keith can in no way find it within himself to force his brother, who only ever wanted to explore, back into the crushing expectations of the leader of the universe’s strongest weapon.

So. It’s just — a lot.

There weren’t even any missions today. Honestly, Keith prefers mission days — they’re a one-and-done kind of deal. You fly into battle, you think you’re gonna die, you panic about your friends dying, usually no one dies, you either complete the mission or you don’t, you go home. Of course there’s the soul crushing terror and overuse of energy that comes at the price of actual genuine years off his life, but that’s so clearly a Future Keith problem. Once Keith parks Black into the hangar he can Stop Thinking About it, except of course for the horrifying and endless nightmares.

But all this planning shit is horrendous.

First of all, Keith is an action guy. An investigation guy too, sometimes, if there is conspiracy involved (and/or some fuckass has challenged him in any way no matter how minuscule), but what he is not is a tactician guy. A planning guy. That kind of shit is for people who have crippling anxiety and are plagued with constant thoughts about how everything can and will go wrong. That’s why it’s a job for Lance. And Allura. And Hunk. And Shiro.

But not Keith. Keith prefers to walk blindly into dangerous situations and deal with whatever is thrown at him after. Black Paladin Keith, however, motherfucker that he is, has to sit down in meetings for a thousand hours and listen to people argue and try not to wish death and curses upon a myriad of irritating Coalition leaders and allies.

Keith needs a goddamn nap.

Not even bothering to take off his boots, and ignoring the Lance-shaped voice in his head squawking about how disgusting that is, Keith stuffs his face into his pillow, reaching blindly for a blanket and yanking it up to his ears. He is going to Sleep, goddamnit. He is going to keep his comm where it is, stuffed under his mattress, and pass the hell out, to be woken only by some terrible and glorious act of God herself. The universe and all its associates can take an hour to kindly piss the hell off and leave Keith alone.

A knock sounds on his door.

Keith screams. Loudly.

“Keith?” calls a voice, muffled through the doorway, and of course it is the one person in the entire world who Keith has never and will never be able to say no to.

“Hnnnnnngh,” Keith responds. He actually tears up, a little.

The door slides open. Hunk pokes his head in, smile sweet and guilty and hopeful.

“I’m going to swallow engine oil,” Keith anguishes.

“Maybe don’t,” Hunk suggests lightly.

Keith groans again, shoving his head back into the pillow. Hunk patiently waits for Keith to get his shit together enough to lift his head again. Probably because he knows he’s more effective if he can manipulate Keith via facial expressions. Ugh. Keith should ask if he can return his friends. Get store credit, maybe. It’s not worth it.

Hunk smiles sunnily when Keith manages to pull away from his pillow, proving his point. Keith scowls extra hard at him.

“I am busy, Hunk.”

“I need parts,” he pleads, hands pressed together and under his chin. “Pretty pretty please.”

“You have a lion that you can pilot yourself!”

“I need the parts for the lion. Duh.”

Keith groans again. He should say no. He probably can say no. If it was urgent, Coran would be flying the castle for the parts. Hunk is coming to Keith because he knows damn well that Keith is a sucker with a saviour complex. Keith is not going to give in this time.

…Except he is so. Because he is a sucker with a fucking saviour complex.

Fuck.

“You’re bumped down to third favourite,” Keith grouches, rolling off the bed and allowing himself three seconds to sprawl on the floor.

“Yeah, right,” Hunk snorts.

Keith growls. Hunk, wisely, chooses against anymore teasing or commentary, deciding instead to quickly back away and head back down to his workshop.

“Okay thanks Keith bye! Love you bunches!”

Keith rolls his eyes, fighting off the smile that traitorously wants to fight it’s way across his lips, and reaches for his comm to get the details of Hunk’s errand.

“I am going to fucking bite him,” he says, carefully controlled, as he reads the message.

MISSION SHOULD YOU ACCEPT: get parts for hunk because you love him so

OBJECTIVE: obtain 174g of Noxalian black ore (pure as possible)

PEOPLE NECESSARY: two so you should take lance probably ;)

LOCATION: Noxalia-1242

DANGER LEVEL: like -2 but you’re so whipped for lance that it probably brings it up to like a 12 lol. loser

He’s red in the ears and it’s goddamn annoying, is what it is, because these are official mission documents, Hunk, which means they are technically public Coalition information once the mission has been completed. Public.

Hunk is the worst out of all of them for that. He actually had the highest record of diplomatic incidents caused, because he is actually physically incapable of keeping his comments to himself and this can, as one might anticipate, offend a large number of people.

But since he is a good fucking friend (the best, maybe) especially because his friends are class four menaces who do not deserve it in the slightest, Keith drags himself away from his bedroom and towards the materials room, where he knows Lance is.

He makes his frustration known.

Despite the fact that he was stomping like a petulant child and Lance has ears akin to the sonar receptors of a Navy submarine, Lance doesn’t react when he comes into the room, hunched as he is over a project of his.

Keith stops short. He grins wickedly, mood suddenly shifted.

Oh ho.

Oh ho ho.

Quieter, now, although he knows it doesn’t matter, Keith creeps towards the Red Paladin. He makes sure his footfalls are soundless and soft, just like he was taught by the Blades, and his body is directly behind Lance, in the blind spot of his peripheral vision. He focuses on the chair Lance is sitting on rather than his actual person so as to not envoy the feeling of being stared at. And quietly, quietly, he sneaks up behind him.

“RAH!” he shouts, seizing Lance’s shoulders and shaking them. Lance shrieks at the top of his lungs, jumping twelve cubic meters into the air, flailing wildly and sending his sketchbook flying at Keith’s face. Lance’s aim, as it always is, rings true, and the spine of the heavy book nails Keith directly on the bridge of his nose.

“Ow!” Keith yells, pain made worse by the heaving gasps of his laughter.

“¡Chingada madre de cráneo grueso!” Lance screams, hand pressed to his chest, and then, for Keith’s benefit, continues: “You mother fucker! You backwards, tumbleweed-guzzling, sand-eating, cow-fucking son of a minotaur! I’ll fucking get you! I’ll fucking — crush you to death! Come closer, Kogane, I swear to God I’ll wreck your shit —”

Breathless, weak, and wheezing, there’s nothing Keith can do to avoid Lance’s menacing advancing. He can’t even summon the strength to lift his arms to defend himself from Lance’s smacking. He just sits there, taking it, laughing harder every time he remembers just how fucking high Lance had jumped.

“You fucking — stop fucking laughing! Asshole!”

Lance’s expression is only growing more murderous. His mouth is pulled back in a snarl and he sure are shit isn’t pulling his punches. The only thing assuring Keith that he’s not genuinely about to die, curled on the floor, completely devoid of dignity, is the ever-present warmth in Lance’s brown eyes, even as they’re narrowed in fury.

“I — I’m sorry,” Keith wheezes, loosely wrapping his hands around Lance’s ankle as he kicks him. “Please. Oh my God. Stop. I cant breathe.”

“I hope you suffocate!” Lance shrieks.

“Lance, please,” Keith begs. With more strength than he knew he had, Keith heaves a giant, calming breath, shoving the image of Lance’s face as he’d practically flipped off the chair far into the recesses of his mind. Fuck. “I’m sorry. You were so focused. I couldn’t resist.”

Lance huffs. He kicks Keith one last time for prosperity before plopping on the floor next to him, scowl still affixed to his face, but lips twitching with a clear attempt to keep it there.

“I’m allowing your amusement because I laughed today when Senator Grmsx called you a toad. But watch your back.”

“Noted,” Keith says with amusement. He sighs, breath shuddering with the last of his laughter, and stretches out, sliding his feet under Lance’s thighs and resting the back of his skull on the floor. He stares at the ceiling until his vision gets unfocused and blurry, making the glowing blue streaks warp and swirl. He smiles slightly when he feels Lance’s arm hook around his bent knees.

“I got conned,” he laments, flipping his arms behind his head.

Lance hums. “Hunk?”

“Yep.”

“Capitalised on your intense need to do things for your friends to send you on errands?”

“Mhm.”

“Sucks to suck.”

Keith tucks his folded hands under his head and looks up at Lance, smiling in a mirror to Hunk, earlier, sweet and guilty and hopeful. “Well…”

Lance pulls away, waving his hands. “Nuh-uh. No way. You’re not dragging me into your shit, Superman. You want to help everyone around you like the tryhard golden retriever you are, that’s a you problem. I’m a bitch on purpose so I can be errand-free.”

“Please?” Keith tries, batting his eyelashes. The thirteen year old version of himself in his head is dying of embarrassment. (Good. He can suffer for a bit. He used to insist on sleeping on the floor because sleeping on a bed was ‘too mainstream’.)

Lance glares at him. Keith can actually physically see his resolve breaking. He’s very smug about it.

“Ugh,” Lance says.

“Thank you,” Keith says, smirking.

“Ugh,” Lance says again, much more pointed. “Where are we even going?”

Keith climbs to his feet, offering a hand to pull Lance up, too. He stretches and shifts his shoulders, leading them both out of the material room and down to the hangars.

“Noxalia-1242. Hunk needs some kind of ore.”

Lance gasps, dropping Keith’s hand. It is then that Keith realises that they were holding hands, and chokes on his own spit.

“Noxalia-1242? You sure?”

“Yes,” Keith rasps, still dying. Lance doesn’t notice, beaming so wide his eyes are nearly forced shut. He lets out this shout of excitement and wiggles, a little, like he can’t contain himself, and it’s so fucking cute that Keith somehow chokes again, which he didn’t think was possible. There’s a genuine concern that he may pass away.

“You should’ve led with that! Let’s go let’s go let’s go!”

He sprints the rest of the way to Black’s hangar, dragging Keith along. Keith tries desperately to get ahold of himself. It works about 27%, which is way more than he was expecting.

Lance is practically bouncing in glee the entire trip, scrambling out of his seatbelt and twirling around the cabin the second they breach the castle’s orbit. He’s actually humming to himself. Keith’s grinning so wide it hurts, and he doesn’t even know why they’re excited. Lance is just — infectious, as he always is; bright and all-encompassing and sparkling.

It’s a struggle and a half to land, and not just because Lance is being distracting. (Or, well, that Keith is distracted by him. It’s not really Lance’s fault. Keith was once distracted by Lance yawning, for reasons he’s too embarrassed to admit even to himself.) The surface of the planet is slate grey and thick with swirling, furious clouds, and it’s a testament to Black’s power that they manage to stay mostly steady, because Keith is a good pilot but he well and truly can’t see shit. The landing is rough.

“C’mon, c’mon!” Lance urges, out of his seatbelt faster than Keith can blink and rushing him to get out of his. “Let’s go!”

“I’m coming, Jesus,” Keith mumbles, finally releasing that damn buckle. He has to sprint to keep up with Lance, following him to the slowly opening hatch.

When they get to the open door, Keith is assaulted with a gust of frigid air and a spray of water. He curses, ducking to the side, hiking his collar over his head so he doesn’t get too soaked. He wishes he’d known to bring his armour.

“Fuck, it’s — pouring!”

Lance laughs, delighted, and before Keith can even think to stop him he sprints down the ramp, into the rain, soaked to the bone immediately.

“Lance! Lance — come back here! What are you doing?!”

But Lance only laughs again, and Keith can’t hear it because of a roar of thunder but he can see it in the giant grin on Lance’s face, open-mouthed, and the way he squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back and opens his arms to the skies like he’s worried the rain isn’t soaking enough of him.

“You’re going to get pneumonia, you anaemic dumbass!” Keith shouts.

“Come join me!” Lance shouts back.

The worst part is that Keith doesn’t even think.

He stumbles down the ramp without even a second of hesitation, before he’d even realized he’d moved, cursing the whole time, shocked with the sudden onslaught of cold and windy and wet. There’s something about the way Lance said it, not come out here not it’s just rain, dorkus not come get wet!, but come join me. Like it’s not about the rain but about the rain with Lance.

The very iron in Keith’s blood is pulled to him like the world’s strongest magnet.

“If I wanted to get soaked for no reason I’d jump in the pool fully clothed,” Keith grumbles, but there’s a breathless quality to his voice that cannot he muffled.

For the first time since he sprinted out of Black like a madman, Lance tears his face away from the heavens, looking at Keith with eyes that seem impossibly dark with from the reflection of the clouds, almost black as the storm.

“You hate the rain?”

“Yes!” Keith says emphatically, but he hears his own voice like a distant echo, far away. Lance’s laughter is bright and feels louder than the thunder, like clinking gold bangles. Keith’s heart drops to his stomach and his eyes go wider than planets.

Lance turns, slowly, hands still spread wide, face easy and open and peaceful in a way Keith has never seen on him, turned back up the the pelting rain, every droplet doing something to him that makes him glow.

“How could anyone hate the rain?”

Suddenly, wholly, breathlessly, Keith doesn’t. His collar slides from his slackened fingers and flops back over his neck, soaked through. His hair plasters to his forehead and it’s wet and cold and water drips directly into his eyes but suddenly he is warmed from the very centre of himself, ricocheting outwards.

“It’s breathtaking,” Keith finally admits, and he is, this son of the skies, this boy of the rain. He is the most breathtaking thing Keith has ever seen in his life.

He swallows, tilts his head up to the sky, and smiles.

———

based on this post

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Part 17)

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

“People of Panem, we fight, we-” Katniss freezes, staring at her own reflection. Makeup done, hair styled to perfection, holding up a stick for the camera. This isn’t real. This isn’t war.

“Does she know the line?” Plutarch asks, into the microphone, for all to hear.

“I know it.” Katniss shakes her head to clear it.

“She’s just warming up.” Effie explains. Even she has joined the effort, leaving behind her drab quarters for Katniss.

“Alright, let’s go again. Whenever you’re ready.” Plutarch instructs.

Y/N sways, soothing her tired infant to a sleepy submission on the opposite side of the glass. Daisy May is not fond of sleep, especially with the world bustling around her.

Katniss gets back down on one knee. This is take three.

“Maybe if you show her.” Cashmere whispers to Y/N.

“Might not be a bad idea.” Plutarch watches the mockingjay, with a hand to his head.

“Yeah?” Y/N is willing to try.

“Here,” Cashmere puts her arms out, “gimme the baby.”

Y/N looks down at her daughter, kissing her tiny nose and handing her off.

She fusses for a moment, in Cashmere’s hold.

“Shh,” the blonde coos, allowing the baby to take a fistful of hair. “It’s ok, my Daisy.”

The little girl sighs, closing her grumpy eyes, never letting go of Cashmere’s waves.

“Ok, Katniss, Y/N’s coming in to do a demonstration. Just follow her lead and we’ll go from there.”

“Yeah, ok.” Katniss’ eyes scan the reflective surface, searching for her.

A second later, her mentor pops through the connecting side door. She is not made up, or wearing some crazy outfit, her stylist squeezed her into; she is just Y/N. Somehow that is enough.

“I’m a method actor, obviously.” Loved her fake husband so much that their staged marriage became a real one.

Not that Haymitch is any better. Content to kiss the ground where she walks, if he couldn’t be with her.

The joke lands only with Plutarch and Cashmere. Katniss thinks she understands, but doesn’t find it all that funny.

“First thing’s first, I’m gonna move around a little, get the blood flowing, get that shortness of breath.”

Katniss moves with her, trotting in place like a show horse.

“Good, now we’ll go down on one knee.” Y/N demonstrates and Katniss follows. “Slowly and with some effort, I’m gonna rise to my feet.”

“Because you’ve just been in battle.”

“Exactly,” Y/N smiles, before her features harden.

She is a thousand miles away, just stormed the outskirts of the Capitol. The ease with which she shifts from one to the other terrifies Katniss.

“People of Panem, we fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice!”

Even with the wind and the stupid stick in Y/N’s hand, raised in the air, Katniss almost believes it. This is the type of person that fuels a rebellion.

She was the people’s victor. She won her own way, same as Haymitch. So Snow manacled them together and scarred them with his brand.

The more Katniss learns about Y/N the more her heart aches, for the indifference she held toward her for so long. To know her is to love her and it’s a shame that not many people ever did.

“Yes! That was perfect.” Plutarch exclaims, “Katniss, now you try it. Just like that.”

“O-ok,” Katniss stammers.

Y/N moves aside, switching places so that Katniss is on the pedestal.

Katniss repeats the words verbatim, copying Y/N’s performance as best she can. She only agreed to be the face of the revolution after seeing what happened to district twelve. After seeing the reaction to Peeta’s interview with Caesar, she knows this is the only way to protect him.

There’s a slow clap from the corner, growing closer until he steps into view. The top of his blonde hair covered by a dark knit hat. “And that is how a revolution dies.”

Katniss glares at Haymitch, his hand resting at Y/N’s waist, as if no time has passed between them.

“Is this how you greet an old friend?” Haymitch cocks his head to the side.

“Maybe I don’t recognize you sober.” Katniss bites out.

“I guess it looks as bad as it feels.”

Y/N turns to him, whispering something Katniss can’t make out.

He offers her a smile and a chaste kiss.

Katniss sees herself and Peeta. The way they might have been, ten years down the line. Peeta would love her like that…and she’d love him the only way she could.

It would bubble up and swell in her chest, until she burst. Just like Haymitch, pouring from an empty cup.

————————————————————————

Katniss sinks down in her chair, as the propo plays for the team. Wishing she could melt into it, disappear. No one’s going to buy this.

Y/N rubs at her back, “it’s not as bad as you think.”

“You’re right,” Haymitch cuts in, “it’s worse.” He’s always been a tough love kind of guy. Even with an infant strapped to his chest, he isn’t brimming with compassion.

Y/N rolls her eyes, “not helping.”

“Indulge me for a moment.” Haymitch holds both hands up in surrender. “Lets everybody think of one incident where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you.” He moves to the digital display, in front of the meeting table. “One moment where she made you feel something real.”

“Ooo,” Effie waves a hand. “When she volunteered for her sister at the reaping.”

“Excellent example.” Haymitch uses his forearm to clear data from the screen. He’s observed enough of Y/N and her tablet over the years, this technology is no different. “Hope that wasn’t important.” He steals a glance over his shoulder, before scribbling in, ‘volunteer 4 sis,’ with the stylus.

“And when she volunteered for Y/N.”

“When she sang that song for little Rue.”

Haymitch adds it to the list. “You know Effie, I like you better without all that makeup.”

“Well, I like you better sober.” The woman says in return, causing Haymitch to glare at her.

“When she chose Rue for an ally as well.” Beetee chimes in.

“Now, what do all of these things have in common?”

“Nobody told her what to do.” Gale understands better than anyone.

“Unscripted,” Beetee agrees, “yes. So maybe we should just leave her alone.”

“And wash her face.” Boggs narrows his eyes, “she’s still a girl, you made her look thirty-five.”

Katniss smiles at this.

“The opportunities for spontaneity are obviously lacking, here below ground.” Plutarch points out. “So what you’re suggesting is that we toss her into combat?”

“I can’t sanction putting an untrained civilian into combat for effect. This isn’t the Capitol,” Coin argues.

“Oh, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. Put her in the field.” Haymitch knows this is the only way.

“No, we won’t be able to protect her.” The president looks to Y/N now. Surely she is not onboard with this.

“It has to come from her, that’s what people respond to. You want a symbol for the revolution, she cannot be coached into it. Trust me, I know.” Haymitch presses on.

“He’s right,” Y/N sighs. “It’s not ideal but…it’s our only option.”

“Maybe there’s someplace less dangerous.”

“District eight, they sustained heavy bombings last week. No military targets left.”

“We can’t guarantee her safety.”

“You’ll never be able to guarantee my safety,” Katniss adds. “I wanna go.”

“And if you’re killed?” Alma’s words hang heavy between them.

“Make sure you get it on camera.”

————————————————————————

“You realize this is dangerous, let alone highly irresponsible.” Haymitch remarks, watching his wife load her gun. The bullets are color coded; black for regular, yellow are incendiary, and red for explosive. Though they’ve been asked not to fire the red ones down here.

“Yeah.” Y/N cocks the gun, squeezing the trigger and letting the bullet fly. She’s gotten better with practice, now hitting her target at dead center. “You don’t approve?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying, Haymitch?”

“As your former mentor, I’m not inclined to advise you waltzing into a war zone.” You search for water. High ground, stay away from the cornucopia.

Y/N nods, “and as my husband?”

“I’m even less inclined.” Though his feelings for her have shifted over the years, the need to protect her is fierce and unwavering.

“I can’t lose Katniss.” Not like we lost Peeta.

“Yeah,” Haymitch huffs, “I get that.”

She sets down her weapon, on the steel table in the training room. “I’m a good shot.”

“You are.”

“I’ve been working on my stamina, I’m almost back to where I was before Daisy.”

Haymitch won’t deny it. “You’ve got good aim, you’re fast, resourceful and a little bit scrappy. You can survive in harsh conditions.” You’re my victor. “But there’s a hole in your uterus the size of a dinner plate.”

“Was,” Y/N corrects him. “The doctors cleared me for this.”

“I watched you almost bleed to death; twice. So you’ll have to forgive me for being reluctant to let you risk your life. I understand that this is important to you-”

She turns, cupping his cheek, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I wouldn’t want you to go either. I love you too much.”

Haymitch affords her a soft grin, “that always gets in the way, doesn’t it?”

Y/N lifts a shoulder, “somehow I just keep getting sucked in deeper.”

“You keep getting sucked in?” He chuckles. “I was perfectly content on my own for over a decade, before you put your hooks in me.”

At this she laughs, harder than she should. “Don’t make it sound so romantic now.”

Still his arms are around her. Y/N’s at the nape of his neck, toying with the hair that has started growing in with gray peppered throughout and makes him feel every bit his age.

Their lips meet, by her accord or his own; he can’t say for certain. Y/N bids him closer. Deeper, harder, more. I’m yours. Nothing more, nothing less…just hers.

“Stay off him!” Cashmere scolds from the entryway, effectively breaking them apart. “It’s like you’re trying to singlehandedly repopulate this hellhole.”

“Our contribution to this great nation,” Haymitch salutes her.

————————————————————————

“We’ve gotta be quick about this. Get in and get out.” Boggs orders, as they file out of the hovercraft. Nobody wants the mockingjay on the ground for long.

Introductions are brief. Commander Paylor, of district eight, shows them to the makeshift hospital.

Bodies of fallen civilians line the entrance, covered only by tarps. “There’s a mass grave, about two miles west. But I can’t spare the manpower to move them.”

This place is a breeding ground for infection. All the wounded in one place, nothing sterile in sight.

“Don’t film me in there. I can’t help them,” Katniss says to Cressida, as they move farther into the masses.

“Just let them see you,” the woman insists. She left the Capitol for this, she knows what she’s doing.

“Come on,” Y/N gives her shoulder a squeeze.

Katniss opens her mouth to speak but Y/N disappears into the crowd, helping nurse the wounded.

There is someone in the corner; no one tends her, she is alone and clearly suffering. A bucket of water, with a single sponge inside, sits beside her, bandages to the left.

“I’m surprised they let you out just to show face. Thought you were more important than that.” The woman from district eight says.

“I’m not here to show face. I’m here to support Katniss and what I believe in.” Y/N takes a seat, beginning to clean her wounds.

“You sure this is the side you fall on?” She chokes out. “There’s no fancy parties or big houses here.”

Y/N lifts a shoulder. “I never liked the parties and the house wasn’t very homey. The only good thing about it was my family inside.”

“People used to look up to you.”

“That was a long time ago,” Y/N murmurs.

“They will again.” The woman is sure of it, “and when they do, make sure you’re ready. Make sure you stay on the right side of things.”

“I was just trying to survive, couldn’t see beyond that.”

“He’ll kill you for this.” President Snow. “For standing with us.”

Y/N nods, with a tired smile. “Yeah.”

“Then why are you here?”

“This is what I believe in…a new Panem. Where we are equals and have a say in our own lives. It’s worth the risk. It’s gonna take all of us, every person in every district, we all have to fight for it.”

The woman presses her lips together, allowing Y/N to dress her wounds. She says nothing else, looking up at the victor, from time to time. I see you.

It feels good to be seen, by a stranger who owes her nothing. Someone to see her without the tainted film of rose colored glasses.

————————————————————————

“How have things been since your release?” Dr. Aurelius inquires.

“Alright, I guess.” Haymitch is not here of his own free will. “Never gonna be good, given the prohibition you have going on around here. But I’d rather be with my family than locked up a mile away.”

“Tell me about your family.”

“My son’s name is Everest, he’s ten. My daughter, Arista is six and Daisy is four weeks old. Then obviously Y/N and her family. Katniss.” Peeta.

“Were they planned? The children.”

“Yes and no.” Haymitch scrubs a hand over his face.

“Can you explain what that means?”

“I don’t want…” Haymitch pauses, “our children are not burdens, Y/N and I have always said that. Those kids are everything and I don’t want that getting twisted. Ever.”

“Of course.”

“Snow gave us deadlines and we met them. With Everest and Arista, we had a year. In that year Y/N needed to be pregnant.”

“But not Daisy?”

“They screwed around with Y/N’s birth control. We’re fertile people, it doesn’t take much.” Haymitch admits.

“And your marriage, would you call it a happy one?”

“Yes, by my account. But I’m sure she’s told you all about me.” This is a joke, for the most part.

“I can’t say much, as it would be a breach of confidentiality. Still you should know, she speaks highly of you. She loves you very much.”

Haymitch drops his gaze.

“Where did you go just now?”

“Nowhere.” Haymitch brushes it off, “I was just thinking.”

“Thinking about Y/N?”

“Isn’t it fucked up how someone like that could love someone me?”

“In what way?” Dr. Aurelius asks.

“I mean you’ve met her.” Haymitch huffs, “had a few sessions.”

“Sure.”

“She’s special.”

The doctor lets him speak.

“She’s a good person. She’s smart and she’s funny and she deserves the world.” Haymitch shifts in the chair, “she got me instead. Not exactly a fair trade.”

“I don’t think she feels that way.” The doctor informs him.

“Hmm,” Haymitch mulls it over.

“From the sound of it, you have always been very protective. Now you tend the children, so she can aide the rebellion. That must be hard for you.”

Haymitch scoffs, “I want to chase her down and bring her back.”

“Then why haven’t you.”

“If you love something, you set it free or some bullshit like that.”

“You love her deeply.”

“Coin offered to ‘dissolve’ our marriage. Did Y/N tell you that?” Haymitch changes the subject.

Aurelius sighs, “she didn’t mention it.”

“Tell me, oh great one, what does that mean?”

“Her mind is made up about you, Haymitch. Whether it’s right or wrong, no matter who deserves what, the heart wants what it wants. You are what she wants.”

“I want her too,” Haymitch snaps.

“You’ve mentioned that you struggle with the fact that Y/N didn’t get to choose you as a partner. Yet each time she does, you cannot accept that she is choosing you. As though you feel unworthy, unlovable.”

“Is that your official diagnosis?” Haymitch wonders, making no effort to confirm or deny.

The doctor flips quickly between entries in his notebook. “There is no distinction in any area of your relationship, a true lack of boundaries. All of your triumphs and failures, all of your sadness and your joy, is either sourced from her or the lives you’ve created together.” Dr. Aurelius tosses both hands up. “The greatest tragedies ever written are love stories, after all.”

Part 18

Series Taglist: @praline357 @flowercrowns-goodvibes @justheretoparty420 @avocadotoastwithegg @treehouse-mouse @emo-markie @spilled-mi1k @magical-spit @greaser9902 @jessicamellarky @yourebuckingkiddingme @smuha2004 @sendhelplease @ninimackbrews @wittiestrain184 @r1dd1kulus @erenluvr69 @helpimhyperfixating @jackierose902109 @jellybear455 @dreammgc @dadbodfanatic-x @ftdtcmlovr @inky-sun @ms-brek-ker @undercover55655 @mischiefmanaged21 @avoxrising @koiphisch @drwho-ess @daisydaisybilly

[greendest1ny]

here you go guys have a preview of the fic that's been taking all of my attention away from beautiful boy (darling boy)

tw: grief, injury description, smell of a corpse described... freshly revived garmadon himself should be a warning /hj

preview

Lloyd sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders as he sat on the stairs leading up to the temple, his dao sword perched beside him. The surrounding canal chilled the already freezing early January air, and the remaining dampness on Lloyd’s skin and hair didn’t help that, gooseflesh rising on his arms.

It was over. His father remained to enjoy his eternal rest in the Departed Realm, and the Sons of Garmadon were on their way to be interrogated and then locked away in Kryptarium Prison for the foreseeable future.

Then, why did he feel like it wasn't over? There were no more loose ends to tie up, and there was nothing left to account for except where they should hold the celebration party for their victory. It was finished, and onto the next villain, wasn't it? That’s how it had been for the past five years of Lloyd’s life.

Lloyd jolted upright as Kai gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. His face flushed a light lavender as he stood up and turned to face his brother in all but blood.

“You coming with, buddy?” Kai asked, his lips upturned into a small, sympathetic smile as he gently squeezed Lloyd’s shoulder. “We're gonna go back to the bounty, get some food from Chen’s, freshen up, and hopefully sleep if the Sons of Garmadon decide to go peacefully.”

Lloyd opened his mouth to reply. It sounded like exactly what he needed; greasy food, his family, and his bed. There was nothing left for him here, these villains had been successfully thwarted just like the rest. But something still felt so indescribably wrong here. “I just... I need to make sure that he's definitely not here. I know we stopped the ritual and everything, but..” Lloyd paused, rolling his shoulders and making a vague gesture. “You know?”

Kai nodded. “Well, I’m not going to let you go alone.” The brunette told him, rising to his feet and already walking in the direction of the temple of resurrection. Lloyd could tell from Kai’s relaxed gait that he knew that Garmadon couldn't return. He was probably only doing it to soothe Lloyd’s worries like he had a thousand times before.

“Wait, Kai.” Lloyd blurted, walking to be beside Kai as the man stopped to listen, an eyebrow cocked. “This is..” Lloyd’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish’s as he searched for what to say. “This is something I think I need to do alone.” He finished, busing his hands by messing with the sleeves of his hoodie.

Kai scrunched his nose and pursed his lips. “Kid, what if there are any Sons left in there? I don’t want you to be ambushed. And I know what you’re like with your communicator.” Kai said, not unkindly.

It was true, out of all the ninja, Lloyd had broken and lost his communicator the most. Lloyd shifted his weight from foot to foot, fixing his gaze on the floor. He knew he was right, he just didn’t want to admit it. “I was irresponsible back then, Kai. I can take care of myself for the most part now.” Lloyd reminded him. Maturity and responsibility were important qualities in any ninja, but especially the green ninja. He couldn’t continue being chaperoned by his big brother his whole life.

Kai sighed, rubbing his temples. “That’s… True.” The fire elemental admitted, looking down at his little brother again. “But you promise your communicators working, and if anything goes south -- and I mean anything -- you’ll haul ass and get out and call me?”

Lloyd nodded dutifully, reaching a hand up to his ear and tapping the small communicating device that sat there. “You can hear me through this, right?” Lloyd tested, to which Kai nodded.

“Yeah, yeah.” Kai hummed, and then poked his brother in the chest “Just don't do anything stupid, okay? And be back before half-ten. This place is way too creepy.” Kai groaned, cringing at the temple looming before them

Lloyd couldn't help but chuckle, a small grin plastering his features. “Okay, Mom.” Lloyd rolled his eyes playfully, yelping a little and then relaxing as Kai pulled him into a bear hug, wrapping his arms around Kai’s torso in return.

Kai huffed humourfully, and then pulled away, ruffling Lloyd’s hair. “I’ll bring the bounty ‘round, just let me know when you’re coming up.” Kai said fondly, walking back to join the other ninja.

Kai was right about one thing, the temple of resurrection was pretty off-putting. Lloyd sighed, and he walked into the temple again. The strange, spinning floor mechanism had long since stopped, and the portal to the departed realm had shut before his father could pass through.

There was no reason to be here, not unless he wanted to wallow in his sorrow, which in all fairness, maybe he did. Once he reached a place secluded enough, where none of his fellow ninja could catch him, he let his emotions run wild for the first time since his father died. His hands balled up into fists, and a shuddering breath left his chapped lips as his face began to dampen with hot, salty tears.

First master, he missed his father. He missed his father so much. Some part of him had hoped that the Sons of Garmadon would have succeeded in bringing his father back, just so Lloyd could be with him again. Even if he truly was as evil as the Sons claimed he would be, Lloyd would've been able to bring him back to the light. He’d done it before, and he’d do it a hundred times over again if it meant he could have his father back.

He thought he was over it. Over the constant emptiness and rage and misery that consumed him whenever he thought about his father and the fate that had befallen him far too soon after Lloyd had gotten him back. Though, in all honesty, even if his father had to sacrifice himself after an eternity spent with Lloyd, it still would’ve been far too soon.

But Lloyd wasn't over it. He never really would be. The grief would never leave him. It had just become a part of him, like being a ninja had, like being a student at Darkley’s had.

It was a vicious cycle with seemingly no end in sight. He’d be fine, doing something mundane and insignificant, something totally and utterly unrelated to his father, and then he'd think of his dad, and he'd be crippled by grief.

It was hard to think of the good memories, not because there weren't many, but because every time Lloyd thought of his father he'd just drown in his sorrow, in his eternally persevering love that had nowhere to go.

Worst of all, some part of him, the childish, idiotic part of him, was angry. He was angry that his father wasn’t selfish enough to let another serpentine war play out, because Lloyd would’ve fought that war again and again and again if it meant that his father could be by his side. He was angry that his father was so willing to die, to leave him behind again, even if he was sacrificing himself for not only the world at large but his son. He was angry at Destiny for the shit hand it had dealt his family.

He was angry at Chen for instigating the first serpentine war, and the traumas it must’ve caused his father. Lloyd may have been a child at the time, but he knew that his father didn’t wake up screaming some nights because of any normal nightmares. He knew that normal nightmares didn’t leave you shaken for the next couple of days and unable to return to sleep until exhaustion caught up with you and forced you to. He knew that these traumas, Garmadon’s ineffable love for him, and his unending desire for redemption were what made his father so determined to stop another serpentine war from occurring.

But mainly, Lloyd was angry at himself. He’d said such horrible words to his father, just moments before his father condemned himself to the cursed realm. He’d wasted precious time reminiscing on the past when he should’ve been focused on the present. He was angry at himself for not finding another way to stop the rampaging anacondrai cultists.

Just that last gripe alone had left him with countless sleepless nights, thinking up a thousand alternative ways to defeat them. A reforged flute? A technique they still needed to learn? Setting the cultists against each other?

Some part of him also knew none of it would work. Destiny doesn’t compromise nor stop for anyone.

Lloyd didn't know how his uncle did it. He'd known Garmadon for his entire life, he’d grown up alongside him. But he supposed that living thousands of years made you rather experienced in grief, didn’t it? But still. No matter how many times he'd asked Wu how he was so okay, his only response was ‘It gets easier.’

Yet, it felt like it never would.

After a moment, Lloyd unclenched his fists and wiped his tears away, taking deep breaths in a useless attempt to soothe himself enough to focus again. He sniffled and stood up straight. Lloyd opened his eyes again and tried to ignore the searing misery.

The temple was far colder than the rest of the remains of the palace. It was freezing to the point that Lloyd could see his breath, and Lloyd was genuinely unsure if it was so cold because it was so close to water, or if it was because it was night, or even because of the dark magic that had been committed there. He continued to walk around the temple grounds, his eyes flitting around to search for anything that might just look like his father.

He still felt that hope. That incessant desire for his father's return. Lloyd knew there was no point in feeding into it, into the wishes of a selfish child who was not acting like the ninja master he was supposed to be. There was no point in being here.

His father was dead, and it was going to stay that way.

Lloyd turned to leave, but the sound of rocks falling caught his attention. He looked around before he spotted what had made the noise. The pedestal upon which Harumi had placed the necessary items for the ritual, had been cracked open, leaving it in two halves. Lloyd’s hand drifted to the hilt of his dao sword from where it hung from his hip, cautiously approaching the area.

The smell of rotting flesh swiftly assaulted Lloyd’s nose, and all he could do in response was rest his hands on his knees, hunch over and gag involuntarily. He didn’t know how he knew it was rotting flesh, but he supposed that was the sort of thing you knew as soon as you smelt it. Lloyd sucked in a few deep, shuddering breaths and swallowed back the spit that had accumulated in his mouth. He continued over to the stone table, his sneakers tapping quietly along the stone floor.

The teenager peered down at the broken pedestal, looking inside of it and placing a hand on one half of the stone to brace himself. The hollow base of the pedestal was stained with ash and pebbled with debris, but most concerningly, purple blood was splattered across the stone and left in a puddle within the rubble. An uneasy mix of hope and terror settled into Lloyd’s bones. Lloyd only knew of three people whose blood was indigo: himself, Master Wu, and his father.

It was then that the Lloyd smelt the wafting smoke, seemingly coming from every direction, as the canal’s air did little to negate it. It clouded his vision slightly, adding to the overwhelming sense of dread that pooled in Lloyd’s stomach. Any smoke from any fires that the Sons of Garmadon would’ve lit would not be this thick after so long.

Lloyd backed up, adrenaline rushing through his body as his hands began to tremble. He turned to run, only for him to run into a wall that seemingly hadn’t been there before.

It didn't feel like a wall. It felt like metal. Cold, hard metal. But metal didn't breathe, metal didn’t stink of the ozone-like stench that clung to one's skin after travelling between realms, and rotting flesh.

Lloyd took a step back, and then another, and he looked up from the stone floor.

Grassy green eyes were met by fiery red.

Garmadon was frozen where he stood, and Lloyd was in a similar position.

His father was wearing the garb of a samurai, locks of white hair peeking out from beneath the kabuto. His visage was almost identical to how he’d appeared while the Great Devourer’s venom was infecting him. He looked like an oni, the villains in old Ninjargon folktales. He had four arms again, along with those unnaturally long and curved canines that never left no matter what form his father took. His skin was stygian with ivory markings along it. Just from a guess, Garmadon was easily eight feet tall, as he looked like he’d tower over a fully grown Master Wu with ease. A tail with a large tuft of white hair on the tip whipped around behind him, and his legs and feet were more like that of a feline.

Most concerningly to Lloyd however, there was a gaping hole in his father's chest. It oozed violet blood and ran so deep into the oni’s chest that Lloyd could easily see the alabaster of his father’s ribcage, and the porous, mauveish-grey of Garmadon’s lungs, and how they shuddered, expanded, and then deflated cyclically with the effort of breathing.

Garmadon was dead silent, staring down at Lloyd as if he were nothing. Like he didn’t even know who the boy before him was.

Lloyd gazed up at his father, eyes wide and full of love, longing, and uncertainty. “Father?” Lloyd uttered quietly, almost reverently. This had to be some cruel, demented fever dream. He must’ve collapsed after the Sons of Garmadon were arrested, and this was some sort of delusion. This just.. couldn’t be real. Could it? His father was standing before him, alive and breathing. His father.

Garmadon seemingly snapped back to reality, his eyes narrowing as he pushed past Lloyd, nearly knocking the boy over. “She... Calls... Me...” He hissed out, his voice gravelly and low. It was devoid of any warmth or affection his father used to regard him with when he spoke, it sounded more like he was talking to one of his many incompetent lackeys from his time as a villain, or even to one of their enemies during his time as a ninja master.

Lloyd quickly recovered and his confusion only grew. “What do you-” Lloyd paused. Harumi. Harumi was calling him, wasn’t she? She just couldn't leave his family alone, could she? “Father, wait! Don't listen to her!”

Garmadon seemingly ignored him, continuing to walk in that stilted, off-kilter manner. Like the reanimated corpse he was. His movements were unnatural and stiff. He smelt almost like chlorine bleach and rotting, burning flesh.

“Just wait a minute! Let me talk to you!” Lloyd pleaded again, grabbing one of Garmadon’s lower arms. “Please, father!”