#if they have time to hear you then they might fight back and if you kill someone in a fight it wouldnt feel /as/ sleazy as sneakin up behin

[moonsnqil]

aftg au where neil/nathaniel died in baltimore and andrew knows he's dead, he didnt stop fighting until he had autopsy reports and a closed casket in front of him. andrew knows he died that night but a week later, a week spent rotting and shoving everyone away, he sees neil. blue eyes clear as water, his hair still glows in the sun, when andrew reaches out he knows none of this is real. neil josten is dead, matt has an empty dorm and someone is already adding nathaniel wesninski to a true crime podcast. he knows none of this is real but it's easier to accept a hallucination than it is to accept that he failed, that another person has been snatched away from him. so andrew goes to practice and sometimes he misses balls because neil is on the court aiming left but aaron shot right. he goes to edens and can feel neil's weight behind him as he carries the drink tray back to their table. he watches nicky play games on the xbox and he hears all of neil's commentary. when he's alone, he talks to neil. andrew had always been great at being silent but never with neil. and he knows none of this is real but it's easier to confide in neil now that he's so intimately familiar with his absence. they trade truths and secrets and neil tells him about oklahoma and andrew knows they never talked about oklahoma and he's just remembering a conversation he heard on disney channel when he was eleven. he lights two cigarettes and sees neil smoke it but doesn't dwell on how quickly the flame dies out. he only mentions it once, to bee. when he says "i keep seeing neil" and bee says she understands, people leave traces of themselves all around us, he never brings it up again. it's not like she's wrong on that front either. neil's locker still has an unwashed jersey inside, the phone charger he never used is still shoved somewhere underneath the passenger seat of the maserati, all the clothes andrew bought him are still in a drawer. matt doesn't spend a lot of time in his room anymore. when andrew says "i hate you" and he truly means it, neil says "i know" and his cheeks dimple. andrew knows this isn't normal, nothing about this is okay, his mental stability is a far cry from being good but he thinks maybe having neil beside him, haunting him like this, is better than a reality where andrew is alone. so they follow each other around like ducklings and wymack looks at him like he's a ticking time bomb because in no world does neil josten die and andrew simply moves on. andrew's nightmares have shifted from being seven and begging to watching neil fight for life on a grimy basement floor but it's okay because when he wakes up he gets to hold neils hand and it's a little cold but the divots between his knuckles feel the same as before so he can blame it on the weather. andrew watches neil's banner go up next to seth's on the court and andrew almost wants to laugh because seth is dead but neil is right here, neil is talking about being court, but no that's not right either. neil is dead, andrew knows this. but then how could neil be dead when he's still buying andrew ice cream and pushing all his buttons? they sit a little too close to the edge of the roof nowadays and neil tells him that they could fall but they might not die because it's only four stories so really it's no guarantee. neil tells andrew he has to be careful because what about aaron, what about kevin, his deals and his promises. he keeps his promises, it's what he's good at. he's pretty sure kevin knows something is wrong but is trying to pretend like it's not. they're the same in that regard, really. andrew knows neil is dead, abby's files label him as deceased, but he thinks he likes being haunted. if it means neil is still there, still planning a future and running his mouth, andrew thinks he could convince himself baltimore never happened. maybe neil was never something tangible to begin with.

[queensunshinee]

So sweet- part 2 || Patrick Zweig x reader, Art Donaldson x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: SMUT (mention of p in v sex, oral sex), mention of an eating disorder, family drama, death in the family, cheating. It's a mess.

Word Count: 7.9k

(Part 1)

So sweet- part 2:

Art leaned against the doorframe as he looked at you. Since your back was to him, you hadn't seen him yet, and he felt like he had the upper hand. As if he didn’t need to be defensive. As if he was still part of your life. Your hair looked shorter than the last time he saw you. But then again, the last time he saw you, you told him you never wanted to see him again, so maybe he didn’t remember all the details as well as he’d like to.

Maybe he felt that "never" was subjective. That everyone could choose what to take from the word "never." That a year and a half without speaking to you was enough "never" for him, and you'd be a hypocrite if you said it wasn’t for you too. "Are you going to stand there much longer, Donaldson?" Your voice sounded the same. He'd recently discovered he hated a lot of things, but at the top of his list were all the times you called him by his last name instead of his first.

"You really do have eyes in the back of your head," he tried to joke, but he didn’t hear you laugh, not even a chuckle. He hadn’t seen your face yet, but he could guess you weren’t even smiling. "Aren’t you supposed to be in Atlanta?" you asked. If he didn’t know you, he might have thought you were fine. That this was just polite conversation between two acquaintances who hadn’t seen each other in a while and ran into each other by chance. "My first match isn’t for another two days. I couldn’t miss the funeral," he said quietly. "I’m really sorry for your loss, you know that, right?" He took a few large steps and sat on the bed next to you, hoping you’d give him this moment. Hoping you wouldn’t be angry. Not when he was trying so hard.

"She was a mean drunk," you muttered. "Not a huge loss," you added, glancing at him for a second, allowing yourself to surrender to the moment. He recognized the piercing gaze. Maybe a wrinkle that wasn’t there before, but your eyes were the same eyes. You were the same girl he used to love. Used to. Used to. Used to. Before he went on his path in life and you on yours. Before he made a decision, and then you made a decision, and then both of you made decisions. Before words were said. Before he left and you stayed. Before he opened up and you shut down. Used to.

"You’re a grown man, you should know how to tie a tie by now, don’t you think?" you asked, probably trying to lighten the sadness that filled your childhood room, located right across from his childhood room. He wanted to thank you for that. But he never knew how to talk to you honestly. Why would he start now? "Tashi usually does it," he said quietly, and you stood in front of him, starting to adjust the damn tie. You had no idea what you were doing to his heartbeat. "I’m sorry about your grandmother. I was at your parents’ house afterward. I don’t know if they told you," you mumbled.

He was so angry at you for not coming to the funeral. Because by what right did you take his tragedy and make him consumed with thoughts of you? About your absence. About your hand that could’ve held his tightly, just like you did when he was eight, and Jameson died. Instead, he held Tashi’s hand. She didn’t squeeze. She let go after a few minutes. He was so angry that at his grandmother’s funeral, more than anything, he missed you. So now, a few minutes before heading to your mother’s funeral, he squeezed your hand for a moment while you adjusted his tie, looking at him with big eyes filling with tears you refused to let fall. "Better," you said.

He didn’t think it was better. He didn’t want to argue. He just nodded. . . . Patrick couldn’t focus. Every time he hit that stupid ball, he thought about the fight he had with his dad a week ago and the dumb argument he had with you before leaving for Atlanta. He hadn’t told you yet that his parents decided to cut him off from the trust fund. He hadn’t told you that he was basically broke. Sometimes Patrick thinks you’re the only person in the world who looks at him like he understands something about life. Like he’s capable of pulling off magic at any given moment. Sparkling eyes and a smile. He wonders when was the last time you looked at him like that. It’s been a few good months. He can’t deliver. Not the damn ball and not in real life.

He hesitates. Everything he does comes with a certain delay. He knows that at 24, he’s expected to understand who he is and what he wants from life. But what he wants from life doesn’t want him back, and that’s something he’s not willing to accept. He blames his parents for the fact that he’s too spoiled. That he doesn’t know when to stop. That he can’t let go of dreams. That he has to be the best, even though he’s drowning in his own mediocrity. He moves too fast between knowing how good he is at what he does and the harsh slap of reality that comes with each of his failures. Every tournament he loses in the second round, every person who was once in his life and doesn’t want him anymore. They found something better. Something more put-together.

He saw Tashi from a distance for the second time in the last two days. Always alone, Art wasn’t with her. He wondered why Art wasn’t here. He knew Art was competing. Everyone knew Art was competing. The rising star of American tennis. Motherfucker. His dad screamed it at him when he lost it a week ago— “I wish Art Donaldson were my son, maybe then I wouldn’t be so ashamed.” Patrick won’t tell anyone that it hurt. Not because he cares what his shitty dad thinks of him. Not because he cares that Art is succeeding on an international level, breaking into the world’s top ten. Fulfilling all the dreams they once dreamed together. Patrick cares because he knows that at any given moment, he could beat Art. He’s better than Art. So how is it that Art is ranked eighth and Patrick is a nobody? No one takes him into account.

“You planning to embarrass yourself in another tournament?” Tashi’s voice crept up behind him. “You know that if he competes against me, I’ll win, right?” he asked. Overconfident. Always overconfident. “I know you’re ranked 243rd, and he’s ranked 8th. It doesn’t matter who wins this, you’ll still be a loser, and he’ll still get a Nike campaign. They asked us about a winter collection.” She was trying to hurt him. He couldn’t understand why it was so important to her—to hurt him. But he thinks only two people can: you and Art. Tashi isn’t on that list. He doesn’t think Tashi comes close to being on that list.

He thinks Tashi is beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful woman he knows. Maybe you’re the most beautiful woman he knows. He doesn’t really know- it’s blurry and messy. But hearing you moan or say his name softly, sweetly, is the most beautiful thing he knows. So maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe he measures beauty differently than he did four years ago. “Sounds good. I promise to buy a jacket with his name on it. Do you need anything, Tashi?” he tried to end the conversation. He didn’t want her to see the pathetic training session he was having with himself against a wall. “I don’t know, maybe to ask why you’re here?” She shrugged like it was obvious. Like she cared about the useless existence of Patrick Zweig. Like he mattered. “I’m competing, just like Art-” he started, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, but Art’s not here. How is it that you are?” she cut off the monologue he was about to throw at her. “I don’t know why Art isn’t here, Tashi.” If it were possible, his eyes would roll so far back into his skull they’d get stuck there. “Because he’s at a funeral, obviously. She’s your girlfriend last time I checked- how are you not there?” The furrow of her brows showed she was genuinely confused. But now he stood in front of her, terrified too. Whose funeral? Who the fuck died? “What are you talking about?” he muttered, feeling his heart pound. Every muscle in his body tensed. “(Y/N)’s mom passed away, Patrick. How am I the first one telling you this?” She doesn’t understand. But he does. And right now he hates Tashi. And Art, who’s with you. And himself- mostly himself- because after four years, he’s still a selfish bastard who only cares about himself. . . . You’re not crying, and you suspect it bothers your father. He looks at you strangely. As if you’re making things difficult. Because this is an event. A funeral is an event, and you need to behave the way you're expected to behave. You just can’t seem to do it. Because you don’t think you have a warm spot in your heart for the woman you called Mom for the pathetic 24 years of your existence. To anyone else, it would sound sad. Pathetic. You don’t say it out loud very often. You don’t want to make things harder for anyone. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. You considered cutting an onion before you left, just to save yourself from the weird looks from the extended family you haven’t seen in years, but Art fucking Donaldson hasn’t left you alone since the second he heard she kicked the bucket.

His hand held yours like his life depended on it. Maybe yours. Someone’s life depended on it. Definitely not your mother’s. She’s dead. You wonder if the need for sacrifice died with her. You wonder if your constant need to make everyone feel comfortable all the time died with her too. It’s exhausting. You wish you could be less like that. Your hand is sweating into his. He probably thinks it’s disgusting. He probably doesn’t like it. You miss the time when your whole world was making sure Art Donaldson was comfortable. His parents hugged you, and you’re pretty sure his mom left lipstick on you. He’s been staring at you for an hour straight. Maybe two. Maybe your whole life. You can’t know; it’s an emotional day.

You try to move your hand away from his; there’s no way this is comfortable for him. He grips harder. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t leave you alone. Your father says the Kaddish, everyone responds "Amen" and cries. You don’t. Maybe you really are crazy, like she hinted at a few times when she got drunk and called you at an inappropriate hour. Maybe you really are the reason for every problem she ever had. Maybe you didn’t sacrifice enough. Maybe you didn’t love enough.

Maybe you just don’t know how to love, and then it makes sense that you don’t deserve to be loved. Not really. Not unconditionally. Not like your father loved your mother. Not like Art loves Tashi. Not like Patrick loved Tashi. Not like Patrick hated you. Maybe he still does- sometimes you’re not sure. Patrick isn’t here. Art’s hand keeps holding you both steady. You finally cry.

When you walk into the house, your extended family is already there. Uncles, cousins- you think you saw the grandfather of someone your father goes to synagogue with. All you wanted was to sit quietly in your room for a second. Take off the heels and the damn dress. You felt the thong digging into your ass. That’s what happens when you let a dead woman dictate what you'll wear to her funeral. A woman who had conditions for her own funeral. Who told you what dress to wear. What underwear to put on. Sometimes you wonder how many years ahead you’ll keep dragging her advice, her judgmental looks. The tongue clicks. The general dissatisfaction with the world, wrapped in fake smiles. Maybe that’s where you learned to fake so well. To fake who you are down to your core. To fake and fake until you don’t know what you want or from whom.

“You disappeared. I figured you’d be here.” Art walks into your childhood room like it’s his. Like he always did. “You’re still here?” you mutter, and he hands you a plate of food he picked up from downstairs. “Where else would I be?” he sighs. As if that’s the only answer that makes sense to him. As if you two were in touch. As if you know anything about his fancy life or he knows anything about your painfully mediocre one. “In Atlanta,” you answer and place the plate on the nightstand beside you. “When’s your flight?” you ask, not looking at him as he sits next to you on the bed like he did before the funeral.

“I can stay-” he starts quietly. You know he’s looking at you, almost begging you to see that he means it. "Ridiculous,” you mumble to yourself, but you know he hears. “When’s your flight, Art?” you ask, your voice steadier, looking at him with an almost hollow expression. One that doesn’t show any emotion or maybe shows all emotions at once. A look that scared him. A look that worried you. A look you’ll think about a month from now. You’ll sit at home, writing the structure for one of your classes, and you’ll think about Art Donaldson and the empty look you gave him when your mother died. Embarrassing. Everything is so fucking embarrassing.

“Tonight,” he sums up. You glance at your phone’s clock. Sixteen missed calls from Patrick. Instinct says to call him. But it’s 6 p.m., and his first match is at 8 in the morning. “Don’t you need to pack?” He rolls his eyes, ignoring your attempt to dismiss him. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly. “Excuse me?” you snap back, not understanding the direction of the conversation. “Now. In general. What are you doing?” His gaze surrounds you from every direction. You can’t look anywhere that isn’t Art Donaldson. He reflects off the damn mirrors in this room. “Trying to sit quietly in my room, clearly,” you reply stiffly.

You remember how all your conversations used to be warm. Soft. You’d talk about dreams. About books you’d write. About tournaments he’d win. You’d kiss. He’d touch you. You’d touch him. There was curiosity. There was love. Or at least that thing you’ve spent years believing was love. The thing where you become exactly what he wants and needs and disappear when he needs something else, something better. That was the unwritten contract between you. Lately, you’ve been thinking that’s the unwritten contract between you and everyone you know. A depressing thought. You try not to dwell on it too much. On the way you please people in your suffering. Please in deprivation. Please to the point of tears, and more tears, and more tears. You try not to think about all the dreams you had when Art Donaldson -maybe- loved you. You try not to think about the joy of life. About how much you loved seeing him happy, how much you loved making him happy. How much you loved being responsible for his happiness. "Why isn’t Patrick here?" He quietly asked what he really wanted to know. He wanted to understand if you’d broken up. If you were alone. If he could laugh and say he told you so. That he told you; you had no business being with Patrick Zweig. "Because he has a match tomorrow at 8 a.m., and he trained too hard to miss it," you said it coolly, without breaking eye contact. As if it made perfect sense that you hadn’t told your boyfriend, the person who was supposed to be your confidant, that your mother had died. "He didn’t want to come?" Art continued, confused. Ice. That look again. The immediate shift in his mood confuses you, but it doesn’t throw you off balance. You know him. For the past four years, every time he’s seen you, all he’s tried to do is confuse you, to knock you off balance. It never works, at least not in his eyes.

"Hedoesn’tknow," you mumbled the words as if they were one. Quietly, knowing that what you’d done didn’t make sense. Wasn’t reasonable. Wasn’t acceptable. Didn’t fit into the unspoken rules of a relationship. "You’re an idiot." He stood up and started pacing back and forth. "A fucking moron, really." He was angry, as if he was the one who hadn’t been told your mother had died. If it were up to you, he wouldn’t have known either, but his mother told him. Whatever. "I’ll tell him when he gets back from the tournament, it’s not a big deal," you said and shrugged. Art stopped and looked at you like you’d just fallen from the moon. Like you were some natural phenomena. "If you did that to me, I’d kill you. If you thought some shitty tennis tournament in shitty Atlanta was more important to me than you, I’d murder you and then die myself. I don’t like what you have with Zweig, God knows I hate it, but how could you not tell him? Do you even understand the concept of a relationship?" He let out this Shakespearean monologue while looking at you with a half-pitying, half-angry expression. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he thought you were Tashi.

"Art, I’m not your problem. Do you remember that?" You didn’t know what else to say, so you said the only thing you knew for sure in a defeated voice. Art Donaldson was not a part of your life. "You’ll always be my problem. You should know that by now," he said, half despairing at himself. As if wondering how you both got here. As if wondering if there was anywhere else you could be. . . . Patrick was beyond frustrated. He won his first match after two and a half hours, barely. It didn’t come easy. All he could think about was how nothing came easy for him anymore, and how everything used to be so easy.

The thought that you didn’t tell him your mother had died, and then didn’t answer his calls either, hovered over his head like a rain cloud focused solely on him. He didn’t know how to approach it. He knew why you didn’t tell him- because unlike what Art thought, unlike what your dead mother thought, he knew you. He knew how you thought. He understood the mechanics behind your strange decisions. He hated that he had become someone you had to overthink things for.

That afternoon, he went to one of the courts and caught Tashi and Art’s practice. They both saw him sit down. He thinks it made Art play better. He wondered if Art imagined his face when he hit the ball. He thinks he does. Because when Tashi checkmated his relationship with Art, Patrick wrapped his life around yours as if that was how it was always meant to be, while everyone involved knew it wasn’t. While everyone involved knew that you had embroidered Art’s name on bags from the moment you learned how to stitch. While everyone knew that Art Donaldson didn’t know how to exist in the world without you.

So, Patrick took you for himself. Most of the time, he didn’t think of it as something technical, as a game he was playing against Art. Most of the time, he looked at you, really looked at you. Most of the time, he tried to make you laugh and understand the world through your own eyes. Most of the time, he tried to protect you from complex emotions you couldn’t express, from hunger. He tried to protect you from yourself, the way you protect some helpless creature. In some way, you were. In his eyes, you were helpless.

When you first started sleeping together, Patrick treated you with kid gloves, in a way he had never treated anyone before. Like you were porcelain. Like you could shatter and crumble in his hands at any moment. You had gestures and habits, ones you thought no one noticed. But he always saw. You tried to please everyone all the time. You switched from a smile to a sad look in a second, for the sake of the feelings of whoever was in front of you, for the sake of what you thought they wanted from you.

But Patrick didn’t want anything from you. He wanted to give you all the orgasms that you missed and for you to eat at least three meals a day. Some days, he didn’t know how to make you do it. Some days, he raised his voice. When he was desperate, he cried. When he was really desperate, he asked you to eat for him, so that he would be happy. That was the easy way, it always worked. He exploited a destructive mechanism someone had embedded in you (he suspects your dead mother) and used it to get you to do something he thought would be good for you. He wanted to throw up.

Art was playing well. He was playing against Tashi in front of him, and he was playing well. Too well. Patrick no longer thinks he can beat him. Not something he would ever say out loud. He wanted to ask him how you were. He didn’t want to admit that you hadn’t answered his million calls. He didn’t want to admit that he was a loser who didn’t know where his life was going. Not when Art had been with you at the fucking funeral of your awful mother. He hated that woman with everything he had. More than he hated his own father, and that had to be some kind of record. Art looked at him for a moment. The moment passed. Patrick thinks Art won. He’s not sure. . . . Patrick finds Tashi alone in the evening. Completely alone in the middle of the lobby restaurant. She suddenly looks small and fragile to him, holding a drink he can guess is whiskey or cognac or whatever it is that Tashi Duncan drinks these days. He doesn’t know anything about her anymore. Only that a few years ago, he thought he loved her, and in return, she took his best friend away from him.

When he stands in front of her, he is like a streetlight- impossible to ignore. It dawns on him, belatedly, that he is wearing her shirt. She must think he’s pathetic. He feels pathetic. He doesn’t think he cares about being pathetic in front of her. Because he sees her for what she is right now, and she is miserable. She doesn’t have much in life. She clings to what Art has. Which is fucked up on so many levels, but that’s reality. They both cling to things they shouldn’t be clinging to, and his eyes wander to her ring. Massive. Flashy. A bit like her, like the woman she tries to be when she’s not half-drunk and pathetic in front of him.

He places his hand over hers just as she’s about to take a sip of her drink, stopping her. He doesn’t know what he wants. Not from her, not from himself, but his lips find hers within seconds, and she doesn’t resist. He knew she wouldn’t resist- he saw it on her face. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her. Maybe more. And what a thought that is- that Tashi Duncan wants Patrick Zweig more.

They exit through the back door of the restaurant, go up to his room. Naturally. As if more than four years haven’t passed since the last time he was with Tashi. He wishes he knew what he was doing; it would make this easier. But it’s not particularly difficult, either- otherwise, he wouldn’t be pressing Tashi against the wall. Otherwise, his lips wouldn’t be kissing every inch of her body he can reach.

Hunger. Patrick feels hunger. It’s the only emotion coursing through him as he looks at her. He thinks he wants to hurt Art. He thinks about how Art was there for you at your mother’s funeral, and that was supposed to be his role, but you didn’t call him. So he strips Tashi of her shirt. Only to discover she isn’t wearing a bra. He compares her to you every few seconds. You never go without a bra. He can barely convince you to just be at home, without clothes, without defenses. Just be. He doesn’t think you’re capable of that. He doesn’t think you know how to feel at ease. That worries him more than he’s willing to admit.

“You’re thinking about her?” Tashi’s voice is almost angry as she kisses his neck. “No.” A lie. A complete lie. He can only think about you. He realized that a few years ago and stopped fighting it. You and tennis, as if that’s all there is in the world. What else even exists? What else even matters? “You’re a terrible liar,” she mutters against him, and somehow, the ugly shirt he’s pretty sure was Tashi’s -he doesn’t even know why he wore it- ends up on the floor. ‘You’re not thinking about Art?’ he should have asked, but he’s not here to ask questions. He’s here because he’s angry. At Art, at you, at Tashi for telling him, at the world. So he’s here. And they’re both shedding more pieces of their clothing and maybe their souls, because what they’re doing now has no way back. No forgiveness. They are bad people. Patrick knows it. Tashi knows it.

And after he wrings a heavy moan from her, one that follows an orgasm, she quietly tells him she thinks Art loves you. Patrick stares at the gaudy ring stuck on her finger, the ring that, in another universe, Art would have placed on yours. “Why do you think that?” Patrick asks softly, because what else is left to do? “I didn’t want him to go to the funeral. I wanted him to stay and train, but he went anyway,” she mumbles. Patrick says nothing, just nods. He would have done the exact same thing, and that’s why you didn’t call him. He would have come. Despite the dreams. Despite the tennis. Despite everything.

And Patrick remembers all the times Art called you sweet. All the times Art never wanted to tell him anything about what happened between you two. All the times Art didn’t want to talk about you. And it wasn’t because it wasn’t good. It wasn’t because other girls were better. It was because there was depth Patrick can only put his finger on now. So much happened beneath the surface- so much that Art had no words to describe it. So much that Art drowned in his own emotions. Repressed them and kept them bottled up until he found something shiny to bury his feelings in. Until he found Tashi.

And Tashi is safe. With Tashi, you can’t get lost. With Tashi, there’s a plan. With you, he just has to be himself. He doesn’t know how to be anything else. And that’s terrifying.

For the first time, Patrick understands Art in absolute terms. He lies in a hotel room, stroking the hair of a woman who isn’t you, and understands everything there is to understand about life. Mainly, he understands again- that you are so fucking sweet. And that there’s no way he can win. . . .

You're going over tomorrow’s lesson when you hear the door open. Without turning around, you already know it’s Patrick. Who else could it be? His scrutinizing gaze doesn’t waver from you, even when he says nothing. “How was it?” You find yourself breaking the silence, lifting your head toward him with a smile. He doesn’t smile back. He looks exhausted. The message Art sent you lingers in the back of your mind; He’s cheating on you. -Art Donaldson- Art has his reasons to make something like this up, but you doubt he’d be cruel enough to lie about it. Not while you’re mourning your horrible mother. No matter how angry he is at you. No matter how angry he is at Patrick. You don’t think Art is capable of that. You want to believe he isn’t capable of that. Then again, you also want so badly to believe Patrick wouldn’t do it. That Patrick wouldn’t cheat on you. That he wouldn’t find someone prettier, better, more cheerful and do all the things with her that he probably can’t do with you. You don’t want to think about the possibility that you haven’t sacrificed enough. That you didn’t try as hard as you were taught to. Your fault, your fault, your fault. You don’t want to believe it’s your fault. That another love will slip through your fingers, as if you’re trying to hold water. So, you choose to say nothing, because even if it’s true, even if he was with someone else, he came home. And home isn’t big, to say the least, not grand, not dazzling. But he came back. He’s right in front of you. You’re not alone. He knows you. He knows such ugly parts of you that sometimes you’re scared to acknowledge they even exist. He knows what you refuse to recognize in yourself, and sometimes he reminds you that you deserve more than you think. Which is a bizarre thought in itself. But you let him think it, you let him believe it enough for him to believe it for the both of you. “I lost in the third round. To Peter Michelson,” he says shortly, and you nod. “No choice but to make a voodoo doll with Peter Michelson’s face,” you try to joke. He usually laughs. At least smiles. He does neither. He just stands there like a block of wood, with the same expression. “I’m sorry you lost. I wish I’d been there,” you mumble, not knowing what else to say. “What about you? Anything special happen this week?” he asks, his gaze never leaving you.

Now you could tell him your mother died, but there’s no way to say it without it turning into a fight about the fact that you didn’t tell him the moment you found out. “No, nothing special, you know. My routine is boring.” You shrug and shift your focus back to the lesson you’re supposed to teach tomorrow. The Great Gatsby. A shitty book. “Nothing special at all?” he presses. “If you count the fact that Mr. Grace forgot to put in his dentures on Monday -again- and I had to sub for his class, then no.” It’s a half-lie because the thing with Mr. Grace and his dentures did happen, just not this week. Most of this week, you were at your parents’ house, helping your father deal with shiva and all the people who came by. He was completely heartbroken.

You see Patrick shake his head slightly and close his eyes. You know this is something he does when he’s trying to restrain himself. When he doesn’t want to lash out. When something is bothering him, and he doesn’t want it to turn into the biggest fight in the world. He has a bad history with fights that spiral out of control. “No one was born? No relatives died? I don’t know, maybe the woman who gave birth to you?” he says, his piercing gaze back on you. “Shit,” you mumble. Because what else is there to say in this situation? “Yeah, shit,” he stays exactly where he is, making you feel like a child being scolded. Like you dropped a lollipop and won’t be getting a new one.

“I’m sorry-” you start. “My mom isn’t dead; your mom is dead. I think I’m the one who’s sorry.” Patrick hated when you apologized. He said it was irrational with you. That you apologized more than was normal and more than people around you deserved. “Patrick,” you sigh, scrunching your nose as you try to think of a good way to explain it. “I really need to understand this, (Y/N). When were you planning on telling me your living mother was no longer alive? Another month? Two months? Two years? What was the timeline in that head of yours?” His words drip with sarcasm, like the way he used to talk to you before you became you and Patrick. Before you learned to love who he was and before he started treating you like you weren’t the worst person in the world.

“I didn’t want you to withdraw from Atlanta. You trained for it so hard.” You sigh again, quietly. This time, you’re the one closing your eyes, not wanting to look at him- and in doing so, you miss the fact that he moves toward you in giant strides. “I wish you’d told me, Little Dove. I wish I’d been with you instead of being there.” His hands cup your face as he crouches in front of you, looking up to catch your eyes. “I’m sor-” You stop yourself mid-sentence when you see his displeased expression. “How do you feel?” he asks, and you shrug in response. Because what you feel isn’t something you can say out loud, not even to Patrick. It’s not okay to feel relieved. A lot of sadness, of course. But also, relief.

“Tell me,” he insists. He has a habit of knowing the things you don’t want to say. He can look at your face and catch the slight twitch of your left eyebrow to understand what you’re feeling. To see what you try so hard to hide. You can’t beat him at this. You can’t lie to him, not too much. Not about your feelings. Not when he spent years of his life learning what to hate about you, and then a few more years learning to love it. “She wasn’t the nicest woman in the world,” you murmur quietly, like you’re confessing the most forbidden secret. Like it’s a secret that could start a world war. Like Patrick would tell someone.

“She didn’t like me.” Patrick lets out a dry chuckle, his eyes glassy as if he’s remembering something. “She used to call me Art all the time and then correct herself, like it was an accident, but she did it on purpose. So I’d know she wanted me to be Art.” His jaw tightens slightly. You can see the anger and frustration behind the fake lightness in his tone. “I’m sorry,” you say because you don’t know what else to say, and he sighs. His large hands wrap around you in an almost crushing hug. Almost making it hard to breathe.

But that’s how Patrick is. Everything he feels is out in the open. Everything he thinks, he says. Everything he wants, he does. And most of the time, he wants to be present in your life, which is ridiculous because there is no one more present in your life than him. He still acts like he needs to prove something to you. “I wish you’d let me take care of you, Little Dove. It would be easier.” He whispers into your hair, not letting go for a second. You can almost feel him thinking, almost see him guessing what might help you. “I know you care about me,” you say, shifting slightly to look at him, to show him that he doesn’t need to prove anything. That you’re okay.

“Did you eat?” he suddenly asks, stepping back slightly, scanning you, then moving toward the half-empty fridge. “What did you eat?” he follows up. “I don’t know, Patrick. I don’t keep a journal,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t give me that bullshit. What did you eat, (Y/N)?” He doesn’t let up. “A sandwich,” you mutter the first thing that comes to mind. “Since this morning?” His eyes stay locked on you. “Patrick, my mother just died. Can we not focus on what I eat for one second? It’s exhausting,” you roll your eyes and cross your arms, turning your face to the side as he steps toward you and nods. . . . "What do you want to focus on?" he asked. Patrick felt guilty. He looked at you and saw nothing but the fact that just a few days ago, he had been with Tashi. While you were mourning your unbearable mother, he was busy fucking Tashi in a fancy hotel room, at a tournament he lost and that Art Donaldson would probably win. "You," your voice was small as you looked at him, almost pleading for a break from the interrogation and the anger. He hated when you made him the center of your focus, when you tried to do what you thought he wanted you to do. So he nodded and placed a small kiss on the crown of your head, knowing exactly what he needed to do.

Patrick felt like a man on a mission as he dropped to his knees in front of you. "Pat-" you tried to protest, to tell him he didn’t have to. You always tried. As if going down on you was a burden to him, as if all it would take for him to spend a lifetime just like this was for you to fucking ask. "Baby, can you take these off for me?" It was a question, but there was no question mark at the end. Not in that tone. Not when he was looking up at you like that, completely in control of the situation.

So you slid your pants down slowly, trying to hold on to the last bit of control slipping away with every second he stared at you like that. He took care of your underwear himself. Leaving you bare in front of him. "Fuck, Pat," you mumbled, closing your eyes for a moment, leaning back against the wall, making him look up at you one last time with a smirk stretched across his face. And then he got to work.

His lips explored you like you were his source of oxygen. Like his natural place was buried under you, his mouth inside you. "Baby, I’d eat you for the rest of my life. Every day. Every fucking day." His grip on your thigh was ruthless. Patrick felt like he was holding on for dear life, like this was all there was left to do. Like it was all he knew. "Sweet fucking pussy," he kept mumbling into you, until his face was coated with his own spit and your slick. He was ready to take it all, everything you gave him. In these moments, everything that was yours became his, and the little that was his became yours.

So he was milking it. He licked your clit in slow, agonizing strokes- for both of you. He took his time. The euphoria would come, but he was going to enjoy it until it did. Your small whimpers made him growl directly into you. "Patrick, Patrick, Patrick," like a prayer. He felt it. He felt divinity in all of it. He sped up and slowed down and sped up and slowed down. Merciless to the near-sobs escaping from you. "You're so sweet, baby. Do you want to come?" And he wasn’t asking if you wanted to come for him, because he wanted you to come for yourself. Because he wanted you to always, always come for yourself. He wanted to be a vessel. He wanted to erase all the stupid patterns in your head and make sure every orgasm you had was yours and for you. "Patrick." He thought that was the only thing you were capable of saying coherently, and he was fine with that. He was selfish enough to be satisfied if his name was the only word you could say forever.

And when you came with a moan he had learned to recognize and nearly worship, he told you how good you were. How rare you were. That he was yours and that he would always take care of you. He looked up at you from below, saw the tears slipping down your face, and pressed another kiss to your thigh. One that emphasized the word always. Because he didn’t think he could ever let this go. He was too selfish to ever let this go. . . . Art peeked through the door of the room every few seconds, searching for you among the guests. At this point, he didn’t even bother lying to himself about it. Because he didn’t know what else was left for him besides admitting the truth to himself- things he was never able to admit before. Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about the nights he used to lay beside you. When you didn’t even fuck. When you just lay in that rickety twin bed in his dorm room. He was willing to take that. He was willing not to fuck you if it meant you’d hold him again. More than that, he was willing not to fuck anyone ever again. But you were too sweet, you wouldn’t let him go through life without sex. The thought made him chuckle for a second. But he was nervous. So fucking nervous.

He was about to marry Tashi, and she didn’t cross his mind even once. He accidentally saw her dress, even though he told her that he hadn’t really noticed it was there. He knew she would be a stunning bride. That months from now, people would still be talking about Tashi Duncan in a wedding dress. He knew people would envy him, he knew everything. His mind knew everything.

But all he could think about was what kind of wedding dress you would have chosen. He was almost sure it would be something less extravagant; you’d try to draw as little attention as possible. But the Art he was today wouldn’t have let you. He would’ve told you that you deserved all the attention the universe had to offer. That you deserved to be seen. He hated himself for how long it had taken him to realize that. Only when you truly weren’t there. Only when you belonged to someone else. Only when you chose Patrick Zweig of all people.

Patrick Zweig, who hated you with every fiber of his being. Patrick Zweig, who Art was almost certain had cheated on you with Tashi. It should have hurt him much more than it did. But all he cared about was figuring out if this would be the thing that made you get up and leave. You had to know you deserved better. That if not him- if not Art, the guy you both knew you loved with all your heart- then at least someone who didn’t want anyone else. That was the bare minimum you deserved. For years, he’d wondered if he had something to do with how little you thought you deserved, with how low your standards were.

He convinced his mother- who probably loved you even more than he did- to take upon herself convincing you to come to his wedding. Which was almost sadistic of him. Maybe masochistic. Maybe both. But he had to see you. He hadn’t seen you since your mother’s funeral. Sometimes he dreamed about that day and how his hand held yours, he wanted it again and again and again. He wanted everyone to die if it meant he could hold you like that again. If it gave him an excuse.

He noticed that everything about you required an excuse. It hadn’t been like that when you were his. Except you were never really his. He didn’t even understand why it had been so complicated- why you hadn’t told him that’s what you wanted (though he could have guessed). And more than anything, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t known what he wanted. Why it hadn’t been clear to him that you were his person. That you knew the deepest parts of him.

He saw you walk in and texted you, almost begging you to come to the room where he was. You could tell him to go to hell, but that wasn’t your style. No, you were sweet. So sweet that all you did was knock on the door and push it open. Looking at him while he already had his eyes on your little black dress. While he was already studying the red nail polish. While he was already focusing on the lipstick he so badly wanted to wipe off of you.

“Your mother asked me to prepare a speech. Was that your idea?” you asked. There was no coldness in your voice, which made him happy. You stepped closer and started fixing his tie. He wanted to close his eyes, but at the same time, he wanted to see you. To remember you like this; in a little black dress, in heels, standing in front of him, helping him with his tie. “What can I say? You’re my best friend,” he said. And it wasn’t a lie, just as much as it wasn’t the truth. “That’s really sad, Art,” you said, probably referring to the last four years you spent apart. “Are you saying you have a better friend than me?” he asked, hoping you’d deny it because a yes might make him break down crying.

“It’s a mediocre speech. I didn’t know what to say at your wedding,” you sighed, confessing a secret. “Saying you don’t want me to get married would’ve been a good start,” he said, taking a risk. Because he calculated the timing, and you were late, so he had a very short window for this risk. “Don’t be ridicul—” you started, quietly. “If you tell me not to do this, I won’t get married. Tell me not to do it. Tell me it’ll be okay. That we’ll be okay,” he whispered. Not looking away from you.

The silence in the room was deafening, and the chuckle that escaped him was bitter. Fake. He felt pathetic and small and miserable, and maybe he was all those things because he never knew what he wanted in time. “I’m sorry,” you murmured. Not knowing what else to add, because what was left to add? He could see the wetness in your eyes. He knew how unfair he was being. “I’m sorry,” he echoed. He didn’t think he had ever told you that before, but he really, truly was. “Did you write something good about me?” he added. “That you’re my best friend. And that my soul will always love yours,” you said, letting a single tear fall as his rough hand wiped it away with whatever gentleness was still left in him.

It was a nice speech. Everyone applauded. Art cried. . . .

Here we are- the second part of So Sweet! Hope it turned out good enough. Thanks for stopping by and reading what I write, it means a lot. Let me know what you think. Love you guys, stay sweet! 💕

[ladsheadcanoncorner]

Yessss feed me the headcanonssssss

Can we get overprotective? Maybe like what they would do if your asshole ex shows up or something like that?

absolutely (gender neutral ex so you can picture as you see fit)! as a girly with a bad ex, i would've loved to have the boys there to defend me. hope anyone out there dealing with this can find some comfort here too <3

rating: sfw cw: bad ex, threats of violence ✉︎♡: ask box open, tumblr users + anons

Xavier:

Man is jealous of himself, so you can only imagine how he is when he finally meets your infamous ex at a work mixer

Xavier shakes hands and greets everyone except your ex, who he won’t even look at

He is grabby with you for the rest of the night. Hand in yours, on your back, on your shoulder. He won’t let you out of his sight for even a second

You: “Xav, it’s okay. We broke up a long time ago and -”

Your ex makes the mistake of jumping into the conversation right then. “Could only get someone who’s already trapped with you at work all day, huh?”

Xavier looks calm, but you can see rage flashing in his eyes

He takes a step toward your ex and quietly and calmly says, “Anyone who lost such a prize must be an idiot, and I don’t fight unfair matches.”

Before your ex can say anything else, Xavier is already leading you out of the party, hand on the back of your neck so that everyone, including your ex, can see that you’re his

“Let’s go home so I can show you just how lucky I am to have you.”

Zayne:

You’re at a cafe before work, one of the rare times you and Zayne have matching shifts

While waiting for your coffee to be called, you hear the barista say a familiar name

You and Zayne both whip your heads to look at the pickup counter, and your heart sinks when you see your ex

Zayne knows some details about your ex since you grew up together, but it is enough that he instantly turns on his protective side

The barista calls your name and Zayne’s next, and Zayne squeezes your hand before getting up to get the drinks

Right as your ex is reaching for the drink, Zayne slides in front and picks up the drinks you ordered with ease, cutting your ex off

The coldest delivery of, “It’s polite to say sorry, but I’m really not.”

Your ex starts to get upset but Zayne has already turned his back with your drink

He calls over his shoulder, “The life of a surgeon is busy. If you wanted to go first you should’ve gotten a better job.”

Zayne hands you your coffee with an easy smile and a kiss, making sure your ex is watching the entire exchange

Rafayel:

You and Raf are touring a museum to see the spot where his newest painting will be installed later that month

When you hear a familiar voice at the end of the hall, you freeze

Rafayel: “What’s wrong, cutie?” You: “That voice sounded just like my ex. You know that ex.”

Rafayel merely nods, and then drapes an arm over your shoulder as you keep walking forward, pulling you as close to his body as he can

Rounding the corner, your ex spots you and sneers, “Surprised to see you finally got back out there.”

Rafayel turns to you and says, “Aw cutie, I didn’t know you used to do charity work.”

You don’t know whose jaw drops to the floor faster, you or your ex

Raf looks at your ex and then continues nonchalantly, “I’m putting up a new art piece this month. You should really check out the red paint, I think it’ll match your vibe.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek and then the two of you leave the museum, Raf never letting you out from under his arm

You: “You’re not really going to use that paint in the museum, right?” Raf, coldly: “No, but I might make a custom piece if that asshole ever thinks of talking to you again.”

Sylus:

When Sylus gets back to the base one night, he can’t find you in any of your usual spots

Rationally he knows that Mephisto would have told him if you were in any sort of danger, but emotionally Sylus can feel his heart rate starting to speed up

He finally finds you on the terrace, having a rather heated conversation on the phone

He knows you’re completely capable of fighting your own battles, but as soon as he hears that name - the one you told him about, who hurt you - all bets are off

Casually strides over to you and plucks the phone out of your hand with a, “Let me handle this, sweetie.”

His hand is tracing protective circles on your back when he says, “How did you get this number?” Your ex on the other line instantly gets defensive.

“I’m going to stop you right there. Nobody talks to me like that and gets away unscathed, but nobody talks to her like that and lives. If you value that pathetic little life of yours, I’d leave town for a while.”

He hangs up the phone and then blocks the number before handing it back to you

Sylus: “I don’t think your ex will be bothering you anytime soon.” You: “Yeah because you threatened them?” Sylus: “It was more of a promise, kitten.”

He spends the rest of the night being extra romantic. Stealing long kisses whenever you walk by, taking you to his vinyl room to slow dance, and making sure you know just how much you are worth loving 

Caleb:

You’ve been acting weird all night, even though Caleb took you to your favorite restaurant

Caleb: “You’ve barely touched your food. Are you feeling alright?” You: “Yeah everything is fine. I’m just tired.”

As if you could ever actually lie to Caleb, but he doesn’t press the issue further

On the way out of the restaurant, you pass by a table close to the door, where you’re greeted with a, “Is that Y/N?”

As soon as Caleb sees your ex, he is like a different person. He’s squaring his shoulders, his hand is protectively gripping yours, and his eyes are absolutely determined

Of course he knows all about your ex, being on the receiving end of all of the nights you spent crying over this horrible person, but meeting face to face is a different story

Caleb puts on a fake smile and then bends down by the table so as not to cause a scene

“If you even so much as look at her again, I promise it will be the last thing you do. Understand?”

When Caleb stands up, your ex sees just how much he towers over them, and they shrink back in their seat

He then makes a dramatic display of kissing you right in front of them before you leave the restaurant

“Want to go get ice cream to make up for all of that, or should we skip right to the dessert at home?”

[miniscapes333]

Passionate confession from your FS (18+) (sweet obsession edition) (part - 2)

PICK A PILE READING LOVES ;)

👇 [PILE - 1] 👇[PILE - 2]

👆 [PILE - 3]

Disclaimer: The images featured are not mine. All credit and rights belong to their original creators.

PILE 1

You don’t even know what you do to me, do you? The way I ache for you—it’s almost maddening. Like a fire that never burns out, just keeps consuming, deeper, hotter, more unbearable every time I think about you. And I do—I think about you constantly. I replay moments between us like an addict chasing their next high, lingering on the way your lips curve when you smirk, the way your breath hitches when I get too close. It’s a battle I lose every single night, fighting this pull you have over me, but the truth is? I don’t want to win. I want to lose. To you. Over and over again. Because you—you—are the only thing I want to surrender to.

You drive me to the edge of my control, test my patience, push me until I feel like I might just snap. And maybe I want to. Maybe I want you to see what you do to me, how deep this obsession runs. How every time I see you, my hands twitch to touch, my lips part with words I’m not sure I should say just yet—but God, do I want to. I catch myself staring when I shouldn’t, imagining things I have no business imagining, feeling this raw, unfiltered hunger that only you can stir in me. And yet, it’s not just about the way I crave you—it’s deeper than that. It’s the way my heart pounds when I hear your voice. The way I miss you even when you’re right in front of me, because I always want more.

And I wonder—do you feel it too? This tension that coils between us like an unspoken challenge, daring one of us to break first. I see it in the way your eyes flicker when I get too close, the way your body reacts before your mind catches up. Don’t deny it—I know you feel it just as much as I do. And one day, I swear, I’m going to make you admit it. I’ll have you just as undone as you leave me every single night, lost in this sweet, unbearable obsession we’ve wrapped ourselves in. And when that day comes? Oh, love, I won’t hold back. I won’t hesitate. And I will make sure you never forget what it feels like to be wanted like this.

PILE 2

You have no idea how long I’ve been watching you, studying you, memorizing the way your lips move when you talk, how your laughter melts into a room, the way your presence shifts the air around you—pulling me in without effort. I should have kept my distance. Should have let this be nothing more than fleeting curiosity, but tell me… how am I supposed to ignore something that already owns me? You consume my thoughts, even in the quiet, even when I tell myself to let go. I can’t. I won’t. The more I see you, the more I need you. Even when I try to focus, even when I pretend I’m above this, my mind betrays me. I replay our conversations, I search for traces of me in your gaze, I wonder if you know—if you feel—the tension I bite back every time I’m near you.

It’s intoxicating, the way you make me lose control. The teasing, the stolen glances, the way you tilt your head just so, testing me, daring me to make a move. And God, do I want to. But I can’t just have you—I need to unravel you first. I want to know what makes you tick, what sets your skin aflame, what leaves you breathless in the dead of night. I want to see you undone under my hands, knowing it was me who got you there. You make me restless, make me second-guess my own composure, and I swear I’ve imagined a thousand different ways to finally close this unbearable distance. Slow, teasing, pushing you past your own restraint. Or maybe all at once, like the dam finally breaking, like neither of us can hold back any longer.

I think about you when I shouldn’t. Late at night, when the world is silent and my thoughts are anything but. You haunt me, linger in the spaces between my breaths, and I wonder—do I do the same to you? Do you feel the heat between us even when we’re surrounded by others? Do you catch yourself staring when you think I won’t notice? Because I notice everything, love. Every flicker of your gaze, every shift in your body when I get too close. And one day, I won’t just stand here and watch. One day, I’ll lean in, brush my fingers along your jaw, and make you admit that you’ve been craving this just as much as I have. And when that day comes? I promise, I’ll make sure you never forget what it feels like to finally be mine.

PILE 3

You don’t understand what you do to me. How your presence alone is enough to send a slow burn through my veins, a warmth that lingers long after you’ve gone. You move like you know exactly who you are—unapologetic, untouchable, and yet, I want to be the one who reaches you. The one who reminds you that you don’t have to be so strong, so guarded, because with me? You are safe. And maybe that’s what scares me the most. This need—no, this ache—to give you everything. My hands, my time, my devotion. I want to spoil you, not just with gifts, but with the way I touch you, the way I look at you like you are the only thing worth chasing. Because you are. And if I have to spend forever proving that to you, I will.

I know you feel it too. The tension, the unspoken promises in the way our fingers brush when we stand too close, the stolen glances that last just a second too long. It’s maddening, this game we play. The push, the pull. But let’s be honest, love—we both know where this is leading. One day, I won’t hold back. I’ll have you pressed against me, your breath warm against my skin, and I’ll make sure you never doubt just how much I want you. I want to worship you, learn every inch of you, taste the way your body reacts to my touch. Slow and teasing, making you beg, or deep and consuming, leaving you breathless. You deserve that. You deserve everything. And I swear to you, I’ll spend every moment proving it.

But it’s not just about the physical—it never was. It’s the way you see me, even when I don’t have the words to say what I feel. It’s the way you laugh, how it lingers in the air like a melody I never want to stop hearing. It’s the way I want to earn your love, not just claim it. So let me. Let me trace my fingers down your spine and memorize the way you shiver. Let me whisper your name against your skin and watch as you melt beneath me. Let me love you the way you were always meant to be loved—fully, entirely, without hesitation. Because, my love, you are the one thing in this world I will never stop wanting.

Paid readings availabe - check them out here 🫶🏾

[paperyowl]

This is a weird ask. Feel free to ignore it.

But post breakup Buck staring at Rockon thinking Tommy has a date with this hot silver daddy (he ain't blind) and confronted them cos he's jealous to find out he was wrong. They bought him home for either a threesome (cos David never had one) or maybe just cuddles cos looks at the sad puppy and doting on Buck.

(what buck doesn't know is that Donovan is Tommy's cousin with a hilarious sense of humor who texted him the very next day to collect his man cos he ain't sharing his daddy with his cousin's ex no matter how pretty he is)

It's not weird at all. I love the idea! And I have two vastly different thoughts for this - lets go with this one for now. (I might have changed it a little bit - but I definitely need that threesome happening sometime still.)

+++

Pick up, idiot.

Calling me names doesn't make me want to talk to you more.

Tommy dropped his phone somewhere on the couch, not really bothering to check where it fell. He was not in the mood for his cousin's antics. His week had been so busy that Tommy was aching in more places than he knew he could. Maybe was is getting too old for this job.

Or perhaps he'd been slacking. Not eating well, not sleeping enough. These days, Tommy is usually good at taking care of himself. A hard-learnt habit, but he'd put in the work.

Not that it mattered now when his mind kept circling back to the rather sweet sentiment of someone saying, 'You don't have to do everything by yourself' and 'I'll take care of you'.

It was a certain someone with those impossibly warm baby blues that Tommy was trying very hard not to think about. (And failing miserably.) He deserved this. After all, he'd been the one to implode what they had.

His phone kept buzzing. After the third or fourth time - which frankly was ridiculous Don, what the fuck, get a life - Tommy hunted it down in the cushions and unlocked it.

Only to almost drop it when he saw the last message was a photo of -

"Hi, cuz," Donovan drawled, sounding deeply satisfied with himself. But Tommy wasn't focused on that at all.

"How do you have a photo of Evan? Is he there with you? Why is he with you?"

"Okay, first of all, ouch, I think I'm insulted-"

"Donovan."

Tommy heard his own voice rise and wondered since his fuse had become this short. Then he remembered that Donovan had always had this way of riling him up. That's why they hadn't talked in months. They'd been fighting about something; Tommy couldn't really remember what it had been about.

"Figured that pic would get you to call me," Donovan said. "No 'Hello, my favourite cousin, how are you doing?' It's nice to hear you, too, you know."

"Don't be mean, Rocker," another voice said in the background, one that Tommy didn't know. Or actually, he might - he'd heard it once before, and now he could remember what the fight had been about. But his focus was somewhere else completely.

"Hi. How are you. It's been too long. I miss you - is Evan okay?"

Donovan laughed at the way only one of those sentences ended in a note high enough to count as a question. Tommy hissed his name again, and finally got a 'yeah, yeah, alright.' before the phone was handed off to -

"Hi," Evan said softly. He sounded like he'd been crying. His sniffeling was hard on Tommy. "Your cousin and his partner are nice."

Tommy couldn't help but scoff. "Maybe they're doppelgängers."

There is a momentary pause, and Tommy is almost certain that the rustling he hears is a bit of a grapple for the phone. But it's still Evan on the other end when the noise dies down.

"I wouldn't know about that," Evan said. "You never mentioned them."

Fuck.

"Evan-"

"So we're back to Evan?"

"Bu-"

"Don't," Evan pleaded. "Just. Don't."

"Want me to go and rough him up a little? I still remember where he lives."

Donovan's offer sounded weak, and Tommy could imagine the way he had probably put a hand on Evan's shoulder. Or his back.

Evan didn't exactly laugh, but it was similar enough. The sound still unravelled something in Tommy's chest.

"Can we talk in person?"

"I'd like that," Evan breathed. "Just maybe not tonight?"

"Of course. Do you want me to text-"

"I'll take over from here," Donovan said, and Tommy vaguely heard the muffled noise of the receiver being covered. He checked his watch, aware that whatever conversation happened on their end took less than a minute, but to Tommy, it felt like ages more.

"You free tomorrow? Wanna come over for lunch?" Donovan asked without any lead-up, startling Tommy a little. "I somehow think you have a bit more of a reason to say 'yes' this time."

Tommy huffed a laugh.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm free," he said. "Is he alright?"

"Are you going to stop being an idiot?"

"Don."

Donovan sighed. "Listen, I know it's not really my place, but I know you, and I can make an educated guess what happened here."

"I don't like you," Tommy groused.

And like the total bastard that he was, Donovan only laughed and responded, "But you love him."

Like that was a normal thing to say. Tommy spluttered.

"Just be here tomorrow at noon, I'll cook" Donovan completely ignored Tommy's rather childish comment, 'You can cook?' and just went on. "And I'll introduce you to Deacon."

"The ominous partner that you wouldn't tell me more about when I asked?"

That was a rather shortened version of the outright shouting match of a phone call that they'd had all those weeks ago. There had been a lot of implications about very different, and Donovan wouldn't even tell him the name of the man who had him all secretive.

It was easy to read between the lines, and perhaps Tommy had been protective in exactly the wrong way. But he'd never been able to help that when it came to Donovan. The only family member that Tommy cared about.

"He just filed for divorce," Donovan told him. Tommy hissed in sympathy, starting to apologize for the whole fight, but Donovan went on: "And you wouldn't believe the things he can do with his tong-"

"Shut up."

Donovan kept laughing at him, and Tommy felt too exhausted to do something about it. And perhaps a little relieved.  

"Noon, you said?"

He might have only imagined it, but Donovan softened a little after that. But he proved he was still an absolute asshole when he yelled out, 'Hey Evan, say goodnight to your daddy,' and like the absolute cheeky brat he was, Evan did just that. (Tommy almost choked on his own spit, but after hanging up, he felt like he could breathe properly for the first time in months.)

[just-a-creep-babe]

What Makes You Tick - Chapter 5

(Ticci Toby x Reader)

Commissions are open!

Check out my ko-fi if you'd like to support me!

Masterlist: x

What Makes You Tick Masterlist

Divider by @plum98

You can't breathe.

You wonder if he can tell you're faking it. If he's just playing along because this whole thing might as well be some kind of fucked-up game to him.

Breathe in, breathe out, you tell yourself. Slow and steady, in through your nose, out through your mouth.

You wonder if, at any moment, he finally plans on killing you. And it's not the first time you've had the thought, but it certainly doesn't make it any easier to digest. It certainly doesn't make the threat feel any less real.

A nervous kind of energy builds in your system. The anticipation mounts with every passing second of him not moving, not speaking, not doing anything except watching. You dread thinking that he might've done this every night, and that you're only now realizing it because you just so happened to be awake.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You think back to the million and one things you could've done to avoid this moment. You could've slept in the bathroom. You could've screamed for help. You could've jumped out the window and risked a few broken bones. Hell—you'd risk so much more than just a few broken bones to get away from these men.

The bed dips next to you as your thoughts frantically rush by. Your first instinct is to throw yourself at him to push him off and get him away from you, but you quickly stifle the urge.

Maybe he won't do anything, you think. Maybe he's about to leave, and you shouldn't risk it.

Just breathe, you tell yourself. Breathe.

And after what feels like an agonizing eternity, you hear him shift, you feel it on the bed next to you, and then you feel something else.

His hand.

Soft and warm, it's like his touch sparks some strange kind of electricity through your skin. You try not to stir, try not to flinch away from him.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. To distract yourself from what's happening, you focus on trying to figure out which man this is. He isn't jerking or twitching, as far as you can tell, so you assume it's not the one in the goggles.

The tips of his fingers ghost over your cheeks, trailing your jawline, tickling your skin.

You try very, very hard not to panic. Even when it feels like he's leaning closer into you, you try not to let the stress get to you.

The one with the white mask seemed way too impatient, way too angry to have this kind of gentleness to him. Leaving your last option, you realize, to be the one with the black mask.

But right as you mentally place your bet that it's black-masked man, you feel his thumb caress your lips.

Your body moves before you can stop yourself.

All at once, you open your eyes and shove him away from you.

But right as your hands connect with his body, he grabs both of your wrists and pins them down either side of your head.

It's, unfortunately, a familiar position, a familiar set of motions you've had the displeasure of experiencing before. And when your eyes adjust to the darkness, you understand why.

He's not wearing his goggles, but the mouthguard covering the lower portion of his face is as familiar as ever, even in the inky darkness of the room.

You’re about to keep fighting him off—about to start kicking and screaming and yelling at him for being such a creep—when your gazes suddenly lock.

His eyes are... breathtaking.

It’s the most you’ve ever seen his face without the opaque lenses of his goggles. And even though you can’t fully make out the details through the darkness between you, you can tell this guy’s a pretty boy.

His dark eyes are framed by long and equally dark lashes. Messy, somewhat curly locks of hair fall over the boyish angles of his face, and you hadn't noticed it up to this point, but his hair looks thick and soft enough to make a good amount of girls seethe with jealousy. He seems to be around your age, and the realization has a strange mix of emotions fluttering in your stomach.

There’s no way he’s a murderer, you think. No way someone with that kind of innocence in their eyes could do such a horrible thing.

There's no fucking way.

"There's a notebook," he says suddenly, his voice just above a whisper. And there's this strained kind of urgency in his words that has you snapping to attention. “The symbols in it—the symbols keep him at bay.”

“W-what? What’re you talking about?!”

“He’s—he’s watching—“

He cracks his neck, and then it looks like he’s about to say something else, but he abruptly cuts himself off and freezes.

And, at the same time—you feel it. Someone is watching.

You snap your eyes shut. In a split second, your body takes over, and you’re back to pretending to be asleep. You force your breathing to slow, force your muscles to relax, force everything to soften in a cruel mockery of the panic buzzing through your system.

You feel the brunet lift off of you, releasing your hands, and a tense beat of silence follows.

You can control your breathing, but you can’t control the thrumming of your heart. You wonder if it’s noticeable, even through the sheets covering your body.

The thought’s a welcomed distraction from the paranoia and confusion regarding just what the fuck is going on.

There’s silence for what feels like way too long, until you almost start to wonder if he was just fucking with you from the start, and you’d only imagined feeling someone watching.

But then you hear the ever quiet, ever-faint thudding of what sounds like boots on the floor.

“Hard time sleeping?” a voice, deeper, huskier than that of the brunet, hums over the footsteps.

Your whole body stiffens.

It has to be the black-masked man this time, you think. It couldn’t be the other one—you would’ve recognized the voice. And you dread the thought of another man—a fourth one—being involved in this whole situation, so you don’t even want to consider that option.

Your kidnapper doesn’t answer. And, for a second, your skin prickles with the possibility that he was addressing you instead.

But you still pretend to be asleep. You don’t move an inch, even when a hand—bigger, more calloused than the brunet’s—strokes over your cheek.

You almost stop breathing. Almost.

“She’s a cute one, huh?” And then there’s a brief pause before he adds, “just your type, isn’t she?”

You want to swallow down the lump in your throat, but you don’t dare.

“Fuck do you want, Hoodie?”

Hoodie?

His answer’s another hum, low and velvety.

It almost feels like the sound reaches somewhere deep within you, something that has goosebumps rising along your flesh. You hate the feeling.

“Nothing,” he states simply. “Just wanted to make sure there aren’t any secrets between us. For example,” he trails off, and when you feel his hand at your thigh—even above the covers—you nearly jump. Your pulse kicks up frantically.

“If you liked her…” he continues, his touch slow and lazy as he strokes the length of your thigh. “you’d tell us—wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck off, mind your fucking business,” the brunet spits. “And quit being such a-such a fucking creep while you’re at it.”

You hear him smacking Hoodie’s hand away. And then the warmth and pressure at your thigh leaves, and you nearly deflate with relief.

"I am minding my business, Toby. And you better start minding yours too, before Masky gets involved.”

You half-hope, half-expect the brunet—Toby—to spit out another retort. It doesn’t reassure you when he stays quiet, because it means that this Hoodie guy has a point. And you don't exactly know when you started rooting for Toby, but you don't even think it matters, at this point.

Another long second ticks by.

And then there's finally the sound of boots thudding away, leaving you with your kidnapper once more. But this time, you don’t dare reopen your eyes. You feel like an absolute coward, but even as yet another beat of silence passes, you just can’t bring yourself to move.

Sooner rather than later, you hear the door creaking open, then firmly clicking closed. And you know that you're fully alone again.

Toby, Hoodie, Masky.

You don't know what to think of everything that just happened. Quite frankly, considering the last few days of your life, you feel utterly lost, paranoid and fucking exhausted with worry. You don't even want to think about what that interaction implies.

Toby, Hoodie, Masky.

All you can do is cling to whatever shreds of sanity and normalcy you have left. And the easiest way to do that, it seems, is by mentally repeating the names of the three men over and over again.

Toby, Hoodie, Masky. Toby, Hoodie, Masky. Toby, Hoodie, Masky.

It grounds you—until thinking of their names is the only thing that eventually lulls you to sleep.

That night, you dream more than you have in a long, long while.

You dream that you're back home, but it's not the way you left it. It's dark, and it looks decayed, like it was abandoned years ago. Your neighbor's there, and even in your dream, you realize she shouldn't be there.

She should be dead.

She smiles at you like she knows what you’re thinking. Her teeth are black and rotten, with maggots squirming through the gaping holes in her mouth. And even in your dream, you tell yourself this isn't real.

It's just a nightmare, she can't hurt you.

She offers something—a book, you realize. And when you don't reach out to take it, she opens it in front of you so you've no choice but to look.

At first, you don't see anything. The pages are black like ichor, and when you try to concentrate on the pages, your mind is pulled into it. Like you're falling through a void.

You don't remember who you are. It doesn't even matter anymore. All that matters is that book.

There's a brief millisecond of clarity. You understand everything. You know the answers, know what needs to be done.

But just as quickly as that understanding—the meaning of all that is, all that will come to be—floods your mind, a loud, shrill abrasive sound snaps you out of it.

Your neighbor screams at the top of her lungs, and it’s the same sound she had made when she’d gotten killed.

She drops the book with a heavy thud, and all you can think about is no, not the book.

You need that book.

You scramble to grab it. But when you reopen the pages, they're no longer black, no longer imbued with knowledge you should’ve never had access to in the first place.

The pages are moldy. They're wet and rotten, and the writing is indecipherable. When you flip through it, the pages tear from the binding and disintegrate to ashes in your hands.

But the more you flip through it, the heavier it gets.

You realize, with a vile kind of lurch at your insides, that there are insects inside the book. It's just a small beetle on one page at first. But then on the next, there's a centipede and a few flies, and the one after that has a handful of worms and flies and maggots slithering around.

By the time you realize what's happening, you try to stop, but it's already too late. You're holding dozens—hundreds of insects between your hands. They’re writhing and squirming and wriggling between your fingers, crawling up your arms and slithering all over you.

You scream.

You’re so terrified that you don’t even hear how similar your scream is to that of your neighbor’s.

A spider—so much bigger than the rest of the insects—crawls up the spine of the book and onto the page. And the closer it gets to you, the bigger it gets. Until, next thing you know, it’s even bigger than you.

Its legs are thick and long, its massive inky black form towering over yours. You look up, and you get that feeling again.

That feeling that you’re going to die.

But you can’t run, can’t scream, can’t do anything except stand there, frozen, basking at the creature of death dominating over your form. Its front claws jerk and twitch in front of it, and that’s when you notice its head.

Except it isn’t a head at all. It’s a diamond. Pale, shimmering and impossibly beautiful, it seems to glint in a light that isn’t there in the darkness. It’s… mesmerizing. It takes your breath away.

The spider rubs its legs together, its mass convulsing and trembling, and then glittering webs of diamond are spilling out of it.

It’s, quite possibly, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Strings of glittering gems hang freely in the air, like they’re suspended in time. And as you’re admiring it, the spider keeps weaving more and more of its web until you’re surrounded in it, surrounded in its trap, but you don’t even care.

You reach out, fingers extending. And as your skin makes contact, it bursts into flame.

You’re hot. You’re so unbearably hot.

You’re burning alive.

Your eyes flash open, a chocked gasp clawing its way out of your lungs.

You bolt upright to a sitting position. You’re sweating. You kick the sheets off your clammy skin and tell yourself to breathe.

Mouthful after mouthful of the stale hotel air eventually cools you down and clears the panic from your mind.

You look down at your hands. No diamonds. No burn marks. You’re ok. It was just a dream. Just a nightmare.

Still, you feel gross. You feel off, like something inside of you is inexplicably wrong.

You need a shower.

As you stand, you notice a few things on the wooden drawer next to the guys' door that wasn't previously there. There's a McDonalds breakfast trio, complete with a coffee and everything, and a change of what looks to be new clothes, along with basic personal care items like travel-sized deodorant and mouthwash—that kind of thing.

You're beyond grateful for the personal care items, but when it comes to the breakfast, it has you snorting.

McDonalds, you think, they must've been feeling fancy.

You don't know when they dropped everything off, but judging by how cold everything is—including the coffee, unfortunately—your guess is that it was at least a few hours ago. Still, despite the less-than-ideal temperature, you savor the sweet blessing of caffeine.

You spend even more time than usual in the shower. You don’t know whether or not the change of clothes is a good thing or a bad thing. Is it a sign they’re finally going to bring you back—or is it a sign that you’re doomed to stay here much, much longer than expected? You almost don’t want to know the answer.

Instead, you do what you’ve been doing best for the past few days; you cling to whatever thoughts hold your attention enough to distract you.

It has you recalling last night’s events. You think back to what the Toby guy had said—something about symbols and a notebook—and you shudder as last night’s dream resurfaces.

You push the memory back to the recesses of your mind.

It feels like you've been given pieces of a bigger picture, but no matter how much you try to focus, you can't possibly begin to understand what’s going on. And you're painfully aware that your ability to understand the situation might just be the only thing that saves you.

Besides, if you've nothing else to think about, you know your thoughts will spiral. You'll start thinking about your friends and family back home, and what they must be thinking right now. Are they ok? Are they being interrogated by the cops? Were they forced to return to work and carry on like nothing's happened? Have they already started grieving you?

You shake your head, and keep doing what you've been doing for the past few days now; you try not to think about it.

As you finish up your shower, the last question on your mind is why. Why did Toby bother telling you that information? Was it some kind of trick? A test to see if you actually know anything or if you're just bluffing?

You promise yourself you'll be more careful around him. But even as you do, you think back to that look in his eyes, and you wonder if his situation maybe isn't too different from yours. You think about ransom and coercion and manipulation, and it has you thinking about unlikely alliances and how chances of survival are always better with teamwork.

But then you think back to what that other guy had said about you being Toby's type. And you don't know what to think all over again.

You dry yourself off, comb through your hair with your fingers, and make good use of the hygiene products they left you with. The clothes, much to your surprise, fit you relatively well. They're relatively basic; a shirt, a simple pair of pants, and a pack of basic black underwear—which you couldn't be more thankful for.

They still smell like the store they were bought from, which is reassuring to know that they actually bought it, and didn't just steal it off god-knows who instead.

Once you’re done, you step out of the bathroom.

You would've never expected to see the three men in your room—waiting for you. But, lo and behold, as soon as you step out of the bathroom, the three turn their full, undivided attention toward you.

You're a dear in headlights. You're so, so incredibly thankful that you decided to get dressed instead of lounging around in your towel like you would've otherwise done if you were at home. But even then, even fully clothes, you, once again feel like a peace of meat dangling in front of three hungry predators.

The one with the white mask—Masky, you assume—wastes no time for pleasantries as he addresses you with an impatient huff.

"Took your sweet fucking time in there, didn't you, Princess?"

[sparkling-moonbeam]

No Innuendo (Ray x Reader)

(ᴀ/ɴ: ɪ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡʜɪᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱᴜᴅᴅᴇɴ ɪᴅᴇᴀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜɪᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ɴᴏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴅᴇᴅɪᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ.)

DETAILS

Genre: ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ (ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛ)

Gender: ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟ

Warnings: ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ, ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ

Word Count: 3135 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

Drained. If he were asked how he felt years ago, that would be his answer. It was draining to keep up appearances for the sake of being the shining bright hero. He felt tired and drained. At one point, he was having a dilemma with who he was. The dread of being in a constant battle against himself was slowly eating him. 

A star should shine, they say. But he felt like he was drowning. Amidst the popularity and persona he's portraying, something 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 was stirring within him. It's not like the public knows what his power is. Who knows what would happen if it ever got leaked? Would they still stare at him in awe? Or are they going to all turn away and look for another star?

Those were his thoughts years ago when he slowly accepted his fate as a hero. But who could've thought? Not him. He thought he would always be that "hero" then. A shining star in the sky, being stared upon by millions of people and being idolized like he's a god. Shining but alone.

Then you came along. No, you were just passing by. Wrong term again. You were robbing a house years ago. He just happened to be there. He was confused. Seeing a thief playing with the housecat they're supposed to be stealing from was never a sight he expected.

And shit.

How dare his lips crack a smile. How dare his body stay frozen and only watch you from afar. 

Yes, he won't lie.

What he did after that is...stalkerish. Tracking you down, trying to find an opportunity to get closer to you. He could easily do that as a hero. Finding you and using his fame to track you is easier but no, that would be too intimidating for you.

A lot of things have happened since then. Fighting aliens was never what he expected to be doing in the future but here he is. And then there's another one, a big change he welcomed wholly, you.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

He took off his cape, then glanced at your figure on the bed. You probably fell asleep for a few hours now. He can't blame you, he was gone for a while. He had rescued some people from another alien attack, coming home at midnight just now.

"...Star?"

He calls out just to confirm. When he didn't hear any shift or answer, he walked into the bathroom. After a long day, a warm shower might do him good. Especially after fighting aliens for who knows how long since they attacked suddenly. 

He turns on the shower. The fog blurs the mirror cover as the warm water cascades down his body. It felt...nice. He's not that physically hurt much, but a nice long shower is his go-to after hero work. 

His mind rewinds to that encounter just a few weeks ago. He was testing you and for a moment, he had thought he failed you. If it wasn't for your explanation, he would've...well, made shining the brightest a reality. For you to look for Ray instead of his persona, you know what words to say. 

His mind was cut off when he heard a creak. He looks slightly over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow as he catches your familiar figure in the doorway. 

"Star, I'll finish soon."

He spoke softly, seeing you peeking inside. His eyes met yours and..there was a long moment of staring before you spoke. You just woke up, and your voice is a bit groggy still as you speak.

"Take your time."

You coughed, clearing your throat more clearly before asking.

"Did you just come home?'

He tilts his head back, thinking for a moment before answering. He's not sure whether to face you or if you can see all of him through the shower mirror.

"Yes, a few minutes ago. Sorry, it took longer than expected."

He replied, running a hand over his damp hair. He turns off the shower and you perk up.

"You're leaving?"

He stops in his tracks with your question.

"The shower? Yes."

He answered.

"You usually take long ones."

"Yes, but you're awake."

"You didn't wake me though."

"..."

He turns slightly, glancing at your foggy figure through the shower mirror.

"What do you suggest, star?"

He heard you hum and you stepped closer to the shower mirror door.

"You should take your usual showers. I think I could use one too."

He tilts his head to the left, a small smirk forming his lips but before he could say something suggestive, you spoke again.

"No innuendos."

𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙝, 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙨.

He bit his lip to stifle a chuckle before responding.

"Okay, no innuendos for today. Come on then."

He slides the door open and meets you face to face. He leans back against the cold tile.

"Don't tell me you're going in with your clothes on."

"I'm working on it. Patience, hero."

He chuckles as you roll your eyes while he watches you discard your clothes aside. He never thought he would feel so...domestic one day. Once again, you're making him feel things he thought he would never feel.

"I'll hop in now."

You spoke and he nodded. He held a hand to help you in, making sure you wouldn't slip as you stepped inside.

"Comfortable?"

"Hm."

You hum, sliding the door closed. He met your gaze and saw how it dropped to his body.

"...Eyes up here. No innuendos, you say."

He commented and you hit his arm. He laughed a bit while you found an excuse.

"It's an involuntary thing!"

"Right. You checked out people involuntarily, star?"

"I mean..."

He raised a brow when you pursed your lips as if thinking about it. Then you grin and look up at him.

"Only if it's you." 

You spoke so teasingly. He took a discreetly deep breath when you smiled so flirtatiously afterward.

"You like playing dangerous games, star."

"Hey, I said no innuendos."

You spoke and he shook his head, turning on the shower again. He sighs as the water flows down his body, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again to glance at you.

The cap of the shampoo bottle clicks as you open it up. He watches as you squeeze some amount on your palm then looks up at him.

"Come on, duck down a bit."

He smiles in amusement but follows anyway. He turns the shower off again.

"Wait here."

He opens the sliding door and looks beneath the sink where he keeps a shower chair. He steps out for a moment, turning his back to you while he retrieves it.

"𝙉𝙞𝙘𝙚."

He heard your thoughts and he already knew where you were looking. Somehow, your thoughts get louder when you're thinking of risqué things. It amuses him.

"No innuendos, y/n."

He spoke while he was getting the shower chair, using your own words again. He heard you gasp for a moment.

"Don't read my mind."

"I was not, you're thinking too loud, star."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Sure it doesn't."

He walks back and places the shower chair down before closing the door. 

"Do you still have the shampoo on your palm?"

"Hm." 

You hummed and gestured for him to sit down quickly. He follows anyway by sitting down and tilting his head back. He sighs as you massage his hair.

"...Did you insist on joining me just to do this?"

"What? No."

He chuckles.

"You're a very good liar."

You rolled your eyes and continued lathering his hair with shampoo.

"Your hairstyle is very different when you're in your hero outfit."

He sighs.

"Yeah, my makeup artist does that."

"You have makeup artists? Plural?"

He chuckles. His eyes are closed as he answers.

"I do. Appearance and all that."

"Hm. I do like your hair better when it's down though.."

𝙊𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖𝙨 𝙍𝙖𝙮

He opens his eyes.

"Star."

"Hm?"

He pauses for a moment. His lips parted as he thought of how to say it.

"Remember when we met..not exactly the first time but.. when I asked you about your opinion of Binary Star Hero? Back when you didn't know yet it was..me too."

He watches you blink. Your hands slow down in massaging his hair as you think about it.

"Yeah, I do remember."

"You don't like his eyes and smile."

"I don't."

You confirmed. 

"Why is that again?"

You pursed your lips as you thought about your answer before trying to remember how you said it again. Your hands gently run through his shampooed hair.

"Like there was something strange or unsettling with his bright smile and red eyes..?"

He hums, nodding.

"Something like that."

He thinks for a moment before continuing.

"It's like you saw right through me, even on the television screen."

He watches as you chuckle and shake your head.

"I mean, I think I wasn't the only human thinking about it, you know?"

"Maybe."

He reaches for your hand, putting it against his cheek while looking up at you.

"How about mine?"

"Yours?"

"Yeah, mine's. You said you like my hair better when it's down. How about my eyes or my smile?"

He caught sight of how your lips quirked up.

"I like it better too."

"Really?"

"Yeah, your sleepy eyes."

"Sleepy eyes?"

He watches you chuckle as you continue.

"You always have these tired eyes and a smirk. Oh, and the moles too.”

“The moles?”

“Yeah, those moles. It fits you naturally.”

You spoke, remembering when he first stepped into that cafe.

"You were cold by the way, at first."

He chuckles.

"Ah, that."

"Yeah, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩."

"Don't you like cold guys?"

"What? No."

"You found me good-looking though."

"I---Did you read my mind that time?"

You confronted and he hums, closing his eyes.

"Wash my hair, please. I'm going to turn blind and you won't see my tired eyes again."

He evades the question although you already knew the answer. You sighed and turned the small shower head on to use. The water felt nice as it rinsed the shampoo out of his hair. 

Warm.

Comfortable.

Contentment.

He opens his eyes again once you turn it off. He sat up straight.

"Your turn."

"My turn?"

"Yes, star. Your turn.”

He replied as he reached for the shampoo bottle again. He watches you sit down on the shower chair now.

"The chair is comfortable."

"I got it as a gift."

"A gift?"

You ask and he nods, washing your hair gently before lathering it with shampoo.

"I think it was a fan gift or something."

"A fan gave you...this?"

"...You'll be surprised by what kind of gifts they sent me."

"I don't know if I should be creeped out."

He stifled a chuckle.

"Fans are...fans."

You nod. He watches your eyes close as he gently washes your hair. His fingers prevent the water from pouring down your face. His eyes take note of each of your features, etching them into his mind.

"Done."

He spoke, turning the water off and helping you up. He smiles at you after putting away the shower chair.

"Come here. Soap next."

He watches as you raise an eyebrow.

"No innuendos?"

"You should be the one asking yourself that."

He replied as you pursed your lips slightly. 

"Your hands tend to wander, star."

He continued, seeing the slight flush of your face. 

"That makes me sound like a pervert."

"Are you not?"

"I am not!"

He laughs. His shoulders shake as he covers his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fine, soap up my back then?"

"Your back?"

"Yeah, no wandering."

You grinned and he shook his head, pointing a finger at you.

"Bad star."

"I wasn't even saying anything."

"I could hear the gears turning in your head."

"I won't wander!"

You promised and he cocks an eyebrow.

"Promise?"

"...promise."

He bites his lip to stop laughing at the hesitation in your voice.

"Here."

He gave the soap to you, entrusting it to your hands before turning around. He could hear how giddy you were deep inside your mind as you soap up his back. Your hands lingered on his shoulder and traced the lines on his back down his waist then up again. At least, you haven't wandered yet.

"...Can I soap up the front too?"

He turns to you with an amused smile. 

"Since you didn't wander off, I could trust you just a little bit."

He watches you smile up to him with sparkles in your eyes. He shakes his head and reaches for your hand, placing it against his chest.

"Careful, okay?"

"I won't stray from the top. I promise."

"Good star."

He lets go of your hand and lets you begin. Watching you soap his chest and then up his shoulder, he sighs. He pushes stray hair behind your ear.

"You're soaping my chest too much."

He pointed out, which you just shrugged at before lowering your hands to his abdomen. He could practically hear your thoughts again. Your 𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙 thoughts. 

He clears his throat.

"Remember your promise?"

"Hm? Oh, I do."

You replied, glancing up at him as if innocent from what you were thinking just now.

"...I think I'm full of soap now."

"You are?"

He covers a laugh, gently stealing the soap away from your hand while you sulk a bit.

"Yes, you’ve done enough.”

“I’m not soap up yet.”

Your response made him quirk an eyebrow, a bit caught off guard. He saw the satisfaction in your eyes while watching the slight tint of red on his cheeks.

“Is that an invitation?”

He questioned to which you responded with an innocent smile once again.

“I was just saying. Why? Are you offering?”

𝘿𝙞𝙧𝙩𝙮 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧.

You give him a smirk and he turns the shower on. The sudden spray of warm water surprises you as it hits your direction.

“Wha—Hey!”

You protested. He laughs before turning it off.

“There, I can soap you up now.”

“A little warning is much appreciated.”

“Well, your thoughts need some cleansing.”

“Don’t intrude my thoughts now!”

He laughs, guiding you softly to turn around. His hands massage your shoulder, attempting to calm you down and apologize. 

“Okay, okay, that was my bad.”

He spoke with a chuckle, pressing a quick kiss between the juncture of your shoulder and neck. 

“You’re a bad hero.”

You commented and he laughed more against your now wet skin from the shower. He placed one final kiss against the same spot before spreading the soap on his hands. He gently lathers up from your shoulder.

“Feels good?”

“Hm. I’m still deciding.”

He shakes his head in mirth at your hard-to-get attitude but continues to massage your muscles while lathering your back with soap.

“You feel tense here.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

He pressed further just below your lower back. He smirks up as he hears a satisfied moan leave your lips. 

“So?

“Y...Yeah, that felt good.”

He hums in satisfaction, wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder as he hugs you from behind.

“We should get you a better bed. That might help these muscles.”

“We don’t need to. I’m just getting older.”

“You speak like you’re sixty.”

You roll your eyes. He felt you leaning back against his chest. He catches your eyes when you tilt your head up slightly to look at him.

“You don’t get back aches?”

“Normally? No. Only if I hit the wall hard during a fight.”

“A wall? Are you sure your spine is still in proper shape?”

“I am. I go to check-ups for a reason.”

You hum. He watches as you close your eyes as if savoring the peacefulness surrounding the both of you in the shower. The only sound is their breathing and the water droplets from the faucet.

His thumbs put firm pressure on the spots on either side of your lower back again. He savors your soft moan as he gently massages the area in circles, relieving the tension stored in it.

“..Ray?”

“Hm?”

There was silence for a moment although he already knew what you were trying to say. He can read how your mind goes that way and he had to stifle a chuckle until you finally voice it out.

“You’re poking me.”

“Your mind described it as throbbing.”

“Ray!”

“You were making sweet sounds.”

He replied and pulled away. He leans back against the cold tiled walls and crosses his arms. He watches as you turn around to glance at him. Such a curious cat to even take a peek down his body. Shameless. 

He chuckles and turns on the shower, spraying the both of you underneath.

“Come, let’s wash up before you break your promise.”

The shower routine felt more domestic than he expected. Although there were some teasing moments and how he tried ignoring your thoughts, he managed to finish up. He dries his hair with a towel while you're dressing yourself into your usual pajamas. He's on his sweaters now as well.

"It's so early.."

He heard your comment. He glances at the clock. It is early, only two hours past midnight.

"Sleepy again?"

He asks and you shake your head.

"I can't sleep now."

He hums. That's what you always say when asking to cuddle with him.

"Ray, cuddle with me."

𝙃𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙞𝙩.

He glances at your figure on the bed through the mirror. He's getting used to this more and more, and looking forward to you asking him like this every night.

"Move a bit to the side."

He walks closer and settles down beside you on the bed. His arm propped up while resting his cheek on his hand.

"Alright, scoot closer."

And you did. He sighs and cups your cheek with one hand, gently caressing it with his thumb.

"Are you gonna kiss me goodnight?"

You asked.

𝙉𝙖𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙮 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧.

He chuckles, his cheeks tinting a bit. You could be bold in one minute.

"You want me to?"

"I think it would make me sleep easier."

"You always say that."

"And I always fall asleep after."

He can't say anything against that. You do fall asleep quickly afterward. His kiss somehow feels like a magic kiss at this point. 

"Ray?"

He shifted, leaning closer. His thumb is still caressing your cheek before his hand slides down your chin. He tilts your head slightly.

"Goodnight kiss it is then."

He replied and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then down to your nose, and finally, captured your lips with his. You welcomed him, even pulling him close. His lips move sweetly and gently against yours, deepening the kiss. 

It felt...nice being accepted like this. Just a few years ago, he let you get away with robbing the house of a legislator. Now, he's letting you steal his heart away.

[paulyenvol6]

Bruised, Not Broken (Part 2)

This is part 2 of a one-shot I posted and it is based on this request. There will definitely be part 3 and maybe part 4 but we'll see :) Also, I just wanted to thank you for your wonderful support and I love you all <3

Contains: angst, mentions of pregnancy

Wordcount: 2.84k

Masterlist

Everything was spinning.

The ground beneath you was moving and although you knew that your mind was probably playing a trick on you you reached out to hold on to the wall of the inn.

You couldn't even cry. Your eyes were dry as a desert.

You knew you had to do something, walk away from this place but your body was frozen. Numb.

Everything was twisting and turning inside of you and as if it was a further sign from the gods the child in your womb kicked and moved so much that your upper body buckled.

You had nothing left in the world. Everything about this felt surreal and distant but at the same time you instantly knew your life would never be the same. What were you to do?

If someone walked past you they would probably assume that you were perfectly fine because your internal chaos wasn't visible from the outside. Your only reaction was the way your bottom lip trembled.

You didn't know how long you were standing by the brothel. Perhaps you could've measured the time by the movement of the sun but you couldn't raise your head high enough to watch it. Your eyes searched the crowd and only after a few minutes did you ask yourself why you had just done it. What had you been looking for? A sign that all of this was just a nightmare?

What were you to do? was the question repeatedly appearing in your head. What if you just ran away? You could find a boat and go to Essos. You could raise your child there and never hear from Daemon again.

Suddenly there was a sharp pain in your stomach and the tears that washed over you came so unexpected that you choked on a cry. Images of your husband appeared in your head. His smile, the way he tilted his head, his warm eyes. You allowed your tears to flow because otherwise you might have exploded and then soon, you didn't know where she had come from, you saw a woman's face in front of you through the veil of tears.

"My lady, are you quite alright?"

With trembling lips you nodded and tightened your grip on the facade of the house.

"Are you sure? Something I can do?"

You shook your head and then she left after giving you another suspicious glance. You were left alone and truthfully you appreciated it.

Time passed with you trying to calm yourself somehow but you couldn't fight the occasional breakouts and then, it was almost dark now, you knew you had to do something. You would either freeze here or get assaulted by someone and despite all your emotions, your child was still your priority.

You took a step back from this damned brothel and felt like a babe learning how to walk. Your knees were wobbly and your whole body was shaking so hard that you wished you could hold on to something. And yet you made it to the middle of the street and as if your whole life hadn't just got shattered into a million pieces you started to make your way back to the red keep.

In some way you were torn apart because you wished you could avoid Daemon for the rest of your life and not feel embarrassed and humiliated by merely looking at him but on the other hand the thought of screaming and shouting at him until you'd lose your voice sounded tempting as well.

When you eventually arrived at the keep you felt like you were about to explode from all the anger inside of you and you knew in order to survive, you needed to get it out. The guards were obviously too professional to comment on your expression and just allowed you to enter the castle and then the first thing that you did was make your way up to your chambers.

You didn't know what to expect. You didn't know what time it was so you thought that Daemon might still be out. Perhaps it would be even better that way so you could have a little more time to prepare yourself for the confrontation.

Your nails dug into the palms of your hands while you stared at the door. Driven by your rage you opened it and immediately heard a noise inside. You pressed your teeth into your bottom lip and slowly entered the room while searching for your husband.

"Honey!" he shouted and your eyes found him by the table. "Where have you been, I thought you would only be gone for an hour. Did something happen? I was so worried, tell me. Are you fine?"

Mayhaps he mistook your teary eyes with a reaction to something that had happened to you. You flashed your eyes at him and hissed out when his hand reached out to touch your upper arm.

"No," you dangerously whispered and you could see his eyes widening.

"What is it?"

You chuckled quietly but could feel your veins throbbing. "Fuck you."

"Darling, what – "

"Shut up. And don't call me darling," you said close to tears now and pushed him away from you.

"Y/n, I don't understand – " "DON'T FUCKING LIE TO ME," you screamed completely overtaken by your rage which concerned Daemon so much that he took a step back.

"OF COURSE YOU UNDERSTAND YOU STUPID LIAR. I KNOW WHAT YOU DID."

Despite feeling unaware of the fact that you had started to cry again, you tasted something salty on your lips.

"No, y/n, please listen to me."

"I don't wanna listen to anything out of your mouth, EVER AGAIN," you hissed and pointed with your finger at him.

"You are an arsehole, an evil lying disgusting arsehole. You fucking CHEATED on me while I was here in the keep scared of having a miscarriage and then you came back here acting all loving and caring without even having any regrets. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU??"

You were blinded by your emotions and didn't care about wakening up the whole castle. You wanted to hit him in his face until you forgot about his existence. Before you could even register it Daemon reached out to your hand and enclosed it tightly.

"Please, darling, I didn't know. I didn't know that you were in danger, otherwise I would've been here immediately."

You pulled back trying to free your hand from his grip and eventually he let go.

"You CHEATED, Daemon. NOTHING can justify this. Why the fuck would you do this?" you cried and dropped your head to your chest feeling very tired suddenly.

"I'm sorry. I know I fucked it up," he whispered and tried to come closer to you.

"Stay back," you sobbed.

He watched you cry for a few minutes and for some reason it made you even angrier. How could he just stand there acting like nothing was wrong while you bawled your eyes out? Why didn't he cry? Why wasn't he on his knees apologizing?

You wiped over your eyes with the back of your hand. "I don't wanna see you again. I'm gonna leave the keep."

Now Daemon's eyebrows lifted and for the first time he looked genuinely concerned. "What."

"I'm gonna leave. Do you actually think I want to spend another second in your presence after what you have done to me?"

Daemon took a step towards you and grabbed your shoulder.

"We have a child together. You can't just leave, we're married."

"Oh I can. Watch me," you hissed quietly.

"Y/n, don't be childish now."

You laughed out loudly and Daemon seemed so worried now that you could see in his body's reaction that he was nervous.

"I'm childish? You cheated on me and now you're calling me childish because I say don't want to live with you?"

"It was a one-time thing, gods be good. I won't go the brothel again. Ever. If that's what you want."

"You can do whatever you want from now on. You can go fuck your whores as often as you like, I don't care."

Daemon shook his head and looked to the ground. "That's not I want. I want you."

"Well, if you did, you wouldn't have cheated on me, Daemon Targaryen."

Your voice was barely more than a whisper and you were proud of yourself for sounding so indifferent although inside of you there was a storm.

"How did you find out?" he breathed after a moment of silence.

"I passed the brothel. And then the owner saw me and asked when you would come by again. I was confused and he explained everything to me."

Daemon pressed his hand on his eyes and murmured something you didn't understand but you didn't care to ask him.

"I'll leave tonight."

He closed his eyes looking frustrated. "Y/n, you can't just leave like this. Please be reasonable for a moment. You're with child and where do you even wanna go?"

"I'll find something," you whispered and then the both of you remained silent for a few minutes before you started to speak again.

"As I said so many times before, you're not able to listen to me. You don't understand what I'm saying and why I'm saying it. I guess now you don't have to anymore."

Daemon gulped loudly and tilted his head at you.

"What do you want me to do? I'll do anything, what do I have to do so you'll forgive me?"

"There is nothing. You broke my trust, you betrayed me and nothing will ever make up for it."

He shook his head and now you could finally see some tears in his eyes as well.

"Don't say that…," Daemon whispered.

"Goodbye," you whispered and turned around.

For a moment you thought he was coming after you but then you were already standing in the corridor and asked yourself whether you had wanted him to come after you or not.

1 month later

"I don't wish to see him, Ser Roggers."

"He's persistent."

Yes he was. Daemon had written countless letters to you, begging you to come back and if you were being honest with you you were surprised he acted so pathetic and had just swallowed his pride like this.

"Tell him that I'm not here."

Ser Roggers looked down to the ground. "It's too late for that, my lady."

"Then tell him something else, I don't care. I'm not gonna see him."

You crossed your legs and turned around signalizing him that the conversation was over now so Ser Roggers had no choice but to bow and leave your chambers.

Once you heard the door closing you sighed out and leaned back in your chair. It had been almost a month since you had left Daemon and everything that was happening around you still seemed absurd and surreal. You were living at Dragonstone now as Viserys had found that it was the only solution to this "situation" as he had called it.

The night after you had found out about Daemon cheating on you you had intended to storm out of the red keep but Viserys, who had found about your argument with his brother, had stepped in your way before you could even leave the castle.

At first he had tried everything to convince you to stay but after he had realized that nothing would make you spend another hour in Daemon's presence he had decided to grant you some time alone but in order to hide this crisis from the smallfolk Viserys had ordered you to go to Dragonstone.

Therefore you had a safe and warm place to live during you pregnancy and what would follow after you didn't want to think about right now.

You sat in your chair a few more minutes until Ser Roggers returned to your chambers. His facial expression worried you at first and you flared your nostrils.

"Is he gone?" He sighed but then nodded. "Yes. He left."

You exhaled deeply. "Good."

"But my lady, I don't think… I mean I think it would be good to see him. He's the father of your child. And your husband."

You rolled your eyes and grinded your teeth threateningly.

"I don't want to see him. He humiliated and embarrassed me and just because he inserted himself inside of me once doesn't mean I'm obligated to spend the rest of my life with him."

He widened his eyes at your inappropriate words but you ignored it.

"I wish to be left alone by him. I do hope you have made that clear to him. No more letters or visits."

"I tried to, yes. But I don't know if he'll actually do it."

You rolled your eyes again. "Then try harder."

Ser Roggers bowed and then excused himself and you were left with a bitter feeling in your stomach. You didn't want to be mean to your most loyal and closest companion here but just hearing Daemon's name made your blood boil. And yet it wasn't Ser Rogger's fault, he only followed your orders.

With a feeling of regret you promised yourself that you would be kinder to him in the morrow and then rose from your chair. It was still early but you were feeling quite tired already so you made your way to the door to ask your servants to prepare your supper so you could go to sleep early.

The next weeks passed and each day you felt like everything you were doing became more difficult. Your belly has swelled to an unimaginable size and soon the easiest things such as walking up a staircase became almost unbearable.

And then you were in your ninth month and you made a decision that probably shocked you the most out of all people.

You allowed Daemon to visit you.

You couldn't even exactly explain why you chose to do it but the date of the birth of your child growing closer triggered a feeling of both helplessness and reasonableness in you. Because as much as you still hated him and swore yourself you'd never come back to him on a daily basis you knew that he would demand to see his child. It would be his heir after all and even you couldn't deny him to visit his child.

And well aware that the first few weeks after giving birth would be hard for you you decided to rather get used to seeing him every now and then now.

When you told Ser Roggers the news his jaw dropped and he was too stunned to speak for a second.

"Pardon me, my lady. But did you say I am to invite the prince to dragonstone?"

The last weeks Daemon had still kept you busy with a lot of letters begging and pleading for your forgiveness and you had been quite vocal about your displeasure so it was no wonder Ser Roggers was confused now.

"Yes. Of course you may not invite him to live here with me. Just for an afternoon or supper."

The knight hesitate but then nodded. "F-Fine. I'm going to make it happen, my lady."

And so on the very same evening the message arrived that Daemon would be coming to dragonstone on the next day. Ser Roggers told you that Daemon had intended to come the very same day but he had refused him with the explanation that you needed a lot of sleep in this state so your husband had insisted on coming with the first light of dawn.

That night you went to sleep with an odd feeling in your stomach. You didn't know what it would be like to see him again. It had barely been two months and yet you so felt so distant to him that you caught yourself thinking whether you had actually known him at some point. What if he would drag you back to the red keep?

'No,' you thought and turned to your other side. 'All of this is still under Viserys' watch and Daemon wouldn't turn against his own brother.' But well, hadn't he turned against you? His wife?

You thought back to your life months ago. How well you were able to remember how happy you had been when the maesters had told you that you were with child. Your life had seemed perfect. A loving and protecting husband who worshiped you like a goddess. A safe and comfortable life in the keep and a promising future.

Unconcsiously tears had welled in your eyes and you blinked several times. You couldn't fool yourself, because as strong and angry you appeared towards the people here at dragonstone and first and foremost Ser Roggers, you were deeply hurt and had found yourself crying to sleep more than once.

Everything could have been magical if Daemon hadn't been so stupid to destroy it. All he had to do was open his eyes and see what both your lives had become now because you were certain that he wasn't any happier now as well. And that was entirely his fault.

You clenched your fist and gulped loudly. You had to stay strong now. Tonight and tomorrow. This would only work if you'd be able to control your feelings and remain calm.

You raised your chin and then fell asleep.

[curly-fry-3]

i have a request. I don't know if they are still open but here we go. Dean x reader, where reader is possessed and tries to kill the brothers, but they exorcise her. She has weak health so when the demon is out, she gets ill. Fluff after that. Love your writing!

𖦹Possessed𖦹

summary𖦹 You get possessed and Dean takes care of you

pairing𖦹 Dean Winchester x Reader

word count𖦹 1,190

notes𖦹 I hope you like this. this is my first time writing a fight scene so it might not be spectacular. also just fyi, learned this the hard way, writing someone who's possessed it HARD

also I didn't fully proofread it, I kinda skimmed it (sorry its like midnight and I have school tomorrow lol)

Holy shit. This is probably the worst you've ever felt. Being trapped in your mind with no control over your actions, demons suck. Of course you would be targeted, being close with the Winchesters always got you in trouble–damn Dean and his charming smile that lured you in. You and Dean had been together for almost a year, you two had met through Bobby when he needed help translating some ancient spell. Of course Dean hit on you like there was no tomorrow and of course you fell for him and you've been going strong ever since. You help Dean and Sam with researching and questioning people for information. Dean would die before he let you actually fight, especially because you already got sick so easily, he didn't want more strain on your body. That's how the demon had found you.

You were walking back to the motel after questioning the victim's husband. It was dark out and you had this creepy feeling, like someone was watching you. You had quicked your steps, hoping to get back to the motel–and Dean–before something could jump out at you. Unluckily for you, you were being watched by a demon, and you would never be able to outrun it. When the black smoke entered you and you were no longer in control, your body continued to head to the motel–to Dean and Sam. You tried to take control of your body, you have no idea what you would do to them but you know it wouldn't be good, but you weren't strong enough.

Soon you made it to the motel and walked through the door, strolling in like nothing was wrong. Sam was sitting at the small table near the door on his laptop and dean was laying in your shared bed reading up on some lore. When you enter Dean looks up and smiles at you in greeting “hey babe, any leads”

“Oh no nothing” the demon said, taking of your suit jacket and shoes and sitting on the bed next to dean

Dean looks at you confused “sweetheart, is something wrong”

“What, no, why” the demon responds, pretending to be just as confused

His face hardens as he gets up from the bed and stands against the nightstand, reaching for the demon blade in the top drawer behind his back. “You're not her”

Sam is listening in on the conversation and immediately goes into battle mode when he hears Dean's tone. He stands up as well and reaches for his gun on the table next to him, silently sizing you up.

When the demon realizes it's been found it drops the innocent act and you stand up facing the boys, getting ready to fight them. “Oh you're very observant, Dean, you know I thought I had about an hour till you figured me out…guess I'm not that great of an actress.” The demon says, with a sinister smile on your face. “Oh well, i'll still get to kill you two” You look over to sam. “Don't try and pull a fast one, I know you don't wanna hurt this little meatsuit.” You turn back to dean “especially you ... .you know, her first thought when I took over for her was that she didn't wanna hurt you…so sweet it makes me sick. You two are just gross.”

Dean look at you with a warning gaze “don't you dare hurt her, you son of a bitch”

The demon chuckles “oh, baby, you're gonna be the one doing all the damage” 

A look of realization flashes over Dean's face and he drops the demon blade in his hand–he would never hurt you. You pull out the knife from your belt and lunge at him. He dodges your attack, tripping you, and you end up on the floor, Your knife across the room, with him standing over you, Sam in his duffle bag getting holy water. From your position on the motel carpet you quickly kick upwards, hitting Dean in the balls. While you're getting up, Sam comes over and you punch the back of his knee, making him bend forward–losing his balance. Before you can get far, Dean has recovered from his hit and grabs you and pins you down. “Sam now!”

Sam splashes you with holy water and begins exorcizing you. If you thought being possessed sucked, being exorcized was ten times worse. By the time it was done you were so weak you couldn't home yourself up. Thankfully Dean was holding you. “Shit, baby I got you”

You look up at him weakly with tears in your eyes “I'm so sorry. I tried to take control, I really tried.”

Dean gently lays you down on the bed, giving Sam a look saying that he needs some alone time with you. He brings his attention back to you as Sam heads outside and you continue to apologize. “Sweetheart, it's not your fault” he starts taking care of you, changing you out of your FBI uniform and into your pajamas. “Don't, even for a second, think that it's your fault” He pauses after you're dressed and wipes the tears from your eyes as you're propped up on the pillows. “Are you comfortable baby? I know that was a lot for you.”

“I'm so tired, my body aches” You complain looking up at him with red rimmed eyes “I didn't wanna hurt you”

He looks at you with a reassuring smile “trust me, you didn't”

“But i kicked you in the balls” you say concerned

He grimaces at the memory,“And I handled it” Dean sits on the bd next to you and rubs your calf comfortingly, “do you need anything”

“I just want you to hold me” you answer, pulling him down into your embrace

He immediately reciprocates your hug, wrapping you in his warm comforting arms, You let out a deep breath of air in relief, your achy muscles already feeling better. When Dean gets situated next to you melt into his arms and rest your head on his chest. “Better?” He asks

“Way better” you confirm. “You always make everything better”

He softly smiles at your statement and kisses the top of your head. He rubs your back in soothing, comforting motions. “I try”

You look up at him guiltily, “I should be the one comforting you, I tried to kill you”

He shakes his head in disagreement, “that wasn't you. And besides, you're way too weak to do any comforting. That demon did more damage to you than me.”

“I still feel bad” you look away, sheepishly

Dean playfully rolls his eyes and his hand stops its movement on your back. “Dont…I love you ok…I just wanna make sure your ok”

You look back to him “I love you too”

Not needing to say anything else, you curl back up into him and his hand resumes it's comforting pattern. Sure, being close with the Winchesters made you a target to monsters across America, but Dean was always there to protect and comfort you.

You kiss Dean's chest then mutter into his shirt, “I really need to get that anti possession tattoo.”

sorry if there are any typos

love y'all

[xoxoyedam]

More Than a Friendship | Coriolanus Snow

pairing: young!Coriolanus Snow x reader

tw: none, i guess?

word count: 1.5k

summary: After a very confusing summer, Coriolanus returns to the Capitol where he meets someone who he thinks can help him get over Lucy Gray.

other(s): The reader is meant to be gender neutral although there are some mentions of reader w/long hair and hair bows! Also, this was written very late at night, I was half asleep and have not edited it!

It had been a long day when you first ran into Coriolanus. Being from a well-off family that held your image and education in very high standards, you were not aware of who he was at first.

Your family kept you in the home most times, telling you that was what was best for you. Since you were a child, your education relied on the teachings of more than one governess. You had never joined the Academy with the rest of the children your age. And although you wandered around the Capitol, where the aftermath of the war was still visible in some places, you knew little about it in general. 

Although you knew about the war and how terrible it had been to the people of the Capitol, you never had to live through the hunger and terror that other Capitol kids such as Coriolanus had to. Your parents' wealth stretched very far back. 

Your parents had been unwilling of letting you go at first, until they realized the truth: you had outgrown the wisdom of any governess. You were incredibly smart, and the University would only help you grow. So you begged your parents, and they obliged. 

You started hearing about the hunger games after getting to the University. You were horrified, but everyone else your age seemed to know and be okay with the games. So as not to make yourself seem as more of an outsider, you decided not to pry on the idea of the games further. 

So, when you ran into Coriolanus on your way to campus, you had no clue who he was. You only gave a small apology and hurried off without noticing that a notebook had fallen out of your bookbag. You heard him call after you, but continued, thinking he might want to pick a fight with you for bumping into him.

A few weeks later, you bumped into Coriolanus again. This time, as he was exiting the library. With another small apology, and without realizing it was the same guy, you tried to bolt right past him. However, he pulled you back with a hand on your upper arm. 

"You. I know you." 

You were confused, you didn't think you'd ever seen this man before. 

"Sorry, you must be confused." You answered, although you couldn't help but take a second to admire him. He was tall, at least taller than you. His body was well built, his icy blue eyes pierced through you, seemingly trying to fix a puzzle that was not there. 

And, something else you noticed: his smell. Not in a creepy way, but he had a very distinctive smell. No one else that you knew had this smell. After taking a second to inhale his scent you, realized he smelled like roses. Something you hadn't smelled in a while, but it still lingered in the back of your memory. 

"I asked you what your name was." You startle back to the current conversation, embarrassed at the idea that he could've caught you smelling him. 

"Oh. Sorry. It's y/n." After a pause, you realize that you had just given your name to a complete stranger. One that smelled very good, and you wanted to know his name as well. 

"What about yours?" At this, he raised an eyebrow. He seemed confused, perplexed, almost, that you didn't know his name.

"I'm Coriolanus Snow." He answered, straightening his posture. You could tell he was very proud of his own name, although you weren't very sure why. You had heard that name before; Snow. 

Coriolanus Snow. You had heard of him and something in relation to the games. You try to remember, but as each second passed you could see him become more expectant, more confused. "Umm, yeah. I've heard about you before." That was all you could muster about that. 

"Anyways, sorry. Bye." You add hurriedly, hoping to make it into the library this time, but to no use. Coriolanus held onto your arm again. 

"Excuse me," You say, turning back to look at him. "I'm not sure who you are, but I have somewhere to be so I would appreciate it if you could let me go." 

"Sorry," He continued, as he retracted his hand, "I have something to give you. A few weeks ago, you bumped into me as well." You didn't quite remember the incident, but he continued. "You dropped something, a notebook. I don't have it with me right now, but I can give it back to you whenever you wish." 

"Well, sorry about that day." You answer. You vaguely remember the encounter, but you knew you had been missing a notebook. You just hadn't been sure where you'd put it at all. You had thought maybe it was in your room at home. "I'm going to be in the library a while because I have a project due soon. If you could bring it back that would be great, but I understand if you can't."

Coriolanus nodded, "Yeah. No problem, I'll go get it and bring it back to you." 

"Alright. I'll try to stay around the entrance so you can spot me." You both nodded and finally parted ways.

As you set your things down on the table nearest to the entrance of the library, you thought about how you would repay Coriolanus for keeping your notebook and running to get it for you. Rummaging through your book bag, you found a container with a single cupcake inside it. Your mother had given it to you that very morning, an addition to your usual lunch. It was special, the frosting on top smiling back at you as you held back the urge to eat it. 

Instead, you pushed it to the side and started working. 

On the other side of things, Coriolanus was eager to give you back the notebook. Dashing across campus, he thought about you. You were beautiful in his eyes, and he caught a whiff of something both times he had run into you. Something sweet, something sugary. Although he couldn't place a finger on what it was, he wanted to find out. 

After the first day you two ran into each other, he couldn't stop thinking about you. Both times, he watched your walk away from him, he admired your long curls, decorated with a pretty bow. On the first occasion, it was a white bow, matching your outfit. On this occasion, he realized, the red bow in your hair also matched your outfit. 

After learning your name, he was more excited than ever to know more about you. Especially when you didn't recognize him. At first he was surprised when you had no reaction to his name. He brushed it off as you not paying much attention, or the idea that you simply had no interest in watching the games. 

He had also not recognized your name from the Academy. The more he thought about you, the more he wanted to know about you. Everything about you. 

And he thought, if you knew nothing about his past, that would be better. You would be easier to charm. And most of all, it would be easier for him to forget Lucy with a beautiful person like you by his side. Lucy and her memory could die out back in District 12, while he was here exploring new options. 

After collecting the notebook, Coriolanus dashed back to the library. Before entering, he tried to compose himself. Taking a few deep breaths and making sure he looked alright, he entered the library and spotted you immediately. 

You looked up as Coriolanus approached, his hand holding out the notebook. You took it. "Thank you so much. I wasn't sure where I had left it. I don't have much to give you in exchange for your troubles. But I do have this." 

You pulled the cupcake out from behind a stack of books and handed it to him. Coriolanus took it, gladly. Looking at the cupcake, he knew he had chosen the correct person. While things had gotten better for him and his family when he returned from District 12, he hadn't eaten such a sweet dessert in a while. 

"Our maid made a few more, but my mom gave it especially to me for lunch this morning. I know it's not much, but it is a sign of my gratitude." You add, hoping he wasn't disappointed, although looking at his face, he seemed more than happy to receive it. 

Oh, he had definitely chosen the right person. Knowing that there was more where this came from, possibly a lot more, he was determined to win you over. 

"Thank you," He answered as he opened the container. "You should take a piece, it was yours after all." 

"Oh, don't worry about it, Coriolanus. I can eat one when I get home. It's my way to thank you."

"Coryo." You gave him a confused look. 

"Please, call me Coryo. That's what my friends call me." 

"Alright," You smiled. "Coryo." 

This was only the beginning of something, he thought. He was going to make sure this was more than a friendship. 

[pyract0]

Showering with Hsr men!

☪Based off this post of mine! ☪No defined gender or pronouns, referred to as "you", nothing explicit just fluff/ romantic scenes, established relationships, I have a terrible habit of writing when I'm real tired and I don't proof read so expect mistakes (if I catch them later they will be edited) ☪Includes: Jing yuan, Sunday, Boothill ☪Might do a part 2 with the rest of the characters, just had more initial ideas for these 3

ׂ╰┈➤ -`♡´- Jing yuan A deep chuckle resounded within the spacious bathroom, like a symphony reaching your ears as you glared at the culprit. Jing yuan.

Your gaze returned to your outstretched hand in front of you, the back of your hand at the mercy of the constant, unwavering flow of steaming water. You felt another yelp crawl up your throat as you returned to the previous eye contact you helped, watching his signature smug smirk never falter.

Luckily the pain wasn't that extreme, or a certain general would be demoted to sleeping on the pristine couch in the living room instead of curled up beside you like a napping feline. You felt the careful grasp on your wrist before it registered in your vision, being tugged forward into a warm embrace as the water bounced off Jing yuans broad shoulders before making contact with you. Guess he's good for something... being a shield.

You caught yourself snickering at your own joke as a large hand came to cradle the back of your head, pulling the side of your face against his chest as a hum reverberated through. Despite the comforting warmth from the arms wrapped tightly around your body, you forced yourself backwards as to allow yourself enough space to actually clean yourself. Your own palms ran across your body, starting at your arms as you lathered a thin layer of your scented body wash. You watched in a trance as the suds disappeared in almost an instant, flowing down your limbs towards the drain. Deciding to put off washing your hair for today, deducing later to be a more suitable time you turned to your boyfriend. Simply put, Jing yuan was... struggling. His fingers seemed to get caught a mere inch from his scalp as he tried coating the strands with his shampoo. Despite the look of annoyance that quickly plastered onto your features, this wasn't exactly unusual. An exasperated sigh pulled from your parted lips as you pointed to the tiled floor. "Sit"

Despite the look on his face that felt like he wanted to argue, he sat without much of a fight, much like a scolded child who knows they've done wrong. You welcomed the slight pressure against your thighs as his head leaned back against you, giving you a better angle to thread your nimble fingers through his thick hair and massage the product into his scalp. Your fingernails gently scratched as your ran your hands through, effectively achieving your goal.

You carefully lowered yourself to your knees behind his frame, moving your attention to the hair that fell over his shoulders and seemed to flow down his back like a waterfall, making sure to be gentle when working to untangle the mess of knots. The longer you remained seated in the same spot, the further you felt Jing yuan put his weight back onto you, clearly dozing off. Instead of complaining, you decided to hold off for now and finish off your job, effectively working through his hair until it was manageable. You pushed yourself to your feet and in an instant, watched as Jing yuan sat up as if his life flashed before his eyes when his body slouched backwards. You could hear him rise to his feet beside you as you washed the bubbles from your hands, giving him your attention as you felt his gaze piercing the side of your skull. "Thank you for the help, darling" His voice help a level of deep rooted affection as he pressed his lips to your temple, moving the hair from your face before moving to place a loving kiss to your lips before stepping out.

ׂ╰┈➤ ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Sunday

Unnaturally soft hands caressed your sides, cold without the usual gloves that encased them. You could feel Sundays chest pressed into your back, fluttering wings and soft grey hair tickling your neck as he placed small pecks on your shoulder.

Your fingers interlocked with the ones wrapped around your waist, leaning back into the soothing embrace. A comforting silence filled the large room as you both remained unmoving in each others company, being a much needed moment to relax. Being the head of the family wasn't an easy feat for Sunday, but if it meant he could fall into your arms at end of the day, he'd do it for eternity.

You carefully began to remove your hand from his grasp, turning your body to face his. You moved to cup his face, cradling him like he was the most precious thing you could lay your eyes on. His golden eyes met yours as you pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth, leaning back as you released him from your hold. He seemed to get the idea, moving to grab the products for your hair before applying a generous amount to his palm. You could hear as he rubbed his hands together behind your back before his thin fingers started to run through your hair, taking his time to give extra attention into scrubbing your scalp. Your eyes closed as you leaned your head back into his touch, ignoring his angelic laugh at your actions. The touch came to a stop, unthreading from your hair as you felt the warm water hit your back, washing the suds from your hair as Sunday placed his hands on your sides momentarily. "All done, angel"

You gave a thankful hum as you grabbed the specialised shampoo from the holder, spinning as you popped open the cap. Sunday Knowingly lowered his head for you, giving you full access to his wings as you started gently massaging the delicate feathers. Your nails ran over certain spots, using the ends to gently preen through his wings as they fluttered at the special attention. You made sure to be careful around his piercings, not wanting to cause discomfort to the sensitive patch within the soaked feathers. You carefully moved to the opposing wing, repeating your manoeuvring around the appendage. You took a step back as you finished up, happy with your work before moving to the next step of rinsing off the layers of applied cleanser. Before you could do as planned, you watched his wings twitch initially, before he began rousing his wings rapidly. "Wait, Sund-" Your words got cut short at the stinging pain that that infiltrates your eyes, bubbled landing on face. Your scream got cut short as you began quickly rubbing your eyes, gathering soap in your cupped hands before moving it to your face in quick succession. Sunday, despite feeling bad for what had happened, couldn't help but chuckle at your demise. Your excessive cursing only added to his amusement, forcing him to lean on the wall for support before he fell from how aggressively he was shaking. Your now red eyes glared at his quivering form, seconds away form attacking the halovian in one way or another. Upon seeing the displeased look on your face, he lifted his hands in mock surrender before moving towards you once again. His palms gently cupped your cheeks, fingers wrapping around the sides of your head like vines as he pulled your face towards his. His lips were soft against your own, moving against yours for a moment before moving back before an apologetic smile overcame his features. "I'm sorry, my dove. I'll try and be more careful next time"

ׂ╰┈➤ • ➵ ✩ Boothill Boothill has naturally met many couples in his travels as of recent, and a topic that stuck with him has of something more intimate. Showering together. It seemed... comforting. Being able to unwind within arms reach of each other, being able to hold you close and talk about his day in a different setting. With that revelation, his mind was set up. He was going to ask and it today was perfect. He watched from the barstool at your kitchen counter as you dragged your fatigued body through the living room, pressing your lips against his cheek as you walked past him before settling into the kitchen. Boothill watched intrigued as you sluggishly made yourself a hot drink, likely highly caffeinated, to try and wake yourself up. I mean, hot water would wake you right? He sat impatiently on his stool, stalking you like a hawk as he waited for you to realise he was practically begging for your attention silently. After what seemed like an eternity to Boothill (about 2.5 minutes), your eyes landed on his sharkish grin as you cocked an eyebrow at him. You may have been tired, but you'd have to be on the verge of death not not realise his enthusiasm that basically radiated off him. "So sugar, I was thinkin'. What do ya think about showerin' with lil' ol me" You gave him a continuously flow of owlish blinks as you thought over his proposal, something in you telling you it was a bad idea but you couldn't answer why. As much as you wanted to listen to the yelling in your head, the look of pure, unfiltered joy on the cowboys face fizzled out and possible doubts that you had. bad idea

You gave a half-assed shrug before placing down your mug, started your trek towards the bathroom nestled into the corner of your shared house. Before you could make it far, Boothills hand latched onto your wrist, smooth metal cooling the area within an instant. Your movement doubled in pace as the cyborg pulled you along, practically swinging the door off it's hinges, earning a scolding from you. You got undressed significantly faster than your partner, opting to step in first and choose an appropriate temperature for the pressurised water. After the water warmed to your liking, you stood in place with your eyes closed momentarily as you heard Boothills heavy steps making their way over to you. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck perk up, barely feeling his metallic fingertips graze your waist before a jolt is sent through your body, your vision turning blurring at the edges before you feel your consciousness slip from you. • ➵ ✩ • ➵ ✩ • ➵ ✩ • ➵ ✩ • ➵ ✩ • ➵ ✩ • ➵ ✩

Boothill wasn't one to freak out, no of course not. He was a galaxy ranger, he lived life on the edge and with little regard for anything. Yet here he sat, watching you lay unconscious on your shared couch with the bandages he messily wrapped around the electrothermal burn that sat on your side. As soon as he saw you waking up, he fell forward onto your chest, rubbing his cheek against it and stuttering out apologies. "Oh fudge sweetheart, I didn' think 'bout it. I forkin' forgot I couldn't go in the water" It took you a moment to register what was happening, only feeling the tight grip of arms around your waist and a face rubbing against your abdomen. You listened to him babble on in sheer panic as you started chuckling. Mistaken the sudden jolts you produced as you crying, Boothill doubled down, apologising more and looking on the verge of tears. To say he felt bad was an understatement Your hand came to rest on the back of his head, running your fingers through his multicoloured strands, trying to calm down the jittery cowboy before he overheated and caused himself to short circuit.

He refused to look up and meet your eyes despite your encouragement, pushing himself further into your chest and wrapping his arms impossibly tighter around your back. At the feeling of you placing a loving kiss to his hairline, tilting his chin as you leaned to place a more firm one on his lips, feeling his sharp teeth graze your lower lip as he melted into the kiss. Upon meeting your gaze, Boothill could see the pure amusement in your eyes at his actions, causing him to huff as he loosened his iron grip wrapped around your waist. "I'm sorry though darlin', maybe somethin' else next time"

ׂ╰┈➤ Note Cooked this up in like 2 hours at like 2am, hope y'all enjoy though •ᴗ•

[livingformintyoongi]

The Hunger Games | Kim Taehyung

a/n: Yes, this is not as well produced as the rest of my work because it's a stupid project I'm doing based on this publication I made, because if I'm going to push people to show their never finished projects, then I'm also going to participate showing this fragment I wrote a LONG time ago :))

Warnings: THG!AU, a little angsty, Reader is rather clumsy and soft (yes, I like characters that are shown to be weak, condemn me), and just that, it's short 🙂

"Are you still awake?" Taehyung whispered over your hair, both arms wrapped protectively around your waist. You were almost sure he hadn’t taken his hands off you since he set foot on the arena.

"Yeah, it's hard to sleep knowing that at any moment someone could jump on us to attack," you murmured, snuggling even closer to his chest, clinging to the false hope that this way, you might find some peace.

"No one would dare approach us. Our allies are some of the strongest—we have Chaewoon and Yoongi, two of the most ruthless winners. Then there’s Sooah, Jiwon, and Jungkook, some of the strongest fighters. And, of course, we have Namjoon. He won the games purely with his intelligence. We have nothing to worry about—"

"Taehyung," you interrupted before he could continue, turning to face him. It was still nighttime, and neither of you was willing to light a fire, so the only illumination was the moonlight. Your delicate features stood out even more under the blueish glow, and Taehyung couldn’t help but think how beautiful you looked, even in a situation as hopeless as the Hunger Games.

"We may have the strongest and smartest players, but everyone in this arena has won a game before. And let’s not forget the fact that they all did it by their own merit..." You paused for a moment before continuing, a small pang in your chest making it hard to say what had been weighing on your mind ever since they announced you would be fighting in the Games again. "Everyone except me."

"Honey—"

"No, Taehyung, don’t try to make it seem like I did something incredible, like my victory was as legendary as everyone else’s," you kept your gaze lowered, unable to meet his eyes as you let out all the fears you had kept bottled up until now. "The only reason I won the Games was because I got lucky. We both know it—everyone knows it! That’s the only reason people even remember me out there. ‘How did she dodge that arrow?’ ‘What were the odds that a beehive would fall right onto that player?’ ‘How did she find food that another tribute couldn't get to because of the distance and difficulty?’"

Your grip on Taehyung’s suit tightened slightly, your forehead pressed against his chest as if it could shield you from his gaze.

"I never killed anyone, not a single person. My weapon is completely clean. If someone were to attack us right now, I wouldn’t be able to defend myself. I never passed any trials, not even the agility test..." You licked your lips before continuing, the lump in your throat tightening now that you were finally voicing your deepest fear. "I’m a burden to all of you, Taehyung," you whispered against his chest, feeling how his arms tensed around your waist. "If another team comes after us, you’d be too busy keeping me alive to worry about yourself, and the same goes for the others. I’m a liability, and everyone knows it. There’s no way I can be of any help. I can’t even swim. I can barely run properly without tripping halfway through. And it’s too dangerous for you to keep carrying me on your back all the time."

"What are you trying to say, Y/N?" Taehyung murmured, his grip on you tightening even more. He couldn't even tell where he ended and where you began. "Because if you’re telling me all this just to say we should split from the group, then—"

"You don’t have to come with me," you shook your head, pressing your face against his chest, needing to feel him as close as possible, to the point where you could hear his heartbeat growing louder. "I don’t want you to. I want you to live, Tae. I want to stop being a burden to you."

"You are not a fucking burden, Y/N. You are my fiancée," he growled softly, resting his face in the crook of your neck. You were fully aware of how much this conversation angered him—you had been from the moment the thought first crossed your mind. But it was the best thing, for everyone, for him, and he had to understand that somehow.

"I can’t just leave you behind and go as if you don’t matter to me, because you are the best thing that has ever happened in my life. I don’t want to do it, and I won’t. You want to leave the group? Fine, do it. But I’m going with you," he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes searching yours desperately. He needed you to understand how he felt, that he would never, ever leave you alone, no matter what.

"I’ve respected every single one of your decisions, no matter how ridiculous they seemed to others. But with this? With this, you don’t get a choice, baby. I’m going wherever you go. Always."

"It’s dangerous for you to be with me."

"It’s dangerous for you to be alone."

"I don’t want you to die because of me."

"And do you think I do? You said it yourself—you’re clumsy, you don’t know how to handle a weapon properly without hurting yourself. If I leave you here alone… just thinking about it, I—"

He pursed his lips, studying your face intently. He lifted a hand to your cheek, caressing it as if your skin were made of the most delicate and precious material in existence. And to him, you were.

A fragile body, a heart too soft, too easily broken. To him, you were the most beautiful woman in the world—if not the entire universe. You were the love of his life, someone he never thought he would get to meet. But there you were, lying beside him, looking only at him, wearing a ring that, in a few months, would bind you together for life.

"I love you too much to risk your life for nothing, Y/N."

He rested his forehead against yours, noses brushing, lips just inches apart, breathing the same air.

"Don’t do this to us, please, I beg you," he whispered against your lips, running his hands through your golden strands before resting them on your nape. His dark eyes locked onto yours, a quiet smile forming inside him as he saw your pupils dilate, as he felt your much smaller hands clutching his clothes like your life depended on it.

You could say you wanted to go your separate ways, but your body told an entirely different story.

"Stay with us," he murmured, his lips barely touching yours as he spoke. "Stay with me."

Before you could respond, Taehyung closed the distance, his fingers tangling in your hair, his arms pulling you closer until every inch of your body was pressed against his.

You had kissed before, many times—sometimes briefly, other times with deeper emotion. But this? This was different from any kiss you had shared before.

It felt like a last one.

More desperate than any other, yet filled with uncertainty and a silent plea neither of you dared to voice. The hand he had kept on your cheek now tried to wipe away the tears that had started falling—tears he was sure you had been holding back for days.

The kiss didn’t last more than a few minutes, but it felt like hours. Hours neither of you wanted to end.

When you pulled away for air, Taehyung followed, seeking more, needing more. He didn’t want to let you go. He didn’t want to lose you.

"I’m scared, Tae," you whispered between soft sobs, looking at him with so much desperation and fear that he felt his heart clench.

His eyes locked onto yours with determination, trying to appear as confident as possible, to make his words feel like undeniable truth.

"I’ll get you out of this alive, baby. I’ll get both of us out. I promise."

[ameagrice]

Capsize

percy jackson x fem reader

chapter thirty-nine | liar, liar

You were beginning to understand how the ancient Romans enjoyed watching people fight to the death. Because although Percy is literally fighting for his life in the arena dozens of feet below against a being much bigger, and much stronger, than he, there’s something alluring to watching the fight. Something about the crowd yelling, the way your heart speeds up and drops down again every time something gets too close for either of them.

Yeah, the ancient Romans had the right idea.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Rachel mutters down your ear, just as the crowd goes up in cheers again.

You’ve got your hands clasped together sweaty and squeezing tightly under your chin. Rachel might just be right.

Next to you stands Kelli. The Kelli. The monster Kelli from the high school. Of course you’re never lucky for long. Whenever she hears Rachel talk, she takes a good swipe at her with her talons, or threatens to shut her up in a way that includes blood. Disgusting, honestly. Monsters are in general utterly disgusting.

The floor of the arena and the stands seemed entirely made of packed dirt. You had the best view point in the house, directly in the middle, looking over the arena. Once or twice, Percy casted a look to your height, but he had been quickly drawn away by the ongoing fight. Around the arena were skulls, stuck on to the edge of the seats, and around the ceiling, where chains dangled down. In the middle of the opposite wall, right above the throne Luke Castellan took up, hung a giant banner with the trident of Poseidon in the centre. When you first arrived, the giant thing sitting next to Luke had simply been a spectator. Now, Percy was fighting him. For a few minutes Percy had only managed to confuse him, going this way and that and taking mad dives out of the way. But if he wanted to make it home, Percy would, frankly, need a miracle. Antaeus, a distant son of Poseidon. He declared this arena a ‘temple to the Earthshaker’ and demanded Percy engage in a fight.

Now, you’re trying to send him messages with your eyes whilst being totally enthralled in the fight itself. The Ancient Greeks had the Olympics, and the Romans their Gladiators. Sometimes you thought you might have been a better fit for the past. And then you thought about your rights, and decided you’d be alright where you are.

You’d been sending him ideas with your eyes the whole fight time. Finally, Percy got the hint, with one singular glance in your direction. He’d made it up to the chains, climbing further and higher so Antaeus had no choice but to follow the fighter in order to win. If Percy got away, what sort of show would that be? Thankfully, Antaeus followed Percy’s—your—idea, climbing up the chains, yelling. By the time he’d reached the top and become tangled, Percy slid back down the chains, all the way to the ground, panting and sweaty in the face.

“Get me down!” Antaeus demanded.

Luke, from his makeshift throne, was absolutely furious. He got to his feet, angry as hell. “Free him! Now.”

Percy, a tiny dot in the arena, pulled the pen from his pocket and pulled the cap. Riptide materialised.

“Oh, I’ll free him,” said Percy. Something about the way the arena was constructed had his voice echoing around it. Annabeth would know what it was. He stood on his toes, ever so slightly, and raised the tip of Riptide to Antaeus’s stomach. With the point, he touched the giant’s skin, and sand began to pour out. As a being of the earth, Antaeus would struggle to regenerate without touching it, hence your idea to have him off the ground. Sand poured into a pile as the giant roared in anger, the crowd watched in disbelief, until there was nothing left of Antaeus.

And Luke…

“I should have killed you right at the beginning.”

You could vaguely hear your friend hum in amusement. “You tried. And failed. Let us go, Luke. We had an agreement with Antaeus; I’m the winner.”

“Antaeus’s oath dies with him. Since I’m feeling merciful today, I’ll have you killed quickly. Save the girls for last. I’d like them to watch their little hero die. An example.”

“This is, like,” you pause for a moment, thinking. “This is…”

“Are you gonna say something stupid?”

You nod slowly, glancing up. “Might do, yeah.”

“Please do. I’d like to laugh at the dumb shit coming out of your mouth before we die.”

You roll your eyes. “Pfffttttt. We’re not gonna die, Rachel! We’re just gonna suffer for a little bit. We’ll live. Totally.”

Rachel snorts heavily, and Kelli retaliates by hissing down her ear like some possessed rattlesnake. “Well, as long as we suffer, eh?”

You hum. Percy begins backing up in the arena. “As is the life of a demigod.”

“I’m not a demigod!” Your companion complains.

“As is the life of…someone with bad luck? The two go hand-in-hand, really—” you trail off, standing back to observe the situation at hand.

Rachel laughed almost mockingly. Drawing back, a little hurt, you frown heavily. “What are you supposed to be? A child poet?”

Then, shrugging your shoulders, unable to back down to embarrassment, “You never know. There’s time yet. And I’m not a child, Rachel, I’m nearly sixteen. You’re younger than me!”

She eyed you up and down. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?”

A shrill scream, like nails on a chalkboard, rang from behind. Both yourself and Rachel jumped violently, stumbling aside as Kelli, who had been keeping guard, was suddenly lifted in the mouth of a giant, black Mastiff and thrown over the edge of the arena. She screamed as she hit the ground, your stomach churned with the sight, before she promptly exploded in a puff of golden dust, sent right back to Tartarus.

For a moment, you stand, jarred, overlooking the arena, hands perched on the rail edge. Chaos has broken out below.

“Come on!” Rachel snatches up your sweater, yanking you away from the overview. “Let’s go!”

Sliding across sand-dusted ground, you find Percy waiting impatiently at the bottom, looking left and right anxiously. The giant hound, Mrs O’Leary, is leaping in your direction like she’s had too much sherbet and chocolate, tongue lolling, eyes bright.

“Hurry up!” Percy urges with an impatient and nervous look on his face. “Go, go, go!”

The three of you take off out of there, following the path the whole way through with the assistance of Rachel, guiding the way.

"Left!" She'd shout, taking a dramatic turn down what looked like the chute for a body bag to be thrown down. At the bottom stood a set of rusty metal doors, and when you reached them, they flung open with monsters waiting on the other side. Trying to run back up the chute in complete darkness, with horrific noise catching up from behind, had to be up there with the worst experiences of your life. To put it into perspective; imagine getting up in the night for a glass of water, not turning on the light in the hall, and knowing there is something waiting for you in the dark, only you can't run fast enough away. Pretty terrible.

Later on, at a New Years Eve party, you chewed Rachel out for that for that incident, and would continue to do so for the rest of your lives.

Despite the heart attack you experienced as you made your getaway up the body chute, you found the energy somehow (and the breath) to acknowledge the extra member of your group, tagging alongside Percy, like a lost puppy. A slender boy a teensy bit older than you, whose sword carried some sort of essence providing a little bit of light, bouncing off of his silk-like ebony hair, and the patch covering his left eye. Lights lit your path in the dark, running down the hall toward two new sets of doorways.

"The far right door!" Gasped Rachel, holding on to the wall for support. "That's the right way. I promise this time!"

The mysterious new guy barrelled on through the right doorway first, a good job, since you didn't fancy being that room's experiment. As he flung the door open, daylight blinded you, and a horrible sense of deja vu overcame you. Disorientated, you stumble out to the sidewalk, throwing aside an old couple into the path of the cab rank. Cars blare their horns, and the old couple are looking at you like you've killed their dog or something. As the feeling fades, you're left with what you can only describe as horror, like some sickness is lingering under your skin, rotting from the inside out. You stumble over the edge of the sidewalk, directly into oncoming traffic, and find your eyes drawn up to the clouds of smoke from an industrial site across the street, billowing into the sky at a hundred miles an hour.

"Hey!"

Turning your head, you find Percy gripping you by the wrist, confused and his eyes swimming with concern. "I've been talking to you. Didn't you hear me?"

You shake your head no. "Sorry," you breathe. "Must've...missed you."

He looks back and forth between your eyes. They sting, for some reason. "I've been standing here for ages."

"Well, nevermind that, then. Just got confused. Did we not come out of the same place or something? Where's Rachel, anyway."

There’s no sight of the redhead on the streets, not even when you spin in a circle four times and shout ‘RACHELLLLLLL!’ with no shame, while Percy ducks his head and avoids all eye contact with the public. Thunder cracks high above, and a couple of tourists tip their cameras to the sky to take pictures.

“Damn,” you shrug your shoulders. “She must be lost to the Maze. Shame. Let’s go home.” You spin on your heel. Percy grabs you by the collar and pulls you back across the sidewalk.

“We’ll go back in,” he decides firmly.

“Huh?!” Outraged at his suggestion, you plant your feet solidly into the concrete. You throw your hands out around the pole of a streetlight. “With that lot still in there? Fat chance!”

Percy flaps his hands around like he’s losing patience, and then waves one at the doorway you ran out of. It’s a thin sheet of metal, with bullet holes all over.

“We can’t leave a mortal in the Maze!” He exclaims, and stresses a line between his eyebrows.

“But she knows the way!” You emphasise. “She can see it, apparently, which I think is a load of bull. If she could see her way in there, she can see her way out, can’t she.”

“Fine,” he turns his back on you. “Stay on the streets.”

“Well you can’t go back on your own!” You fume, running to catch the door before it shuts without you. “I mean come on, Percy, use your brain.”

You see him smirk for a split second, before the door slams shut behind you, casting you into darkness. It’s so dark you can’t see your hands in front of your face, or Percy, for that matter.

“Are you still there?” You ask. He hums. A warm hand slaps your nose. “Ow!”

“What is that?” Percy laughs. It feels stark when you’ve lost a sense. “Is that your eye?”

“My nose!” You hmph!. “Do my eyes usually stick out directly?”

“When you don’t get what you want, yeah.”

“Liar. What now, anyway? You got a flashlight?”

“Yeah, let me just pull it out of my a—”

“Aaaaaaalright, that’s a no.” You sigh through your nose. “We’re back to the hand on the wall, I guess. Hold my shirt?”

Percy’s fingers find the space between your shoulder blades, before you set off, following the maze around with your hands out on either side, touching both walls. It’s incredibly claustrophobic in here. When you call for Rachel every few metres, your voice barely echoes thanks to the small confines of where you find yourselves. You’re not keen on Rachel, but knowing she’s lost somewhere down here isn’t comforting. You’d be terrified on your own here, so you can’t imagine how’s she’s feeling.

“Do you think she found her way out?”

“Huh?”

“Rachel,” you add. “D’you think she found her way out?”

“Careful,” Percy flicks your back. “You sound like you care.”

You scoff heavily. “I don’t like her. Doesn’t mean I want her to get hurt. I’m not that bad of a person, Percy.” And then… “Am I?”

He sniffs. “No. But to answer your question, she said she could see the way. I believe her. I think she would have found her way out by now, at least.”

You nod, but he can’t see you do it. “Right. Right.”

You continue on in what is mostly silence, besides the sound of your breathing, and footsteps. That is, until a sensor light suddenly flickers by your feet, lighting the way. Paused, you hesitantly stick your foot out and watch the next one light up.

“Who needs Rachel, huh?” Nervously, you take the plunge to keep going. It was almost better in the dark when you couldn’t see what waited up ahead. You look up. And roll your eyes, abruptly stopping. Percy kicks the back of your ankle, pulling your foot from your shoe. “Oh, for gods sake, it’s a dead end. Turn around, go back.”

“Geez. Fine. Fine! But can I remind you—hold up!”

“What?” You snap, but stop trying to shuffle around him.

You scarcely see him when the light is by your feet, but you can make out enough to see him squint his eyes. “Don’t you see it?”

“What?”

He raises his hand and presses to your side, raising his pointed finger directly in your line of sight, landing on a thin strip of warm light, barely there. The dead end is in fact a doorway.

“Oh,” you mumble softly. “Should we—?”

You didn’t need to ask, really. Percy slid past you and headed straight for the doorway, raising his hand to slide across what sounds like wood until it lands on the handle. No sound besides the two of you was audible before he opened the door, but the second he did so, it was like stepping into a whole other world. The hum of mechanical things roared, like a presser and iron, and steam. A radio came next, classical music floating to your ears.

“Wait!” You hiss, taking off after him. Not only because you were scared with nothing behind you, but because you were scared of him going alone.

Behind the door lay a room as big a school gymnasium, containing bronze statues half-finished covered with wilting white dust sheets. One of them resembled your mother. The other was a small wood nymph. Looking past the statues, the mechanics and the tables, a huge window making up the majority of the wall opposite looked out over some sort of wilderness. It was raining, but the sun shone. No rainbow, though.

Percy choked. Stepping inside, closing the door, you jogged over to the table he stood before, admiring sets of literal wings. The feathers almost shone gold. Trailing the tips of your fingers across them, they might just have been the softest things you’d ever felt in your life. Although not symmetrical to a T, they were pretty damn close to being. You walked in a circle around them and admired the way light beamed off of the feathers, as if liquid gold had doused them. On the other side of the table, Percy stood mesmerised, and his face was bathed in golden light cast from the wings. His gaze dropped and lowered, landing on you.

And then neither of you were caught by the wings, but by each other. Your hair dusted your lashes and your cheeks and from the corners of your eyes it had changed shade, somewhat glowing gold and warm yellow on its own. The silver in Percy’s hair turned luminous, kissing his brows. His freckles were highlighted across his cheeks and nose, as if he’d been kissed by an angel. For some reason, a swell of unknown emotion came over you and struck you right in the chest.

Why did you feel so…sad?

Someone slurped from a cup, way behind you. “Welcome to Colorado Springs!” A man’s voice called. Turning to the source, the sound came evidently from the figure on a spiral staircase, overlooking the workshop from the second floor you hadn’t noticed right away.

“I know you,” said Percy with plenty of distaste. “Quintus. Where’s Daedalus.”

“I like your confidence!” He began to descend. “You’re very sure this is his workshop?”

“What else could it be?” You say dryly. “What have you done with him?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to meet him.”

You lean your hip on the table. “I didn’t come all this way just to be told no. And I didn’t come all this way just to see you. I want answers. We want answers.”

Quintus came down the stairs. He had a sword at his side like he had been expecting you to turn up.

“You think that I work with Luke and Kronos.”

“I don’t think. I know.” You didn’t really. But he didn’t need to know that.

“You’re a smart girl. But you’re very wrong. I only work for myself.”

“So Geryon mentioning you was, what, a coincidence?” Piped Percy. “And Luke?”

Quintus laughed. “Of course! I’ve been everywhere.”

“Stop playing around,” Percy turned cold. “What have you done with Daedalus?”

“My boy,” Quintus stared. Rounding the table to near Percy, he said, “use your brain. I am Daedalus.”

Narrowing your eyes, you looked him up and down twice, for any indication that this man was in fact the man you’d been looking for. All you could see was a liar and a scumbag.

“Where’s your proof?” You jerk your chin at him.

Quintus grinned and tilted his head. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“Does it sound like we believe you?”

“At camp,” began Percy, “you were just a swordsman. Not an inventor. Or a crafter. You don’t seem a thing like Daedalus. You’ve probably kidnapped him and hidden him someplace back there.”

Quintus took the last sip of his drink and slammed the cup down on the side. “I am many things. An artist. A swordsman. An inventor. You live for so long…eh, you pick up a couple things along the way.”

“But you don’t even look like Daedalus!” Cried Percy. He waved a pointed hand to him. “I saw him in my dream. But you don’t look a thing alike.”

Something twisted at the base of your spine. Leaning forward, one hand on the table and the other rubbing the spot on your back, you had a sudden idea. “Daedalus would make himself a new body. Somebody capable of making a maze could easily do that. So that’s what you’ve done, if you are him, anyway. Am I right?”

Quintus winked, smiling with glee, now you’d connected the dots. “Right you are, my dear.”

You wrinkled your nose. “How’d you do it, then? How’d you transfer a human soul, a living spirit, to a machine? That shouldn’t be possible. It can’t be. Not really.”

“Did Hera curse Echo? Did Apollo turn Daphne? All of these things should cease to be made possible to the ordinary mind, and yet they are very much real.” Quintus lowered his gaze to the cardboard cup and flicked it, so it went rolling off the edge. It bounced once on the ground, and rolled to your feet. You looked at it and up again to Quintus.

“Quintus quite literally means ‘the fifth’, in Latin. My fifth body. I mean, come on, sister, you’re smarter than this! It’s been right in front of your face this whole time!”

You gagged. “Don’t call me that. I’d never be related to something as unnatural as you.”

“If you really are Daedalus,” input Percy. “Why did you come to our camp? What’s the point?”

Quintus shrugged, not bothered. “To see if you were worth saving.” Your eyes widened and hardened. “Luke had given me his version. I wanted my own.”

Percy laughed without any humour. “So you have talked to him. Luke.”

He hummed. “Many times, yes.”

“So what conclusion did you come to?” You butt in. “Save innocent people or let the world burn?”

Quintus smirked, and rolled his shoulders. He whistled loudly. “Wow! A poet in the making.” Your cheeks burned. “If you must know, I didn’t come to any conclusion.”

“Then let us persuade you instead. Don’t let Luke through the maze. Don’t let Kronos take over.”

Daedalus hummed and twirled his sword at his side. He watched the glow of the wings bounce off its surface. “The maze cannot be controlled.”

You scoffed heavily, and sidled slowly around the table, closer to Percy. Close enough that your sides were touching totally, you reached your hand around his back while Quintus wasnt looking, and dug your fingers into Percy’s front pocket, at his hip. His sword, in pen-form, sat waiting for you.

“So you can’t control your own creation?” You drawled. “What sort of inventor are you?”

He hummed a short laugh, low in his throat. Raising his eyes, Quintus stilled, an expression on his face like he’d been caught out, but sly. “An old one. I’ve cheated death for over two-thousand years. Don’t get me wrong, children, I want to help you. I feel, what you might call, guilty, even.”

You grit your teeth.

“Then help us,” Percy demanded. “Give us Ariadne’s string. Don’t let Luke have it.”

“Yes, that. I told Luke, I told him. I said, the eyes of a clear-sighted mortal are his best bet. But he didn’t listen. Insisted on having it. And it works,” he nodded. Quintus leant his hip on the table. “Oh, it works. Perhaps not as well as your red-headed friend out there, but it is effective.”

Percy pleadingly held his hands out, taking a step forward. “Then, let us have it.” He asked. “Please. Don’t give it to Luke.”

Quintus then sighed, but he didn’t sound particularly guilty. “I’m afraid you’re too many hours too late.”

Riptide materialised at your side, the tip of the sword just touching the ground where your hand bumped your thigh, grip tight. You shook your head, and laughed mirthlessly.

“See,” you kissed your teeth. “That’s not what’s happening here. You’re going to get it back. Because what else did we take this quest on for?”

“What would my reason have been for preventing this? Besides, I never agreed for you all to do this.”

“You didn’t object to it!” You exclaim, raising the sword swiftly in Quintus’s face. The sharp tip of it lands on his cheek, cutting a straight line vertically. Oil poured from the wound, gold. “Back at camp, when you agreed to let me lead this quest. You didn’t object. And I think that it’s because, deep down somewhere, there’s a part of you that wants this all to end. That’s why you agreed to let me come down here in the first place. Otherwise, what was it for? You don’t want the Titans to take over, you just want it all to end. You’ve gotta be pretty tired after two-thousand years. If you just let us stop this! You’re going to let Luke and Kronos kill thousands of people all for the sake of peace and peace of mind?! You’re going to let them take over everything, end the gods, and for what? You’re going to bring down the whole world to get what you want? Well, I’m sorry—I don’t let selfish, bigoted men rule, here.”

“Here’s the thing. Kronos has offered me freedom. I don’t have that at the moment. Allowing the two of you to get what you want would set back so much. Understand this; sometimes, what we want isn’t always the right thing. The Gods have ruled for too long. Ignored things for too long. Kronos is going to fix it all. Mark my words. When he comes to power, I can be with my son again in the afterlife. Kronos will banish Hades. And I will no longer be running from death.”

“Death is the most natural part of life,” you shake your head. “There’s no avoiding it, for anyone. You’re really going to let millions of people die just to get what you want? The whole world.”

He nodded. The point of the sword dug into his cheek, though he scarcely noticed. “Your cause is doomed. End of. There’s no way anybody can fight off Kronos, even if we wanted to.”

“Pessimist,” muttered Percy.

The floor suddenly began to shake. Lightly at first, and then violently enough for the tables to begin to shake. Quintus threw a lazy look at the upper level.

“I would be on my way, were I you. They’re coming. And you are ill-prepared.”

You slowly lowered Riptide but held it between yourself and Percy, and Quintus. “That’s it. You’ve made up your mind.”

He nodded firmly. “I have.”

“You’re a disappointment to the world.” Percy snapped. “We won’t forget that.”

Quintus waved his hand to another door on the opposite wall, to your right. “Well,” he said. “It’s a good job you won’t be around for long enough to care. Enjoy the rest of your days, demigods.”

So what else was there to do, you wondered. Percy took you by the hand and led the way, gritting his teeth and not looking back. Was it the thought of your wasted journey, perhaps? The losing little Nico in a maze of whose creator couldn’t give a shit? Or maybe, the thought of impending doom.

You wandered through the dark for a few seconds, until you missed a step and free-fell in the dark, screaming. You let go of Riptide to grab on to Percy’s other hand, a mess of limbs in the darkness, until that darkness turned into a stream, and you found yourself heading straight for a lit tunnel that opened up to the Hudson. Percy tried to take the brunt of the fall, trying to turn you midair, but ultimately failed. Winded, you fought your way to the surface with Percy’s help, until you came up coughing on the bank, freezing cold.

“What now?” Percy pulled himself from the water, shaking his head like a dog. River water struck your face. You glared at him.

“Sleep on it?” You thought, angrily. “It’s late. Got to be. But if we leave it another night, things’ll only get worse.”

Percy sighed, digging his hands in his pockets. It didn’t look comfortable. His hair was stuck to his face. “We can’t go around the city like this. Let’s sleep on it. We’ll go back to my place. I’ll find out where Rachel is. She might know how to help us.”

Rachel. You didn’t say anything, sure your face was telling all, but nodded your head.

Sally Jackson had the most normal reaction to your situation. As a mom to a demigod, she’d probably seen and heard more than she let on in her life. Upon answering the door, and Percy’s incessant knocking, you watched Sally’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, before softening, and sighing.

“Come on,” she yawned, stepping back and rubbing her eyes. “Get in.”

Admittedly, despite the warmed-up cookies and a warm spot on the couch, you couldn’t fall asleep. Dressed in an old pair of Sally’s pyjama shorts and tee, wrapped around a spare duvet in starry sheets, you found yourself blinking with sore, tired eyes at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. There weren’t many left up there; glue residue telling tales of fallen plastic stars. They made you think of Zoe Nightshade, and so you rolled over, curled up, and listened to the hum of the refrigerator until you fell asleep.

this is short. and overdue. short and overdue. short and…you get the idea.

taglist:

@bl6o6dy @embersparklz @rottenstyx

@rory-cakes @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual

@marshmallow12435 @lantsovheiress @distinguishedmakerpandapatrol @twlsssmlaa

@gayandfairycore @padsfirewhisky @emu281

@charlesswife @jessiegerl @tojismassivemantiddies

@xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @nothankyou138 @obxstiles @mxltifxnd0m

@cxcilla @itzjustj-1000 @sp00kcanwrite @randomesthings @fratbrochrisgf

@prongsflower @bugszi @tired-jaz

@mitsuriscannongf @i-love-books-and-the-bible

@miyakoa @dusk-reaper @hawkeye12

REMEMBER GUYS if you change your username and still want to be on the taglist, you need to let me know! I can’t get comments and messages telling me I’ve missed you from the taglist if you change your username and the URL changes, or if your account is not verified and therefore won’t tag.

[m-jelly]

Deadly deal

Levi x fem reader

Royal AU, magic, demon Levi, curses, romance, confident Levi.

The story idea might become a long one if liked...

You have a loving family and a good life, but after going to a royal tea party with other kids you start suffering from a sleep curse where you are often tired and will sleep in random places. As you grow older three men of great power, the king, grand mage and cardinal, are so obsessed with you and want to marry you that it drives you insane. Each time you sleep you meet a sweet kid that grows up with you. Your dreams with him when you're older become romantic and some rather heated. Soon things with the three men become too much and you pray for help and the man of your dreams appears, but he's a demon who's madly in love with you and willing to do anything for you.

Some suggestive themes.

Your hands were clasped so tightly and you did something you'd never done before, you prayed. Three men had gotten increasingly obsessed with you over the years and now you were an adult they wanted your hand in marriage, but your heart didn't belong to any of them.

"Someone." You pleaded quietly. "Anyone, please hear my prayers. Save me. Help me."

Hot air surged through the room and dragged you towards it. Your eyes opened wide as a portal tore open before you. An elegant hand reached out from the void with nails painted black. A muscular lean body made of divine nature hugged tightly with a black suit adorned with pieces of blue-like flames emerged. Your heart raced as familiar steel blue eyes locked with yours and his raven hair framed a kissable face. Two big horns stood proudly on his head that beautifully combed back.

It was Levi from your dreams and he was a demon.

He wrapped his fingers around your chin and yanked you up before placing his hand just above your bum as he held you against his warm body that smelt like a warm breeze rushing through a forest in spring.

Levi's voice was deep and seemed to vibrate your very soul. "I've been waiting so long to hold you like this in this world." He tilted his head. "Don't I get a hello kiss? You've done so much with me in the dream world."

Your eyes widened as your cheeks burned hot, he was right, you had done so much with this man in your world and now he was here and he was a demon. You pulled from his touch and hurried away.

Levi followed you. "I can help you. You just been to bond with me and accept me."

You looked back at him. "Bond?"

He eyed you. "We need to seal the deal."

Your mind filled with all the x-rated images of you and Levi in the dream world. "Pervert!"

He placed his hand on his chest. "Pervert? Me?" He walked closer to you as he tutted causing you to be cornered against the dresser and looking at your reflection in the mirror, you could see how handsome he was and how close he was. "Who was the one begging for more in our dream world?" He slipped his arm around you and pressed your pelvis as his other hand gripped your neck and lower jawline. "Look at you." He pressed his pelvis against your bum and you pushed back wanting to feel more. "You look delicious fighting your desires."

You shivered as his hot voice tickled your ear. "Le-Levi."

He dragged his lips up your cheek. "I can give you everything you want and need, just give in to temptation." He kissed your ear and nipped. "You already have my heart and soul." He tilted your head to the side before biting and sucking marks on your neck. His pants and gasps were right against your ear sparking memories of the dream world. He moaned your name. "Please."

You watched Levi as you panted and admired him. He was gripping and massaging you, his soft lips moving against your skin but it was the look in his eyes that had captured you. The pure look of love in his eyes was hypnotic, he was devoted to you in body and soul. The love he had for you was like no other, it was pure and deep. His eyes normally were harsh were just so soft for you.

Your soul and heart cried his name. No matter how much logic tried to fight there was no denying that you loved this man, well demon. You wanted him, needed him and were very willing. You reached back and tangled your fingers into his fluffy raven hair.

Levi turned you around, lifted you up and sat you on the dresser. "I can hear your soul." He pushed his hands up your thighs moving your dress up. "It's singing my name." He eyed your lips and leaned closer. "Say it."

"Levi."

He smirked. "Yes?"

You slipped your arms over his shoulders as you nibbled your lip. "I'm yours."

"Good girl."

He crashed his lips against yours and didn't give you much of a moment to get used to his warm soft lips because he bit your lip, and then his hot tongue was moving with yours. Your nails dragged across his back as a sweet taste filled your mouth. You moaned into the kiss as Levi yanked you against him, his pelvis rubbing yours.

Levi released your lips making you whimper for more. He kissed down your neck before reaching the top of your breast. He bit down hard and sucked causing a bonding mark. He dragged his tongue over the mark and eyed you to see you were desperate for more.

He pulled back and used his thumb to clean up your lipstick. "Sorted. We're now connected. I will dedicate my eternity to helping you. I'll make sure those three men stay away from you."

You panted a bit as you watched him pull away. You pouted hard as the aching between your legs was strong. "You."

He fixed his suit a bit. "What's wrong? Are you expecting something?"

You huffed and looked away. "Shut up."

He caressed your cheek as he smiled. "I really can't believe I get to be here like this with you. I have a lot of work to do. You won't see me for a while. Just stay safely here."

"But."

He tapped his forehead against yours and hushed you. "Trust me. Everything I'm doing is all for you."

"Okay."

He rubbed your cheek. "Aww, is the cute brat gonna miss me?"

You looked away. "If I admit it, it won't change anything."

Levi kissed you taking you by surprise. "I'll miss you too." Black and blue flames wrapped around him. "Wait for me."

It'd been so long since you'd seen Levi, it made your heart ache so much knowing he was apart from you. The only thing you got from him was letters talking about what he was doing. All you knew was he had entered the royal guards and was making a name for himself in the battle against the monsters, beasts and the people that controlled them.

The battles that would normally take years seemed to be reduced with Levi, an actual demon pretending to be a human, there to help them. He'd been so impressive that he'd worked his way up in the ranks and the battler was over after almost a year of Levi being there.

After it was announced the fighting was over the King, who was obsessed with you, had announced a ball in celebration and Levi would be the honoured guest and would be receiving a reward. Normally, you hated getting invites from the King but knowing Levi would be there excited you. Since he'd been gone your dreams about him haven't been like before.

Your wonderful parents and fantastic brothers were in pure shock when you asked if you could get a dress, you rarely asked them for anything. So, they all went overboard with inviting someone over to give you dresses because going out shopping might have been too much for you.

Even though you were rather sleepy, you managed to pick the perfect dress that hugged you in the right places and showed off your shoulders and chest. Everyone was shocked, including your best friend that you went for something rather mature, but you told them there was someone who held your heart and they helped you get the dress.

Your eldest brother escorted you to the ball while the other two took your best friend. You were nervous to see Levi again and if he held you in his heart still. The bonding mark on top of your breast was so bold that you assumed he longed for you.

The ball was as grand as possible with massive chandeliers that reflected light. Gold covered almost everything in view along with pearl and white marble. It was like the King was attempting to make that place look like the Gods would live. It wasn't to your taste, but you had to admire the hard work the palace staff put into making this ball perfect.

As soon as you had entered the three men obsessed with you were watching you. You were scared of each one for different reasons, but you were trying to be confident and strong. Clearly, your new dress had excited them, it wasn't for them it was for Levi.

When Levi entered the ball in his black suit and cape, all eyes were on him, he commanded attention. He strolled with confidence over to the King before he or his slimy friends could act on their plan to go for you. He took a knee and accepted his reward, land and the title of Duke. Riches were showered upon Levi, but as a demon, he didn't need that, he had all the money in the world.

Once the rewards were given, the King announced the start of the celebrations. Levi rushed over to you making your heart race. He softly said your name, took your hand and kissed the back of it. Your body burned for him.

You gulped hard. "Levi, or should I call you Duke now?"

He nipped your finger before standing. "Levi, only you may call me that." He pulled you against him and walked backwards. "You look incredible, my darling."

"I-I...th-thank you...I bought this just for you..."

He paused a moment and smiled. "I'm honoured. You look like a goddess. You are ravishing."

You whined a little as you felt overwhelmed. "You..."

Levi began dancing with you. "What about me?"

You locked eyes with him and saw the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "Y-you? Oh...you...you look incredibly handsome."

He dipped you making you squeak. "Thank you." He gave the trio a side glance. "They look positively furious." He lifted you up into the air. "I like it."

You giggled as he twirled you around. "Levi."

He lowered you to your feet and softly said your name back at you. "Do you want something to drink?"

"I uh...sure."

He walked with you. "Am I making you nervous?" He leaned down and whispered to you. "After all we said in our letters and things we did in our dreams."

You shivered. "Stop teasing me."

"Sorry, my darling, I'll wait for us to be alone." He grabbed two drinks from a butler, handed one to you and smiled as your family and friend walked over. "Good evening."

You were in awe as Levi charmed the pants off your brothers, best friend and parents. He made sure he had his arm around you as he told them the two of you had been talking for a long time, while he was fighting you exchanged letters and you cared deeply for each other. Levi asked for your family's blessing to court you and they happily gave it with the hope he'd marry you.

You wobbled a bit as your curse started to take you, your tiredness taking over. "You're so impressive."

Levi scooped you up into his arms. "Your family and friends mean a lot to you. I meant it when I said you have my heart and soul. My kind don't lie." He looked down at you. "If they're important to you, they are to me. If they scare you and are bad, I will paint the walls with their blood."

You stared at him. "Saying all that with a smile is..."

"Devilish?"

You tapped the side your your head against his shoulder. "I'm too tired to fight you."

He carried you to his carriage and sat with you on his lap. "Sleep, let me look after you."

"Mm, you'll be expecting a reward for this, huh?"

"I wouldn't turn one down."

You whined. "I don't know what to give you."

He pinched your cheek. "There you go with the pervert thoughts again."

You huffed. "Levi!"

He chuckled. "All I need is your love for eternity."

You cuddled up to him. "Damn demon."

He leaned a bit and noticed you had gone shy. "Well?"

"You know very well you have that." You closed your eyes. "Tired."

He massaged his fingers in your hair. "Sleep. I'll be right here."

"Promise?"

He smiled at you, you were so cute it made his heart swell. "Promise."

To keep you and your family safe, Levi had been playing the long game with the trio. So far, his plan was working beautifully and you felt a lot safer with no fears. The gifts were still coming, but there was less than before and he even managed to intercept some perverted letters.

Levi would come over often and take you on many dates. He was smooth and charming in every way, but he never took things further than a kiss. You longed for more but Levi didn't do anything more because of the suffering the trio had put you through, this was different to the dream world.

It moved your heart to know that Levi was doing everything possible for you, he even spoiled you with gifts but you didn't have anything to offer except hugs, kisses and some gifts you could get when not on a bad health day.

You wanted to woo him. You wanted to have him. You wanted to feel him in this life. In the dream world, he'd take your virginity there, but in the real world, you were still a virgin. So, your demon lover got to take your virginity twice.

You were planning a surprise for him. You went to his mansion, said hello to his wonderful staff and made your way to Levi's bedroom. You explained you were staying the night, which you had done before. You let the maids bathe you before leaving you be.

You set up some candles, made sure the fire was lit and then pulled on a nightdress that was light pink and slightly see-through and rather short. You'd never worn something so short before and it is rather scandalous in this world.

You thought of how to lay on his black four-poster gothic bed, but you couldn't get it right. You tried the sofa next, but it was no use. You tried every pose possible, no matter what you did you felt silly and not sexy.

You flinched when the bedroom door closed. You gazed at the door to see Levi looking a bit tired. "Um."

He looked up and froze. His eyes dragged all over your body slowly as his heart began to race. He softly said your name as his pupils became blown. His horns slowly grew on his head as he growled in pure delight.

You let out a little squeak when the lock being turned on the door was louder than expected. "I uh...I wanted to surprise you." You shifted on the spot while you fiddled with your dress. "I just...I tried to be sexy, but I dunno how...I was going to pose for you." Your heart raced as he walked closer to you. "I just..." The tapping of his smart shoes on the floor made your body burn. "Well..." You looked up at him as he caressed your cheek and ran his hand up your waist. "Levi."

He lifted you and casually tossed you onto his bed. He dropped onto the bed and caught himself. He leaned over you, one hand tangled in your perfect hair as the other supported his weight. He had you perfectly captured below him. He lifted your hair and kissed it lovingly.

You gripped your fist in front of your chest. "Do I please you?"

Levi moaned your name. "Do you please me? You have no idea. You are like a goddess, sexy and cute all wrapped into one." He leaned down and dragged his tongue up from between your breasts to your neck. "I want to devour you."

You shivered under him. "I want that too."

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @nbinairyn @bts-spnlvr12 @darkstarlight82 @emilyyyy-08 @levistealeaf @pelicanpizza @hideandgopeep @notgoodforlife @demonic-bird @searriously @anti-cupid @abiatackerman @minminroie

[scuderlia]

tldr; to piss or not to piss...

Charles thinks he might be the unluckiest man in the world. It’s not a stretch to believe it, not with the seasons he’s had—with the one he’s having. And now, he’s stuck fighting the impatience of his own bladder, scrambling through Ferrari hospitality.

Straight, left, another left, back again, right this time, fuck. The pressure is growing, pinching at the base of his spine in uncomfortable intervals. Charles is not religious, but here, now, he figures that he might as well pray. Maybe the ghost of Ferrari drivers past might take pity on him and materialize a bathroom door right there in the wall.

Notably, they don't—the door never comes.

“Ah, I was looking for you.” Carlos steps out in front of him, race suit slung low on his hips. The hem of his fireproofs is lifting slightly, revealing a dark trail of hair leading down beneath the waistband. Liquid sloshes deep in Charles’ pelvis. Right.

“You were?” Charles does not want to talk, he wants to piss. Preferably not in the hallway. Preferably in the toilet, with the door closed. Alone. 

“Yeah—eh? You alright?”

“Mmph—” His teammate’s eyes blow wide, which in Carlos’ defense, is likely a normal reaction to someone moaning in front of you. God, Charles wants to die. 

“Er, Charles?”

“Do you—do you know where the bathroom is?” If his words come out frantic, Charles doesn’t care. He’s past that point, forcing his thighs together, trying to focus on anything else.

“You have to go?”

“Yes—fuck, mate, where—”

“It is just—wait,” Carlos presses his hand against Charles’ sternum, stopping him from lunging past. “How badly do you—”

“Uh—”

“It’s been a while, no?” What... Charles is stuck, knees knocking from how hard he’s crossed his legs. Slowly, Carlos drags his hand down, stopping when it rests at the base of Charles’ stomach. Above the swell of his bladder. 

“You beat me today.” Carlos mumbles, voice barely discernible over the sound of both of their breathing. 

“Wha—mate, come on,” Charles nearly whines. He moves to leave, but Carlos is quick, reflexes catching Charles before he manages to get a step in. Carlos forces his hand harder, like he’s trying to feel just how much Charles’ body will fight him.

Charles hears his own breath hitch in his throat—feels it too, how it thickens like smoke. They’re both looking now, at the way Carlos’ hand contrasts the red of his fireproofs. Gently—much too gently—Carlos presses down. 

The pressure is instant, shooting up Charles’ core. He fights his reflexes, squirming and reaching to grab at Carlos across from him. Charles has his eyes screwed shut, but he can imagine how Carlos looks—jaw closed tight, full lower lip held in his teeth. 

And yet, despite the embarrassment, Charles still chases relief. At first he hardly notices, too caught up in his own head to realize that the ache is lessening, bleeding out of him slowly. It’s only when he feels it—the warm, damp fabric of his boxers dragging against the skin of his groin—that his eyes shoot open. 

“Look at that.” Carlos’ voice is low, laced with the warmth of his accent. If Charles didn’t feel delirious, he’d focus harder on how Carlos sounds—not disgusted, but in awe. “You’re all wet.” 

Carlos presses down harder. The pressure against Charles’ pelvis sends shocks of discomfort up his spine as he tries to resist it. Still, there’s a heat there, nasty and rabid, sneering that he likes it. 

The realization hits him like an anvil. Charles shakes free of Carlos’ hold, shoving his body—his taller, broader body—past Carlos so he can tuck into the bathroom behind him.

Charles almost shoots against the rough white tile behind the toilet the second he unsheathes himself from his boxers inside the comfort of the stall. He’s hard, cock flushed pink and jumping eagerly, taunting him.

Well, fuck.

[sorinethemastermind]

Whumpuary 2025 | Prompt: Rescue | Part 3 of 3

 Soren sagged back against the post as soon as his captors had left, chin bumping against his chest, the restraints above his head the only thing keeping him upright. The rope dug deeper into his wrists as his full weight pulled against it, but he ignored it.

 What was the point? They had Ezran. He’d failed. Again. One job and he’d somehow managed to fail at it twice.

 And yet, some small part of his brain that he couldn’t quite smother was still so happy to have the air back in his lungs - to be able to breath - that he nearly smiled.

 Soren choked back a sob, picturing the young king’s face as they led him away.

 “It’s going to be okay, Soren. You’re going to be okay now.” He squeezed his eyes shut, but all that did was summon an image of Claudia before him, her eyes black voids, skin palid, hair falling across her face, a white streak through it. “You’re gonna be better now. That's all that matters.”

 He could hear them as though they were in the room with him, sacrificing themselves over and over for him. Claudia. Ezran. Viren.

 Why wouldn’t they just let him do this one thing for them? Was it really so much to ask? To let him go, to let him do the one thing he might actually be good at?

 There was a muffled sound from the balcony, followed by a low creaking as the doors swung open. Soren didn’t bother turning to look. It was probably just the wind. Or, if it was something, he doubted it was anything he wanted to see.

 Ezran, I’m so sorry. I failed you.

 Footsteps approached, two sets. One nearly silent despite the hard stone floor, the other bearing the faint clip of a heel. Still, Soren kept his eyes firmly shut. Caspian and his pet mage, back again, no doubt. Better he didn’t see it coming.

 There was a sharp intake of breath and the footsteps came to a halt. Would they kill him? Try and get information out of him? What more did they need to know, now that they had Ezran? Unless Evren wanted to know something about Viren. Soren swore that, if it was the last thing he did (or the last thing he didn’t do) he wouldn’t tell them anything.

 His eyes snapped open and he stared upwards to tell them just that, but the words died on his lips as he saw the two figures standing over him. He averted his gaze, quickly. “What do you want this time?”

 Corvus - or the figure pretending to be Corvus - stepped forward. Soren couldn’t quite help but glance at him out of the corner of his eye, catching sight of the wide, worried brown eyes and pained expression. They were laying it on a little thick, weren’t they, with the tremor in his voice as he spoke?

 “Soren… Soren what happened. Are you-” Corvus broke off, dropping to his knees before him. He reached out hesitantly, like he was afraid he’d break him, and gently brushed the hair out of Soren’s face. “What did they do to you?”

 Soren flinched away from his touch. “Stop playing games, you already got what you wanted.”

 “What do you-”

 “Where’s Ezran?” Callum spoke up, cutting Corvus off, gaze scanning the room, voice high and scared.

 Soren stared at him, then, after a long moment, he laughed. It was a hollow, bitter sound that echoed off the cold stone walls. They both gazed at him, eyes wide and scared, Corvus’ lips a thin line, tugging down at the corner’s.

 “You really think I’m going to fall for this crap?” Soren jerked forward, rope biting into his wrists, fresh blood oozing from the cuts already there. “I’m done playing your games, you already got what you wanted. Just fucking finish this.”

 Corvus, still kneeling before him, dropped a hand to his belt, resting it on the handle of his knife. Soren let himself fall back down, drooping from the restraints above him once more. He wanted to fight, to scream, to spit in the mage’s face, grab the knife from his belt, and stick it where his heart was supposed to be. He wanted to run down the corridor, fight his way out into the courtyard, and drag that traitor Caspian all the way up to the highest battlement before flinging him from it. He wanted to see Ezran tomorrow, jelly smeared on his nose from a hearty breakfast, chatting with Opeli in the council chamber.

 But, more than anything, he wanted the Corvus kneeling before him to be his Corvus. Not some cruel figment of his imagination or a mage’s trick. At least, he thought, I got to see him one more time. In a way.

 “Do it then,” Soren said, glaring daggers at the man before him. But his gaze softened as it met those familiar brown eyes, and his shoulder relaxed. If this was it, then maybe it would be nicer not to be alone. Even if it was pretend. So he pretended the man was Corvus, and he met his eyes as he slid the knife from his belt.

 And cut the bonds around Soren’s wrists.

 Soren slumped to the ground without them to hold him up, eyes widening with surprise, wincing at how stiff and sore his arms were from being held in the same position for so long. Corvus caught him before he could topple over, placing a steadying hand on each of his shoulders. 

 “Soren?”

 “This is a trick.” Soren’s voice wavered as he spoke. “An illusion.”

 “I’m real.”

 Soren snorted, “That’s what you would say if you were an illusion.”

 “What’s something only I would know?”

 “We don’t have time for this,” Callum said, voice urgent, hands clenched at his sides. “Ez could be-”

 “What is something only I would know?” Corvus repeated, eyes still locked with Soren’s, ignoring the prince entirely.

 “When I asked you to join the Crownguard,” Soren mumbled, eyes darting across Corvus’ face, searching for some sign that this was real. That he was real. “Where did I do it?”

 “The wall, overlooking the forest. You said it was your favorite place in the castle.”

 “How did I do it?”

 “You fumbled a bit,” Corvus admitted. “You didn’t stick to your script. But then you said that Ezran wanted me to stay.”

 “Who wanted you to stay?” Soren asked, voice barely a whisper.

 Corvus’ hand reached out, and this time, when he brushed the hair from his face, Soren didn’t move away. “You did,” he said, lips barely moving, voice so hushed Soren almost didn’t catch it.

 Soren leaned into Corvus, burying his face in the other man’s shoulder. He smelled like him. How would Evren have known how Corvus smelled? Or the way his eyes smiled even when his lips weren’t? Or the way that-

 “You’re here,” he managed, emotion swelling in his chest, making his words come out half choked.

 “I’m here.” Corvus wrapped his arms around him, giving him a gentle squeeze. “But Soren,” his grip didn’t loosen, but he pulled back slightly, just enough that their eyes could meet, “where is Ezran?”

 “They took him. I’m so sorry, they took him.” Soren choked back a sob. “I- I tried so hard to protect him but they… I’m so sorry.” He stared at the ground, unable to meet Corvus’ gaze and too scared to look at Callum. “I failed,” he whispered. “Again.”

 Corvus pulled him close again, hands clenching behind his back, grip tightening. “Where? When?”

 “I- I don’t know. It couldn’t have been that long. Maybe ten minutes. But Corvus, they’ve got people on the inside. I don’t know who to trust. And- And they had a mage.”

 “A mage?” Callum’s voice was sharp. “Was it-”

 “No,” Soren’s voice shook. “Someone who… who knew Viren.”

 Corvus slowly released him, easing him back down to lean against the side of the bed. He cast a nervous glance over Soren, taking it all in; the bruises and the cuts and the blood. The wide, scared eyes and wobbly voice.

 “Did they… are you alright?”

 “I’m fine,” Soren said, fighting to keep his voice level. “We need to go. We need to find Ezran.”

 “We will,” Corvus said, getting up. “But you need to stay here. Soren, you’re hurt and-”

 “I-” Soren gritted his teeth as he pushed himself to his feet. “Am not… Staying here…” he gasped as he shifted his weight to his bad leg and Corvus rushed forward, catching him as he staggered.

 “Soren, please.” His eyes were wide and worried. “Just let us handle it.”

 Soren opened his mouth to argue, but shut it at the look in Corvus’ eyes. It was pointless. He knew they were right. He was in no shape to fight. “Be careful. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t trust what you see.”

 “We will.” Corvus eased him back down, this time to sit on the bed itself, and lingered for a moment before releasing him. By the time he stepped back, Callum was already halfway to the door.

 “Come on,” the mage urged. “We need to hurry.”

 Corvus threw one last worried glance over his shoulder at Soren before rushing from the room. Soren waited until he could no longer hear their hurried footsteps, then he gritted his teeth and pushed himself off the bed, prepared this time for his injured leg to meet the ground. It didn’t stop the small gasp from escaping his lips. 

 Being in no shape to fight didn’t mean he wasn’t going to. With Callum and Corvus, they might actually stand a chance.

 Soren staggered from the room, wincing with every other step, leaning on the wall for support. He clung to the uneven cobbles, levering himself along. There were bodies in the hall, their armor all the same, making it impossible to distinguish between friend and foe. Soren stopped just long enough to wrest a dagger from one of their belts. Their swords, and most of their other weapons, had already been taken to arm the other insurgents.

 “Sorry,” Soren apologized to the fallen form. “Or not sorry, if you’re a traitor. Only sorry if you’re a good guy.”

 He stumbled further down the hall, shifting the knife between his hands until the feeling fully returned to his fingers. His grip tightened around it, knuckles white except for the blotches of red blood dried upon them. Light flashed outside, followed by a boom of thunder that rattled the window panes. It was swiftly followed by the sound of metal on metal, voices rising from the courtyard. 

 Soren hurried down the hall, pushing off the walls and careening around corners. He had to be there. He had to be there. He had to-

 In his haste Soren put his full weight on his injured leg and it gave out, sending him crashing to the ground. He groped for the knife in the dark, wishing for another flash of lightning to see by. After a moment his wish was granted and thunder boomed outside again. Light glinted off metal and he grabbed the blade from where it had fallen, pushing himself back to his feet.

 He hurried onward, finally pushing out into the courtyard as another peel of thunder sounded. He squinted against the bright light of Callum’s lightning spell, grip tightening on the dagger in his hand. When his vision cleared he stared around, taking in the chaos unfolding before him. Several of the insurgents were already on the ground, most seeming to have been taken out by Callum’s spells, a few bearing the telltale marks of Corvus’... Hook? Chain? Thing?

 Soren didn’t have the time or the energy to figure out what the thing was called just then.

 A few steps away, Corvus was engaged in combat with Caspian, Callum struggling to keep the rest of the others away from the pair of them so they couldn’t group up on him. The Dark Mage was nowhere to be seen.

 Soren watched as Corvus’ chain wrapped around Caspian’s blade, but hope turned to fear as the traitor leaned into the motion, using the connection to tug Corvus into range. He pulled a shorter blade from his belt, the steel flashing in the moonlight. Corvus, still struggling to free his weapon from Caspian’s grip, didn’t appear to notice as the traitorous guard slunk half a step forward, adjusting the shortsword in his grip.

 “Corvus!” Soren yelled, but all that did was draw the other man’s gaze. Caspian took advantage of the moment of distraction and lunged forward at the same time that Soren did, a cruel smile playing across his lips.

 Steel met flesh as the short blade dug into it’s target’s side and the three of them stumbled back from one another. After a moment Caspian stared down, hand going to the wound in his abdomen, fingers pressing futilely against the gush of blood. His eyes widened with shock and pain. Soren lunged forward again, knocking him to the ground, blade held aloft. 

 The traitor raised his hands, one of them stained red, in an attempt to ward him off. “Don’t! Please, don-”

 The dagger sunk into his chest like a knife through butter, right through the chink in the armor Soren had once taught him how to defend. Anything else Caspian might have said was cut off instantly. Soren raised the blade above his head to do it again, but a hand caught his wrist. He jerked away from the grip, snarling as he turned, knife still raised, to find Corvus standing above him. 

 The other man dropped his hand, voice pleading. “Soren, don’t.”

 Soren glanced down to the dying man below him as Caspian made a horrible gurgling sound, blood spilling from his lips. He watched as his eyes, wide and staring, glazed over. Slowly, Soren’s shoulders slumped, and the blade fell from his hands to the pavement with a clatter. He rose unsteadily to his feet, glancing around. It was just them. Them and-

 Callum was a few steps away, arms thrown around his brother, shoulders shaking, the both of them clinging tightly to one another. 

 “Is he okay?” Soren managed, voice suddenly hollow once more, all the anger draining out of him. And with it, whatever had been keeping him standing. He staggered, and Corvus caught him once more.

 “He’s fine. We arrived just in time.”

 Soren sank to his knees, Corvus dropping to the cobbles beside him, the only thing keeping him upright.

 “Thank the stars.”

 “I think we have more to thank than the stars.”

 “I- I failed, Corvus. If it wasn’t for you and Callum-”

 “Soren, look at me.” He did, meeting those big, brown eyes that were focused solely on him. They sparkled, as though they weren’t crouched in a courtyard full of bodies, blood smeared across both their faces and armor. “You were willing to die for him, Soren. That’s more than he could ever ask of a Crownguard. More than anyone could ask.”

 “He doesn’t need to ask,” Soren said, gaze traveling over to the brothers once again. “None of you do.”

 “I know.”

 “I’d do it for you, too,” Soren said, absently, not quite thinking about the words or what they meant.

 Corvus swallowed. “I know that, too. Please never do that.”

 Soren’s gaze flicked back to him. “Thanks for coming back.”

 “Isn’t that my job, as a Crownguard?”

 “It’s a pretty dangerous job,” Soren said, after a moment, sitting on the cold cobbles with a groan. Everything hurt. “Painful, too. Not the greatest benefits.” He thought that, if he hadn’t been so worried about him, Corvus might have chuckled at that. “Why’d you do it?” Soren asked. “You didn’t have to.”

 Corvus sank down to sit on the ground beside him, wrapping an arm gingerly around Soren. He let the blond rest his head on his shoulder, taking a long moment before replying. “You asked.”