#ill try my best to keep track of my sleep properly from now (on)

[kohane-nui-daily]

day 4, week 1

kohane is ready for school tomorrow!

it's friday so the week is almost over, keep going!

👟 8,550 steps | 🥤 3 full cups, 1050ml [1050/2000ml] | 🍴 1 nearly/basically-done meal (lunch), 1 meal (dinner) [2/3], 2 snacks [2/5] | 🌙 roughly 23:14 - around 06:30(?)

[photo taken at 20:34 bst]

[pinkoptics]

I posted 688 times in 2022

That's 176 more posts than 2021!

35 posts created (5%)

653 posts reblogged (95%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@dedkake

@spockvarietyhour

@akasanata

@fullmetalcarer

I tagged 652 of my posts in 2022

Only 5% of my posts had no tags

#stargate atlantis - 371 posts

#cherik - 94 posts

#yes - 45 posts

#mcshep - 35 posts

#rofl - 32 posts

#lol - 31 posts

#rofl🤣 - 26 posts

#john sheppard - 16 posts

#um - 12 posts

#this - 10 posts

Longest Tag: 125 characters

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

And also:

thighs

thigh holster

butt

bleps

expressive eyebrows

heart eyes

@dedkake

32 notes - Posted February 20, 2022

#4

I continued work on my Shrine fic today! 4/5 times John touches Rodney during the Shrine have been written.

Previously mentioned here.

I am both thrilled and in emotional pain.

because

well

The Shrine

I mean—

Preview anyone?

*

John grasps Rodney’s wrists.

Squeezing tight enough to hurt. Yanking them back. Away. Trying to stop him. He can’t watch this. He can’t stand by and watch.

This had been a terrible idea.

John knew it would end up this way. Blames himself. Should have stopped it earlier. Should have insisted, should have been better, should have protected Rodney. Even if it was from himself.

But, it was what Rodney had wanted. How could he deny Rodney anything he wants right now? Besides, it has been another way to track the progression of the illness. Not his memory—he and Keller had that one covered with the videos—but his ability to think critically, problem solve, strategize.

A nightly chess match.

It couldn’t have ended up any other way, any other way but this.

“Stop it!”

John is trying to rip Rodney’s hands away from his face, where Rodney is attempting, literally, awfully, to pound his brain into working properly. Hitting himself over and over.

“Stupid!” Rodney’s shout is over loud, pained. He manages to hit himself again, despite John’s best efforts. Rodney’s desperation makes him strong. Too strong. Stronger than John. “So fucking stupid!”

“No! Rodney! Please! Come on!”

Rodney shouldn’t be this strong, shouldn’t be able to keep violently hitting his own forehead over and over. But he twists, he jerks, he slips away and John grabs at him again.

“Sixth graders can play this fucking game! I played it in first grade! I’m officially more imbecilic than I was when I was fucking six.”

“Rodney! God damn it!” John had managed to get a hand around his bicep, but then the bicep is gone, leaving his fingers grasping at air. “You just used the word imbecilic, clearly you’re not— ”

John’s words are silenced by Rodney inadvertantly hitting the coffee table with the backs of his knees. The chessboard goes flying, pieces scattering everywhere. Rodney goes flying too, his back hitting the table hard before the momentum rolls him off and onto the ground.

John doesn’t know which sound he’s heard tonight that’s snaked the deepest fracture line in his heart— the heels of Rodney’s palms smacking against his own skin, the anguished self-recriminations, or the crack of Rodney’s skull against Atlantean metal.

He’s on his knees hovering over Rodney before he even knows he’s made the decision. After a moment of chilling stillness, where John is half-convinced the universe has played an even crueller joke and he’s lost Rodney sooner than they’d expected, Rodney groans, eyes flickering open.

“Well that fucking hurt.”

John’s whole body attempts to collapse on top of him with relief, and definitely without his permission, but he just trembles instead.

You’re okay. Fuck. You’re okay. For now, you’re okay. I can’t do this. How do I do this? Rodney, how do I do this?

*

See the full post

33 notes - Posted May 1, 2022

#3

Three A.M.

McShep | 260 words | G

Sleepy boys | Sleepy Cuddles

on Ao3

John wakes to the click-clacking of keyboard keys being pressed just this side of too hard. He doesn’t check the time. It could be 11pm, 1am or 3. It doesn’t really matter. John long ago gave up on berating the man for his poor sleeping habits. Atlantis needs too much from him and Rodney asks too much of himself. Instead, John slips from the warmth of the blankets and curls his arms around Rodney from behind. He rests his head against the nape of Rodney’s neck, then presses a kiss there.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

He presses another soft kiss to punctuate the point.

Rodney’s body slumps, coiled tension releasing. It works today, but it doesn’t always. Sometimes there’s no slump. Sometimes there’s Rodney shaking him off with muttered words John never quite makes out and the click-clacking of the keyboard resumes. John never argues anymore, just slips back into bed and drifts back off, ensuring that he, at least, has had enough rest to be alert and able to protect his scientist.

Today, though, Rodney follows him, shedding uniform clothes until he’s down to an undershirt and briefs. John slides to the far side of the bed, the cold side, letting Rodney slip into the warmth John left behind. He lets him wriggle and settle, watching as he sighs contentedly in his newly created pocket of comfort. John slides back, curling an arm and leg over Rodney, who wriggles and settles and sighs contentedly once more. John waits, listens, for Rodney’s breathing to even out. Makes sure.

They sleep.

42 notes - Posted November 26, 2022

#2

So friends, mcshep sick fic. But not h/c, hilarity of huge misunderstandings instead. @dedkake’s fault. Can’t remember how we got here 😆

Established relationship (or not, really could work either way).

John’s in bed. Wakes up. Is feeling gross. Headache, stuffed nose, sore throat, achey muscles, too hot/too cold in turns. The works.

Sees Rodney puttering around his room, picking up used tissues, clearing a soup bowl, refilling a cold water glass. But…

He’s in a hazmat suit.

Cue panic. John must be dying. Whatever he’s got, it’s bad. Alien bacteria, ebola… something that warrants quarantine protocols. Oh no. But Rodney. Hypochondriac Rodney is there. Quiet. Caring.

John is so in love. Has been. For so long. Suddenly Rodney must know. This could be his last chance, right?! Must tell him.

Feverish outpouring of feelings. Over the top love confession. So Un-john. Hardly making sense because hello fever. Rodney just standing there stupid.

What the fuck has gotten into you?

I’m dying.

No you’re not.

But hazmat suit. Quarantine.

I just don’t want your gross flu germs. You’re a disgusting human petri dish.

John why do I love this absolute idiot omg.

Rodney I love you too. But you’re still gross. I’ll kiss you when there is no longer a hazmat suit between us.

44 notes - Posted March 12, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

File this under fanfic writer problems:

Coming to an Ao3 page near you, John’s… cocoa ☕️

It’s hot.

Real hot.

Steamy.

53 notes - Posted July 27, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[undiscovered-horizon]

REQUEST: hi!! glad to see someone actively writing for doctor who in 2021 :) love your writing too! could you do something where the reader gets injured pretty badly on an adventure and hides it from the doctor, not wanting to worry him, and ends up collapsing when they get back on the tardis and the doctor takes care of her n stuff? with ten! thank you sm!!

Author's note: had a longer weekend so I went back home (480km of sitting on your ass in a cold train), instead of writing this I was working on my novel but I'm back on track! This request gave me an idea for writing a similar scenario with Loki...?

Imagine getting injured during one of your adventures with the Doctor. Not wanting to cry wolf, you keep quiet until the wound causes you to fall unconscious, only to be tended to by the Doctor himself.

It didn't hurt that much. Or at least that's what you've been telling yourself for the past twenty minutes. Although you vividly remembered your high school teacher saying that a wound bleeding for longer than ten minutes requires stitches, you were sure a scab is going to form in no time. You were simply moving around too much, that's it. The makeshift bandage you made out of some material you had found was good enough, you were certain of that.

The metal interior of the TARDIS felt weirdly unwelcoming when you entered. Silver contraptions felt colder than usual or maybe it was just you? Now that you thought about it, the TARDIS did seem especially cold at that moment. You could feel sweat running down your back. It felt like having a weird fever, a feeling you were only someway familiar with, recalling that one time you had a really severe stomach flu but still, you couldn't quite pinpoint what you were actually feeling. As the coldness and sweat set in, you started to feel dizzy. The bright lights of the TARDIS seemed a lot brighter than you remembered them, bright enough to give you a headache. The soreness in your head escalated immediately, making you simultaneously nauseous.

A sound reached your ears but it was muffled as if its source was lightyears away from you and your own head was placed inside an aquarium. Although you were pretty sure it was someone's voice, you couldn't even begin to guess as to what the words were. Was it...somebody calling out to you?

The world around you was dizzy and what was worse: it started to become blurry. After a short while, all control you had over your body ceased. You were fully aware your body was falling but you had no way of fighting against it. After that, your consciousness slipped away.

You woke up lying on a comfortable bed, on top of a fresh blanket that tickled your skin, with legs propped up on a hard pillow. It took you a good minute to realize there was another, intrinsically unfamiliar, sensation at your side. Trying your best to see what was on your right side, you gently moved your head to not exacerbate the pounding in your head.

The Doctor was dead focused on the bandage on your side. With square glasses in his nose, he seemed to be checking whether the dressing was sitting properly and absorbing any last bits of blood your wound lost.

"I'm sorry," you whispered to him. He jumped slightly, visibly unprepared for your awakening.

"We'll talk when you get better," he answered softly, trying to conceal his jumpiness and the tornado of conflicting emotions that wreaked havoc in his mind. He's been on edge for the past two hours.

Still feeling weak and now also guilty, you simply sighed and let him continue whatever it was he was doing. It wasn't long until you had fallen asleep again but this time it was a peaceful, warm and safe sleep, one that helps ribs regrow and wound to mend.

Little did you know, he never left the little room you were sleeping in. The Doctor simply sat in a chair right next to you, like a mother sits beside her ill child. His life was always fast, dynamic but that cutthroat tempo just got one of those close to him hurt. It was something new to him, to simply sit in quietness and listen to your steady breaths but what was even more odd: he chose that himself.

For now, it was just sleeping (Y/N) and the Doctor beside her, both surrounded by a blissful and yet, somehow, tense silence. His hyperactive mind jumped to conclusions, creating fictional scenarios all starting with "What if...?". Part of him thought that it would be best for you to be let go but the more egoistic of his hearts decided he was not ready to face loneliness again. Not now, not when he had finally found something to live for and nearly lost it by a hairbreadth.

[oonajaeadira]

Long Fall Into Oblivion (Ezra x reader)

(header by sirtadcooper - check out the whole beautiful set here.)

Rating: Mature. 

Pairing: Ezra (post-Prospect film) x f!reader

Warnings: Non-explicit sex. Some swears maybe (think there’s a f*ck in there somewhere, my GOODNESS). A lot of gooey, syrupy, soft fluffety fluff. Author attempts at writing Ezra dialogue. A lot of chewy prose.

A/N: I can’t believe I’m posting this, but here goes. I love Ezra. He is a man of questionable morality and an insufferable tongue and I really shouldn’t. But I really do. I just wanted to give him a try. I’ve softened him up here, putting a few years on him so maybe he’s fluffed up some since the events in the film. Also I just ignored the fade or assumed that aurelac mining was still happening because scarcity/demand. Doesn’t matter. Just wanted to go exploring.

Summary: You take a job as an aurelac prospecting trainee and Ezra shows you the ropes. You’re gonna fall in love with him. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST

MASTERLIST

________________

Bakhroma is one of the smallest gas giants in the sector, but as you stand on the surface of the Green Moon, it dominates the entire horizon, pulling your focus, threatening to engulf everything around it. You almost feel sorry for the lush moon as you walk through its undergrowth, so gentle and full of beauty, destined many years after you’re gone to give its life to her.

A moon is an orbiting admirer, and what is an orbit but a long fall to oblivion?

There’s a painful, sour ache in your heart as you walk back to the camp in twilight, watching the back of Ezra’s helmet bob along in front of you. You’d spent two days digging that claim only to find the weakest aurelac nest you’ve seen yet, only three viable nodes. You’d dug through one of them by accident and completely melted another like an incompetent fool. Kevva’s ass, you were such a disappointment. Three months in the Green and you still can’t cut a blister out properly. Not even once.

Ezra’s shoulders are wide and tense, his one hand splayed out as he walks, running over the tops of the tall ferns, catching one every now and then only to rip the top away, twirl it between his gloved fingers and toss it impatiently aside.

The other two members of your team headed out on a sling this morning, another two will be arriving in a few days. And you wonder if Ez regrets just not cutting his losses and leaving with them, or at least sending you back in exchange for another kip.

You think about shifting through the comm channels, hoping that he’s chattering away in one of them, switched without your knowledge, but it’s a lost cause. You can hear him breathing on the channel between you. It’s not often Ezra has nothing to say.

________________

You thought your father was leaving you an inheritance. It’s not the reason you took care of him through his illness, but you’d dropped everything to be back home with him through his final months. In a way, it was a blessing, a reason to quit the Dasha factory and the terrible working conditions there, come back home and focus on your dad, relive good memories, just spend time. The reconnection lifted your heart, but his death sank it low again. When you learned he had nothing to leave you but a small house and some old vehicles, you sold what you could and traded in the rest.

Then you had nothing. No family, no job, little savings, questionable future. It almost broke your spirit. But the last few months with your father rekindled your love of him as he told you about his years in the Fringe, mining and prospecting. And your heart had said, “what the hell, let’s try that.” So you listened.

It took some time to track down the right inroads, but you were able to find some ads for prospecting teams, in particular those who were willing to take on members in training for a re-distributed cut. With all provisions included--other than suit and gear, which your father’s inheritance neatly covered--it seemed like just as good of a deal as any, and an adventure to boot.

But the reality was, every team you met with was full of hardened men, and while you were not a soft Central woman, you also weren’t overly versed in weaponry and didn’t know if you could defend yourself out in the Fringe against attack if things got crusty.

You were just about ready to admit defeat when you walked into yet another conference bunker and found your match. The first thing you noticed was that he was standing when you arrived, waiting for you politely rather than manspread at the table. Second were his eyes. Deep, brown, and sad. Maybe sad was the wrong word, certainly it seemed by the lines in his face, possibly by the missing arm, that he’d seen enough sadness, but toward you, it read more as concern. You wouldn’t know it until later when he confessed his feelings about this first meeting, but he was worried you wouldn’t choose him. Ezra had a hell of a time hiring partners. He may have been one of the longest-working aurelac diggers out there, but young kippers saw his greying beard and seasoned diggers saw his lacking arm and they all tended to turn around and walk out before he even said hello. So he’d tried to put himself out there as a trainer, show that he had something more to offer.

It didn’t hurt his feelings when you admitted to him later that those qualities were exactly why you chose him. He seemed the opposite of threatening. And his eyes were bright when he smiled at you. With his thrumming baritone and his Fringe twang and his mixed deck of mosaic words, he had a way of speaking that felt like a fluffy blanket curling around you, your brain vibrating with comfort at every new monologue. He was eccentric and perhaps a little jarringly rough in his humor at times, but there was something about him that you trusted immediately, even though you’d come to learn later you probably shouldn’t have if you were being overly cautious.

Not that your judgement ever came to detriment. Not that he ever proved you wrong that way. Not when it came to you. But the man was dangerous when he had to be in a way you hadn’t initially picked up on.

________________

You hadn’t been out in the Green two weeks before you looked up from the bottom of a dig hole to see Ezra standing over you with a thrower.

“You get down and you stay down, understand?”

“Ez? What--”

“I said stay down! Do not make me waste words on mere repetition!” The fuzzy blanket of his voice replaced suddenly by a snarling, snapping brush wolf, a quick change hitting you like a slap in the ear.

There’d been pops and whizzes as shots rang through and you did as your trainer said, face down, the view of your visor giving you nothing but dirt. Your helmet was a chorus of quick breathing from both of you and sweat rolled down your neck as you begged the eyes of Kevva to look down upon your partner. When the crossfire faded, you’d heard Ezra stalk away. Then there were a couple more shots. Then more footsteps returning.

“You are permitted to stand, trinket. All is well as it can be for us. But not so much for our dearly departed friends.” These words were as soothing as much as his previous ones had burned, and he simply went back to working at the dig at hand as if he’d just come back from taking a leak. It wasn’t until you left the site that evening that you tramped past two rotting raiders, gaudily outfitted with broken face shields, left to let the Green take them.

Ezra whistled as he stepped over them, stopping only to harvest their filters and munition rods, which he tossed your way to stow in your pack, and then continued lazily down the path toward camp. Just another day on the job. 

He may be a little peculiar and not someone to trifle with, he may have just killed two people without remorse or further comment, but his lack of reassuring words told you that this was just part of the deal. You wear the suit, you use the air scrubber in the tent, you follow the landing pod instructions as written, and you defend yourself against those who wish to harm you. Survival by any and all means is paramount, mundane, and something he has no qualms with on any level.

There was something deep down inside of you that instinctually pulled you to follow him, not just down the literal path before you, but whatever path Ezra chose to wander.

________________

Before you’d left the station with him, he’d taken you to a thrower range to gauge your skill which was decent in theory, but dismal compared with what he could do. No matter, he still patiently taught you how to properly clean and charge a weapon and the best way to breathe and pull the trigger; “like you’re taking hold of a man’s...well... Just go easy and firm.” He suggested you should come and practice every day before lift off and then hope to Kevva that you didn’t have to rely too heavily on it.

“If I find myself in a coffin of my own suit, then feel free to defend yourself as a final means of preservation. Otherwise, when it comes down to shots fired, best to let me do the dirty work. Might as well keep the blood where the blood has been.”

You’d been a little nervous about sharing a freighter pod alone with him, but Ezra was...well, not so much a gentleman as just a comfortable soul. 

He always waited until you were hungry to eat, thinking it rude to eat alone in front of you. He never moved around the pod while you were sleeping, content to keep still with a book in his cot. And if you couldn’t sleep, he was always willing to read to you from whatever impossibly dense old world classic he was digging through for the umpteenth time, letting his voice come up from the deeps and pull you gently under. If you asked permission to turn on the radio, he’d ask you “why Isn’t it on yet, woman,” quietly tolerating your taste in harsh and gleeful babblecore pshcyopop. In the later days of the journey, he’d even come to dance with you from time to time, although both of you were dismal at it and ended up with you in a fit of giggles. It was a sure-fire way to cure a case of the pouts you carried through from the morning fitness sessions when he beat you at pushups. Again.

When it came to privacy in the tight space, he had a habit of turning away without having to be asked or stopping his stream of talk when you went to change clothes, just happily chattering away until you called the all clear. Although he was not squeamish about his own state of undress, should you happen to catch it by accident. While he was respectful of your privacy, he seemed to need none of his own, but neither did he flaunt anything. You might look up from studying the flight manual to notice he was changing into a fresh pair of compression pants, tugging them on haphazardly with one hand, more concerned with telling you the overwhelmingly disgusting manufacturing process of Bits Bars than his own ass hanging out where you might see it. At least he always changed facing away from you which was a kindness.

Until it wasn’t.

After you realized you’d fallen quietly in love with him--a sudden, soft moment on the Green--then you’d admit only privately to yourself that you wouldn’t mind if you accidentally saw a little more than the occasional shirtless attire he might wear around the tent.

But in the pod, the only part of him that had caught your curiosity was his stump, and you’d known Ezra intensely enough over the past couple of weeks where you knew he wouldn’t take offense. Especially if you asked him the right way.

“Will you tell me a story, Ezra?”

“I feel that it is my duty to do so whether you ask me to or not. Shall I choose, or is there something in particular you would like to hear?”

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, propped up against his cot, going through his kit, cleaning his gear. You waited until he noticed your lack of answer and looked up to meet your eyes. When he saw that you had put your manual down and were focusing all your quiet attention on him, he stopped his busy work. 

When Ezra gives you his attention, it is absolute. When he knows you seriously need something from him, that becomes his immediate main priority and all else can wait. It’s only gotten more intense since that day, but there is a trust that resides between you when you look into his eyes, gathering your words as he waits patiently every time to hear whatever you’re going to request of him. There’s always hope there in his big browns, always something specific he’s waiting for you to ask, and every day you get a little bit closer to understanding what it might be. But until then, any question is a welcome one, any query is met with his wish to provide.

“Will you tell me how you lost your arm?”

At first you thought you may have gone too far, that maybe you insulted him, as his eyebrows peaked together and he looked down at his hand. But then, “That is a tale that may cause you some consternation, trinket. The Green is dangerous and unforgiving, and there were times I may not have been a man worthy of fair opinion.”

“My father was a prospector, you know. I’ve heard stories. Have you ever killed anyone?”

He clicked his tongue and screwed up an eye, causing the thin white scar on his cheek to twist. Then he sighed and returned to your locked gaze. “To be honest, I have. Though I have never done so with pleasure, I have killed in defense and out of desperation, and it was out of dispatching a man in this way that I came to lose the second favorite of all my appendages.”

“Second favorite?”

“Well, it depends what you classify as a limb.” He huffed a small laugh, a spark in his eye, trying to diffuse the harsh subject in his own way.

His leaning into baseness never bothered you. There was something earthy about it, gritty and rough, but never lewd. You rewarded his crassness with a smile. “Do you plan on killing me out in the Green?”

“I would hope my murdering days are behind me, and if they are not, you would see me aim a thrower at everyone but you in the course of my spree. You are under my tutelage, and for that, I owe you a duty of care. That is my word by Kevva.”

“Then tell me the story. I like your stories. I promise not to judge now-Ezra by then-Ezra.”

A dimple formed on his cheek, a punctuation mark framing the approaching anecdote on his lips. “Then I will declare myself absolved of any sin heretofore and regale you with a clean and grateful heart.”

________________

You can see the tent through the trees and you realize with some horror that it’s just you and Ezra for the next few nights. If he’s angry with you, and this is how he is when he’s upset, the silence will be unbearable.

Even that little girl he helped out here years ago was probably more capable than you. You feel so lost in this moment, and it’s only made worse by his silence. You fumble with your communicator and hit the mute just in time to choke on a sob.

This isn’t like you. You’re not one to cry when things get rough. You hardly shed a tear when your father died. But the thought of that just brings another sob and as acting as your own psychologist you realize that you are experiencing some displaced sorrow, the odd need to please the leading male in your life, the one that’s walking ahead of you, away from you. If he’d just turn around and throw you his worn weary smile, if he’d just start up a conversation you’d know that there was hope for you, you’d know you didn’t give up everything to be here in a job you couldn’t hack.

You gotta stop this. Or it’s going to be an uncomfortable night.

Shake it off.

Once you enter the tent, the usual dance happens. Ezra reaches up to turn on the air scrubber and you unhook his filter tube from his helmet. When he turns to you, you pull open the zipper cover on his suit and start his zip for him before lifting his helmet up and off. He can pull the zip the rest of the way, but you generally pull the left collar down for him so he can get his arm out. He’s on his own from there as you turn to fuss with your own gear. 

________________

You remember it starting easily enough. He was telling you a story about the breeding habits of the Tokovian Musk Owl and you could see he was having trouble with his suit zipper, yanking at it and trying to look down at it even though it was under his chin and his helmet. Without another hand to keep the fabric taut, the zip didn’t want to release, so you simply batted his hand away and started it for him. He didn’t even stop his yammering, just threw in a “thank you” somewhere in between “could hear them screeching” and “for a fuck.” He’d right out asked you the day before if you wouldn’t mind disengaging the filter tube just because it was delicate and he didn’t want to mangle the expensive part trying to pop it out one-handed day after day. And while he could manage the helmet fine enough, his prominent nose thanked you for a smoother removal for sure. 

It wasn’t the only routine dance you’d concocted. 

There was the harness dance.

While dig days were excruciating, you always looked forward to helping him attach the harness for his prosthesis--a kind of rigid pole attached to a shovel so you didn’t have to do all the hard digging alone. There were a couple of straps that came around his torso with multiple latches and you’d come to really enjoy wrapping your arms around him to fit the straps on. Sure, you could do the job just as easily from behind, but if you embraced him at the front, he’d usually raise his arm and let it come to rest around your shoulders while you worked. If you let yourself dream, it would be easy to imagine that he might be pressing you into him just a little bit.

And there was the harvesting dance.

On a dig, you were the one to mix the fazer and Ezra did the pour. He fished the sack, you cut the cord. You sliced the outer casing and held it open while he did the extraction. And with the flesh-covered stone, he told you every time to “hold it like you love it” so he could cut away the slippery blister before cleaning the gemstone.

It was a beautiful harmony. And the only way it worked. Because once on every dig he urged you to do a solo extraction, and on every dig, you pierced the blister and lost that stone. And on every dig, he squeezed your shoulder and told you it was a wondrous try, that he was proud of you, and there would always be another turn. There was no sarcasm, no pity, just a warm smile and ceaseless optimism even though you just lost both of you thousands in pay.

These were the first touches, these shoulder squeezes that ran down your arm on the let-go. Sometimes he would just reach out and grab onto you like a pole to help himself up, or he might stumble off balance on uneven ground and without the counterweight of his right arm he’d throw his hand out onto you to steady himself. He wasn’t beyond lightly touching the small of your back to encourage you down a path or to take your next try at a gem pull. 

This was all part of something you’ve secretly named the left-handed-lover’s dance. Basically, that you keep on his left whenever you can in case he needs your help or has the inclination to reach for you. It started out as just trying to be a good partner. Then it became a passing hope that it was more than just a friendly bond. But you were both here to do a job. He was here to teach you to be an independent prospector and you were here to assist and learn. That was evident at the end of the day; once you were both in the tent and out of the suits he never touched you, never so much as bumped into you or grazed your hand in passing an item or clapped you on the arm after a good joke. 

But out in the field all zipped in and helmets on, there was nothing more natural than his gentle hand guiding you or reaching for your assistance, including the day you realized you loved him.

________________

Before you can turn away to strip off your own coverings, Ezra catches your arm, spinning your face into the light. You try to shake him off, not wanting him to catch your eyes puffy from crying and your cheeks still streaked with tears, but his grip is not so gentle now and he yanks you back around to his stormy glare, chin up, brows low. His intensity paralyzes you, rendering you unable to continue your struggle when he catches your eyes with his.

When Ezra gives you his attention, it is absolute.

His gaze travels back and forth between your eyes, waiting for an explanation, a minute so stringent it breaks you down, dissolves you into the tears you’d tried so hard to hide.

“I’m sorry, Ezra. I really am trying... I don’t know why I’m such a scuffer at this and I know it would only be right to release you from the contract and tell you to send me back but I don’t want you to, I really wanna stay, I really wanna learn and I’m so, so sorry.”

Your words have an immediate effect, softening him, pulling his glare into concern and wonder, his lips parting just the tiniest bit in surprise.

“This is the reason for your heavy mood? You think I am provoked by your proficiency in the field?” 

“I crusted up good today and it seems like you’re not happy about it. Just...know that it means so much to me that...I don’t wanna let you down.”

“Oh, trinket, no.” An incredulous huff jumps out of him and his grip on your arm loosens, becomes a splayed warm support behind your shoulder, moving in soothing patterns and you’re instantly relieved that your assumptions were wrong. “You have done no harm in my book. It is not an easy thing to deliver a gem of this ilk into the world unscathed. Your opportunities have been few and scattered and it takes many sticks before a lover becomes a lothario.” He knows the crass humor will make you laugh, knows what to say to lighten your heart, to get you to soften, and bring you into his intimate, conspiratorial mood. “To be perfectly honest, I am selfish to an unrighteous degree, for every gem you burn keeps me in value to you. A worthy sacrifice to guarantee you mightn’t be so quick in your need to fly away from me until your training’s complete.”

This causes a hitch in your breath as you see the welcome turn the conversation he’s taking and you follow the path he’s making for you. “I don��t want to leave you, Ez.”

A smile creeps up one side of his mouth. “Well then I am a happy man. A bargain is struck! Partners it is.”

“Partners it is.”

A moment hangs between you as he rubs his thumb in slow circles on your shoulder. There’s that look in his eye again, the one where he’s waiting for you to ask the question he wants to hear from you. So close now.

Still, you’re unsure. “I guess I’m lucky I found the one person who wants an incompetent partner.”

“No, I do not, nor is it what I have and I must express my objection to your self-debasement. This work is not for the shiny, and you have not once complained about taking on the meat of the digging or the crawl of my schedule.”  His hand comes to your helmet shield and he rakes his thumb across it as if he ached to wipe away one of your staleing tears. “Those bright eyes of yours got a penchant for spotting deposits more skillfully than I could ever manage and that’s not something that can be taught; that’s talent, girl. The blistering?” He shrugs. “Even I can’t manage that without the steady help of your fine hands. You may think that your blunders in education are causing us some financial ruin, but our fortunes are creamy. I assure you, we can afford it.”

That look is still there. He’s waiting. “There’s some ‘us’ and ‘we’ in there, Ez.” Your hands drift to his sides, taking fistfuls of his compression suit top, willing him closer.

The edges of his eyes take on the crinkle you’ve come to find so much comfort in. “So there is.”

You’re almost there. You know what he wants. “Why were you so quiet on the walk back?” 

“Because for the next few days we are alone here and I have a mind full of questions I do not know how to ask you.”

“Then let me go first.” A yearning happiness settles in his brown eyes; finally. Finally you’ve found out what it is he needs you to request of him. “If I take this helmet off, are you going to kiss me, Ez?”

His eyes close in contentment and he nods, “Yes. Yes, little jewel. Yes I am, that and more. I hope I have inferred correctly that it is your wish that I do so, because I am in free fall. I feel my orbit ending and my pull to you is complete.”

_______________

“A moon is an orbiting admirer, and what is an orbit but a long fall to oblivion?”

Speculating days were some of your favorite times, just wading through the brush and looking for the telltale signs and shoots of an underlying deposit. Sometimes you came upon nests of strange groundling insects or flowers that only grew in secret. There were treasures underfoot on this poisonous moon, but if you remembered to look up as well, you might find some dangerous beauties there too. 

On that day--the one where you finally understood your heart--you’d looked up to find that you were on a cliffside overlooking a valley, the canopy a million different hues of green, the gas giant looming over half the sky in a big pink and orange semi-circle. There was a fallen log that served as a perfect seat for the perfect view and you knew Ezra wouldn’t mind if you stole a few moments to sit and to take it in. It’s just the kind of thing he’d appreciate. And you were proven right when he came up behind you, putting a hand on your shoulder to steady himself as he swung one leg then the other over the log, finding a perch next to you, spouting pretty words through the channel link--soft and low--about moons and orbits and obilvions.

“That glowing beauty is Bakhroma. She is quiet and fierce, made up of the unfathomable and the unknowable, always within sight, but out of reach and untouchable unless one would trade the honor with great sacrifice. She reflects the light that is given to her with a patience that is heretofore untold. And the Green Moon upon which we ride follows where she goes like a lovesick fool, spinning around her in a heady kind of adoration, full of secret treasures buried deep down that will ultimately one day belong to her, falling incrementally over eons until he finally loses himself in her, all his glories gladly forfeit to her welcome and inevitable embrace. Alone but together, seemingly eternal, pulled as one by the laws of a mysterious universe.”

The void that came after those words was filled with the beating of your heart, and you were sure he could hear it through the channel.

When he’d landed there beside you, you’d registered how his hand slid off your shoulder, diagonally down across your back, coming to rest at your waist, his arm draped lightly around you. Natural. Easy. Everything was warm--the colors of the sky, the care with which he kept you close as if to better hear the honey sweetness in his prose, the fire burning in your lungs and neck.

Ezra probably didn’t know that you spoke a little Vayok.

Bakh being the Vayok word for adornment. Ornament, Gem. Roma was a modifier, a diminutive. Small. Dear.

Bakhroma. Sentimental bauble. A little jewel.

In other words, a trinket.

All you wanted to do was sit down to take in the view of an entire world for a few moments, but by the time Ezra took your hand and helped you to your feet, all you saw was him.

________________

The helmet is barely off before his lips are sealed to yours in a press of greed. Even if he can’t form words when he kisses you, he can’t help but express his deep relief in a heartbreaking moan. It’s a fight to release yourself from the suit when he keeps pulling you against him and every time you try to get some space between you to work the zipper, he chuckles into your mouth, enjoying the tease and the struggle. It’s simultaneously frustrating and thrilling and you give in for a few moments just to give him what he seems to want so desperately right now.

Ezra kisses like a man starved for air, long, hard, and full of need, peeling his lips away only to come back for another breath of you until his initial want is slaked and he slows, allows for more time between his taking, his mouth starting to mumble against yours, praising you with pet names, telling you how perfect you are to him, how long he’s “fought against my more dubious natures to respect your womanly virtues and take them only when you could see in me a man worth bestowing them on.”

You’re able to use his weakness for monologuing to turn around in his vice-like embrace, finally freeing yourself of the suit and he takes the opportunity to drawl more pretty words in your ear, warning you that “I’m afraid I have been enamored of you overly long and may be extra eager in my attentions. So you just say the word if you need a slow down, gentle one, and I will do my best to comply. Although I will admit it will be a difficult endeavor indeed as I feel I am entering your atmosphere and nothing might quell this burn but finding some drowning place to land.”

Your first impression of him was of a man whose age and temperament and body would not be able to overpower you.

Your first impression was wrong.

Of course, it helps that you are willing.

It doesn’t take long for him to strip you down, and then himself. To kiss you down onto the floor. To find exactly where you like to be touched most and how long it takes for you to break from it. He has so many words for you, so many praises to sing about every part of you that is round or soft or wet, comparing you to things that are sweet and plush or celestial and holy. And when you take his favorite limb in hand--as wondrous as the rest of his body--and guide it to its fit, he plunders and harvests all you have to give him, filing you with himself, for as long as you call for it, as long as you let him. He loves you like he speaks to you: rough and drawn out, full of beautiful tangents and meandering plotlines, but in the end it is beautiful and fulfilling; you may be just a little bit confused how you got to the ending, but you’re completely in awe.

When you lay breathing heavy, staring but not seeing the ceiling of the tent, your consciousness seemingly lifted to see through it to the stars, to the glowing face of Bakhroma, you run hands through rough-chopped hair on a head laying on your chest. He’s listening to your heartbeat, waiting for it to slow down so he can start again. The air is thick--even the air scrubber can’t keep up with all your humidity--and there’s a halo around each bulb of the string lights just barely illuminating the darkness.

“How long, Ez?”

“Hm?”

“How long have you been waiting for that.”

“Most likely since the day you walked into my interview. I am a man of simple wants and you had all the right parts for my preferences.”

“For real, Ez.”

He tipped his head up to find you. “What you ask has many true answers, and I stand by the first. I have no qualms telling you of my weakness for a pretty succulence and a kind smile the likes of which you possess. But if you are asking when I knew I would have it, well, that may have been the first day you danced. Or when you asked me to read you to sleep. Or when I understood I wouldn’t let those bastard raiders get near enough to take their turn at your qualities when I had not had them myself. Or when you finally saw me as a viable person to drape your affections on; maybe it was that day too.”

“When I finally saw you as....”

“I have read many tomes and verses but none so full of beautiful passages as your face that day on the cliff. There is a difference of knowing and being. I knew the feel of your pull that day, but found I’d been in orbit all along.”

How he can live this way, twist everything into a tossed away poem...it should be exhausting. Yet you feed off it. You breathe it like air.

After another long cycle of frenzied entanglement and violent euphoria, you ask Ezra if he’d like to move to a cot, maybe get some sleep. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to walk to the dig tomorrow morning,” you confess.

“No need to worry about tomorrow,” he says, wapping his arm around you and dragging you back to him, grumbling into your ear. “We are the only prospectors in this sector and the aurelac will wait. Until our new compatriots arrive, we are officially on hiatus. Recreational mining only. Restricted to the confines of this tent. By order of your supervisor. In the interest of more precious treasures. And I intend to strike it rich.”

“Well. I’m here to assist. And learn.”

“When it comes to this dig, trinket, you are more than competent. I am no longer your trainer. Partners it is.”

“Partners it is.”

The new contract is struck, signed and sealed in kissing and in touch and a long, slow fall into inevitable oblivion.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The Regular: Part 2 Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: You go out of your comfort zone for one night. But one night can’t ruin you if you’re already corrupt, right?

word count: 3.4k (longest one yet!) 

tw: light exhibitionism, nsfw, nudity

previous parts: part 1 part 1.5  *~*Happy Easter!*~*

You love the attention. 

You love the way those onyx eyes follow your every move and the twist of your hips. You love the tilt of his head as he watches you dance for him, as if he’s a king, and you’re the maiden he purchased for pure entertainment. 

Tonight was no different from the past several nights, that much is clear. Geto keeps his hands to himself, either splaying his wingspan across the back of the couch or clasping them in front of him with his elbows on his knees. There was never a hungry air about him. He always seemed to be even-keeled and calm, which made you wonder why he had even come to the club in the first place. 

He had said Gojo brought him out of a need to unwind… So, what did he look like when he was angry? Stressed? Upset? Uncomfortable?

“You’ve got that look on your face,” Geto mentions, leaning back into the couch. “What are you thinking about?” 

“Oh, nothing,” you lie, walking back over to him sultrily. “Just concerned about my roommate eating my leftovers.” 

“Is that something they do often?” he wonders, raising an eyebrow.

“More than you’d think.” You bend over and place your hands on his knees, letting him get a clear view of your breasts beneath the silk, periwinkle camisole. And he eats that view up. His mouth drops open just a little, and you can hear the soft inhale of breath that makes his chest rise. “You know you can touch me, right?” His eyes dart from your exposed chest to your eyes, partially asking permission, and the other part of him trying to call on every amount of reserve he had. 

You could see the internal war waging itself behind his pupils, and for some reason, that also aroused you. Never mind the fact that the man in front of you was as handsome as he was intellectual; the fact that he was fighting himself over whether he should touch your skin like he wanted to makes you feel incredibly powerful.

“Not yet.” 

You take it one step further, straddling his hips with ease. “How about now?” you ask, placing both hands on his chest. Geto shudders underneath your touch, leaning his head back and clenching his jaw, but shakes his head anyways. Uncomfortable? Check. 

“I can’t,” he groans, his fingers twitching on the edge of the couch. You lean in to press your lips to his ear and whisper,

“Why not?” A strangled moan wrenches itself from his throat, and your mouth twitches up at the corners. 

“Because if I do…” he pauses, searching for the will to speak again. “I won’t be able to stop.” 

“You can’t hurt me,” you reply, snaking your hands around his neck and tilting your head to the side. “I just want to make sure you’re satisfied.” You lean in to brush your lips against his, hoping for a moment that he would try to resist even more. But you’re both disappointed and quite pleased when his lips touch yours, pressing against them gently. Almost instantly, his fingers go to your hair, wrapping themselves through the meticulously curled strands and tugging. You moan against his mouth eagerly, pulling his dark blue dress shirt to bring him even closer to you so you can feel his arousal clearly. When Geto pulls away, he has to catch his breath, but not before he nips at your bottom lip and whispers your name. 

“Yes?” You try to search his face, but his eyes are closed and hiding his true feelings. When they snap open, however, you finally see it. 

The hunger. 

“Don’t say yes out of obligation,” he warns, and you shift your hips nervously. “But I want to take you out of here tonight.”

“I’m not saying yes out of obligation.” It’s not a lie. 

“I pay to watch you dance. Not to…” 

“You don’t. You wouldn’t.” 

“Do you really want to do this?” Finally, you think, and some part of you wishes that he wouldn’t ask any more questions. 

“Yes.” 

“Then get your things and meet me in the parking lot.” 

______________________________________________________________________

This could potentially be dangerous. 

You slide on your sweatpants and hoodie, knowing that Geto taking you off-property is something that’s highly unadvised, even by the loosest rules of a stripper. So why aren’t you staying put? It isn’t until you’re lacing up your sneakers that you realize why you don’t care: even if Geto had ill-intent for you, Mrs. Lampton would immediately notice if you didn’t show up for your Friday shift, would immediately know who you had been with, and wouldn’t hesitate to talk to the proper people so you could be found. She could be a ruthless club manager, but that didn’t mean any of her girls went missing under her nose. 

Hannah looks at you from across the room, her blonde hair piled up in a messy bun as she applied eyeliner. 

“It’s a little early for you to be going somewhere, isn’t it?” You approach the woman slowly, taking a receipt and shoving it onto the makeup table in front of her, blank side up. 

“His name is Geto. Six-foot-three. Black eyes, long black hair.” Hannah’s brown eyes flick to yours, then she scribbles down the details with her eyeliner pencil. 

“You’re going to fuck him,” the girl murmurs and you nod carefully. “Make sure you do the right thing. Keep your identification on you. Do you need condoms?” You shake your head, and she places her hand on your wrist. “Please be careful and share your location. I want to see you back here tomorrow night, provided you can walk properly.” She adds a laugh to her comment, but you can feel the worry rolling off of her in waves. 

“I’ll be here tomorrow one way or another,” you assure her, and slide out of the back door as quickly as possible. 

_______________________________________________________________________

The elevator pinged twice, announcing: “Floor forty-five.”

“Come on,” Geto murmurs, stuffing his hands in his pockets and searching for the room key. You stare in awe at the chromatic scheme of the hotel, first floored by the lobby, and then astounded by the architectural design. “Shouldn’t be too far.” 

The ultra-clean wooden floors and sleek hallways seemed like a fantasy straight from the pages of a futuristic novel, but when you arrive at the room - numbered 4594 - you hold your breath. When Geto opens the door, it takes a minute for you to adjust to the sheer elegance of the furnishings. Nothing in the VIP could compare to the already-lit fireplace, beautiful red couch that wrapped around in a semicircle, fully stocked bar, and floor to ceiling windows that displayed the entire uptown scenery. 

“Oh my...” The bag you brought with you drops from your shoulders as you shuffle toward the windows, pressing your hands against the glass and looking down at the busy nightlife below. 

“It’s one of the best views of the city,” he begins, appearing next to you and loosing his long hair from it’s bun. “I love staying here when I need a break from the hustle.” You both lapse into a comfortable silence, watching the city move and breathe from above. When he moves away from the window, your eyes follow him over to the couch, where he sighs and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes before yawning. 

You slide in next to him, tucking an arm around his broad shoulder - which didn’t really reach past his neck. “You should probably get some rest.” Geto laughs, looking over at you with a soft gaze. 

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“I’ll go shower… and you get comfortable.” 

_______________________________________________________________________

The towel around your body feels softer than fur. The lavender soap is just as exquisite, not leaving a sticky residue like most hotel soaps, but as you rummage around the bag you brought, you find nothing that will clothe you properly. 

“Shit…” As you glance around the ornate bathroom, your eyes land on one of the robes tucked away in a nook beneath the sink. The black fabric would have to do, you think, and as the towel slides off, you reach for the massive robe that slides over your frame easily. You tie the fluffy string around your waist and take one last look at yourself - without makeup, without a wig, and without lingerie - then pad to the other side of the massive room to open the door. 

You stop in your tracks when you see the man who brought you here sprawled out on the egyptian cotton sheets, fast asleep. His arm is tucked underneath his head, and his black hair lays across the rest of the bed like an inky curtain. His shirt is open slightly, but not off, and appears that Geto had almost literally fallen into the bed and instantly closed his eyes. Inhaling, you consider your options.

A. You could wake him and ask if he still wanted to… you know. B. you could let him sleep and deal with the consequences in the morning, or C. you could leave. 

A gentle snore from Geto’s mouth points you in the B direction, and you smile at the thought of him sleeping the night away, as a man of his caliber should. You curl up on the equally elaborate chaise lounge at the foot of the bed and settle into a deep sleep. 

_______________________________________________________________________

Kisses. Tender, feather-light kisses are raining down on your face and neck. A hand smoothes over your forehead, and there’s a tender rumble that sounds like your name. 

“You should have gotten in the bed.” 

You slowly open your eyes, blinking as they adjust in the pale light of very early morning. Blues and pinks and oranges greet you from the floor to ceiling windows, and you turn your head slightly to see Geto sitting on the floor next to the makeshift bed you made for yourself on the chaise. His lips turn up into a slight smile, and you groan as you raise up from your position. 

“No, no, no,” he urges you, the hand on your exposed leg rubbing back and forth with care. “You can sleep some more if you want.” 

“What time is it?” Your voice is laced with sleep, but Geto doesn’t react other than pushing his hair back and looking at the digital clock over your shoulder. 

“It’s about five-thirty.” 

“Ugh…” you slide back down to the lounge chair and sigh heavily, hoping that - just for today - you could take a break. “I’ll need to leave to go to work soon.” 

“They open the club early in the morning?” That’s when you realize that you haven’t told Geto anything about your day life. You crack an eye open and look at him, opening your mouth to reply. 

“I --” Your phone begins to ring from the living room, where you deposited it the night before. Instinctively, you rush to retrieve it, pressing the ‘answer’ button before you can fully register who it is. “Hello?” 

“Y/n… I forgot to tell you that the shop will be closed today,” your aunt mumbles over the phone, and you heave a sigh of relief. “Take the day and I’ll see you on Monday morning.” 

“Thank you,” you whisper back and she grumbles a goodbye before hanging up. You slide the phone from your ear just as you feel slender fingers caressing your jawline and neck. Geto presses a kiss to the space between your earlobe and jaw, and you let the phone drop from your fingers onto the couch as you close your eyes. 

“Work calling?” he asks, hands drifting to your shoulders. 

“Yes,” you breathe, and he hums, tilting your head to the side and nudging the exposed skin with his nose. “I… don’t have to go in.” 

“Lucky me.” A throbbing sensation begins anew between your legs, and you feel the large hands sliding from your shoulders to your waist. “Maybe I can convince Mrs. Lampton to give you the night off, too.” 

“You’d keep me here that long?” Geto chuckles at your question, sliding the robe off of your right shoulder slowly.

“Only if you wanted to,” he whispers against your skin, pressing another kiss to your warm body before reaching for the robe tie. “I wouldn’t mind having you all to myself for another day.” Before he can undo the tie at your waist, you turn to find his lips, biting at his lower one eagerly. He returns the nip, but only briefly before kissing you fully, one of his hands cupping your face. 

“Geto, please,” you whisper as he pulls away, and he hums low in his throat, bordering on a growl-like sound. 

“Don’t say that…” he answers against your lips. “You might get in trouble; I might not be able to control myself if you say that again.” You lace your fingers through his tousled hair and reply with certainty,

“Maybe that’s what I want.” 

Geto’s lips crash against your own again, and you find yourself holding onto him for dear life as he pushes the hem of the robe up around your waist, fingers finding your slit faster than you could’ve imagined. You hike your leg up, letting him litter rough pecks down your exposed chest as he strokes your clit with precision. A gasp escapes your mouth, and you angle your head back, catching his gaze while he toys with you. “Geto, I --” 

“Suguru,” he corrects you without any hint of anger. “Call me Suguru.” 

“Suguru…” You let his name fall from your lips with ease, and he grins down at you, raising a brow. 

“That’s it, princess,” he coos, watching your face twitch with pleasure. “That’s all I need to hear. God, you’re so fucking wet.” You hadn’t been touched like this in so long. The feeling of his fingers dancing across your clit was incredible, and for once, your legs were reduced to what felt like jelly. Suguru notices immediately, but instead of shifting you to the couch like you thought he would, he props you up neatly against a window and slides a finger into you.

“Oh, shit.” The feeling of the long digit nestled inside and stroking your core distracts you from the fact that the window is see-through and if one looked hard enough, they’d see a robe-clad figure pressed against it. 

“You like that, don’t you?” When you look up to Suguru's eyes, you see the hunger again; the need to know that he was pleasing you, even if that meant he got nothing out of it. The thought makes you shudder with content, and he takes it as assent before sliding another finger inside of you. You clench around him instantly, and his jet black eyebrows shoot up, noticing your heightened arousal. “Do you want to cum?” The question makes you moan out loud, and Suguru’s lips quirk up a little. “Gotta give me a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’, princess.” 

“Yes,” you gasp, his fingers curling up and worming against your walls. “Oh, Suguru, yes, please.” 

“So polite…” he murmurs, pressing a hand next to your head while his other hand makes quick work of you. The sounds of your arousal are obscene to say the least, but you don’t care as you feel the tension in your core tighten to the point of almost snapping. Your hips buck against his hand, needing that release - needing that feeling of tumbling over into nothingness - when suddenly, he pulls his fingers out. 

“No!” Your hands fly to his biceps and his slick-covered fingers grip the back of your left knee. You pant desperately, feeling the sensation of the almost-orgasm abating as soon as his digits left your core. “Su…” you whine, and his brows knit together as he holds you there, hand above you and leaning into your body with your back pressed against the window. He continues to hold your frame against the window, your legs shaking from the denied orgasm. Once the moment passes, he snatches your robe tie off and you slide it down your shoulders, hoping that he will resume his previous ministrations soon. 

But your hopes are dashed when he lets go of your hiked up leg and unbuttons his dress shirt, letting it fall to the floor, followed by his belt and dress pants. The last article of clothing to go is his underwear, but the disappearance of it is overshadowed by the raging hard-on he has. The tip of his thick cock is already red and leaking pre-cum, and Suguru laces his fingers around it to pump it a few times before angling your chin up to look him in the eyes. 

“Do I have your consent, y/n?” 

“Fuck me,” you answer, gripping his forearm. 

“With pleasure.” He hikes your left leg up again, nudging at your entrance with his cock. When he presses into you, you both hiss, his cock not quite fitting. “Damn… Gotta stretch you out, huh?” He hoists your other leg onto his forearm, and you admire his muscles for a second before he attempts again, the feeling of being spread past your limit almost agonizing. “You can take it…” he whispers, leaning his forehead on yours as he sinks into you slowly. When he works a little more of himself into you - about half of his length - he presses a kiss to your opened lips, feeling your warm breath against his nose. 

“Su,” you exhale, and he nods a little. “It’s been a while…” 

“I can fucking tell.” His laughter is cut short by another inch of him sinking into your core, which makes both of you moan. “But it’s okay. Tell me if you need to take a break.” You nod, nipping at his bottom lip again, and he grunts, kissing down your sweaty neck before his lips latch onto your nipple. 

“Oh, fuck.” Your hips meet in a flash and Suguru’s head shoots up to look at you carefully. 

“Didn’t expect that,” he notes, searching your face for any sign of immediate pain. “Careful there.” He waits a minute before pulling back and then easing himself into you again, taking his sweet time as you unravel beneath him. 

“Please, Su, please…” you whisper shakily. You dig your nails into his skin and he exhales, quickening his pace a fraction as he dips low to find your nipple again. He rolls the bud around with his tongue, teeth grazing over it tenderly before he sucks hard, making you groan loudly. 

“You know how many people could look up and see me fucking you right now?” he breathes into your ear after his lips have left your chest. “But no one can touch you… no one but me.” He thrusts into you to make his point, pistoning his hips at a faster pace than before. You want to cry out, but his lips against yours muffles your exclamation. Before long, you can feel his balls slapping against your drenched core. The squelching noises and the slapping of skin soon fills the room and drives you even deeper into your tunnel vision of just you and Su, enhancing your impending orgasm. No one else matters. Nothing else matters. 

Suddenly, Suguru pulls out and lets you down, pushing your hip to turn you around so you’re facing the whole world while he fucks you from behind. When he slides into you, you stiffen a little, watching the world below you move at a leisurely pace this early in the morning. But your hands slide against the glass as he begins his work, grunting in response to your mewls of pleasure. You couldn’t focus on the cars or the businesspeople below… All you could feel was the massive cock between your legs, and the sensation of fingers on your clit paired with balls slapping against it occasionally. 

“I don’t want anyone else having you like this,” he hisses, and you whine a little, feeling his cock bruising your cervix. “Only me.” 

And with those words, you break. A massive shudder rolls down your spine and you feel the insane build up of two delayed orgasms crest over you. You shake violently against the cool glass; your sweaty body feeling only a fraction of relief at the sensation. As you clench around Suguru’s cock rhythmically, stars dance in the edges of your vision, and he picks up his speed, fucking you with purpose. 

“Oh, god, I’m gonna --” Spurts of cum shoot into your core before he can finish, painting your walls white and mixing with your cum liberally. Panting, Suguru drags you back to the couch, cock still inside of you while he catches his breath and you attempt to bring yourself back to reality. Before you can rest your head and close your eyes, you hear him murmur, “Please; no one else but me, y/n.”

[shhh-no-ones-home]

death march matt Murdock x reader

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this one has been in the drafts for a bit and i finally finished it so i hope you guys enjoy. writing has been slow recently as i havent had much free time and am still trying to rewatch all the netflix marvel series. but i am still working on requests and stories that ive had started for about a month so hopefully the rest will be out soon, along with some frank castle stories now that ive reached the first season of the punisher

prompts: "You need sleep." "I get sleep" "getting knocked unconscious does not count as sleep"

song: saints of the blood by black veil brides

tag list: @cynic-spirit @juniebugg

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i sat back on my knees and groaned. matt and i were both covered in blood and he was still writhing around on the ground. but the men around us that were out made me a little proud of all that we'd done. it had been weeks of tracking them down, taking out one ninja at a time until we found were they were all hiding.

"i need a vacation."

he noted as he got to his knees and i laughed.

"you and me both D."

he laughed back as he stood, almost doubling over as he clutched his side. i was quick to stand then, helping him, steadying him.

"whoa, hold up there daredevil, i saw that last punch. broken ribs isn't gonna get you anywhere."

he inhaled sharply.

"and what do you suggest i do?"

i snorted.

"you know the answer to that already."

he shook his head as we limped towards the door together.

"yeah, i shouldn't have asked."

°°°°°°°°°

when we got back to the apartment i was quick to get him to the couch. every move earned a hiss from deep in his chest as i tried to get his jacket off. i figured his ribs were broke but i was more worried about the cuts and stab wounds.

"alright human x-ray, what's the damage?"

he sat quietly for a moment and listened. then he closed his eyes and sighed.

"what do you think?"

i touched his side lightly.

"oh yeah, they're definitely broken. but there's something else. what is it?"

he blinked slowly before wincing as he tried to resituate himself on the couch.

"the cut below my rib is almost deep enough for it to come out."

i made a gross face.

"so maybe this time we really should get you to a hospital."

"no."

he said quickly and i sent him a look.

"matt, if i don't there's a good chance you'll die."

"no hospital."

i bit my tongue as he laid back.

"fine, ill do the best i can but if you if you start fading on me im doing it. this job is bigger than me, and Claire for that matter."

his jaw tightened.

"what would we even tell them? you're not in any better shape."

his breathing was shaky and staggered. i looked to my knuckles on my right hand as i held the cloth to his open wound. at this point i couldn't tell what was my blood, what was his blood, or what was the blood from the men we'd fought in the back of that abandoned warehouse. and then i looked to my left hand, god it was so much worse. my first two fingers were for sure broken, my wrist not in any better shape, and i had a gash almost the length of the back my arm.

"ill think of something, but right now we need to focus on getting you out of this outfit and keeping you from bleeding out. i don't need the paramedics figuring out what we both do in our free time."

°°°°°°°°°

as i sat in the chair beside matt i tried my hardest not to fall asleep. the beep of his heart monitor was very lulling and the morphine  they had given me didn't help. it was a little amusing though to look at the two of us; we practically looked like mummies with how wrapped we were. my left hand was broken in eight places, my wrist in two. the cut on my arm was deep enough to need stitches near my elbow but nowhere else, thank god.

"y/n."

i heard him say quietly and i sat up abruptly, no longer tired.

"im here matt, its okay."

i said softly, taking his hand in mine.

"where are we?"

he asked and i let out a laugh.

"metro general."

he deadpanned.

"i thought i told you-"

"i know i know, but i was losing you. i kept checking your heartbeat but you were losing too much blood. and i couldn't live with myself if id let you die. not after all that hard work."

i said the last bit with a hint of amusement and luckily he smiled back.

"what did you tell them?"

i let out a nervous laugh.

"i told them we were walking home through a bad part of town and got jumped, pushed into a back alley by a couple guys, large and in masks. i told them that they all looked the same, same height, same clothes, and only one of them spoke; that he demanded we give him all that we had on us. i told them that you tried to be brave and push me out of the way and that they didn't like that; that they beat you up, attacked you, then attacked me and once they got me on the ground stomped on my hand and ran."

he nodded solemnly; rubbing his thumb over the back of my right hand. the bruises were prominent still, cuts deep to the bone that i hadn't let anyone see since we'd been here the last ten hours.

"that's one hell of a story."

"as far as they know it was one hell of a fight. but you're still my hero; stupid and stubborn, but still a hero."

he smiled, almost laughing but groaning in pain and rolling his head back against the pillows.

"hey, take it easy, you need to heal, You need sleep."

"I get sleep."

he said matter-of-factly and i sent him a look.

"matt, getting knocked unconscious does not count as sleep."

he looked to the ceiling and swallowed hard.

"look, ill call foggy and Karen and tell them you were awake and they can visit later but for now you need all the rest you can get. you lost a lot of blood, and i know you, you'll want to get back out there as soon as possible. but for right now i think its okay to let the others handle the city for a bit. ill talk to Trish, see what she can do with Jessica's help. you know Danny would be willing to do something."

he shook his head.

"no, don't, its fine, I'm fine."

"Matthew, you have three broken ribs, a punctured lung, and you almost got sliced all the way through. I'm calling at least one of your super friends to take the mantle for a couple weeks. hells kitchen survived over a year without the mask, I'm sure it can survive a little longer. just until you're healed."

he sighed, closing his eyes again.

"i hate when you're right."

i smiled, squeezing his hand lightly.

"if that were true, you wouldn't have married me."

i stood up and kissed his forehead.

"Mrs. Murdock, the voice of reason."

he said softly and i leaned down and kissed him properly.

"keeping the love of my life alive one day at a time."

"thank you."

i studied him for a moment as i stood back up.

"get some sleep, ill be right here when you wake up."

[justabigassnerd]

Take a break

Pairing - Peter Parker x reader

Word count - 1,158

Warnings - mentions of lack of eating/sleeping, lil’ bit of angst

Summary - you aren’t taking care of yourself while at university, Peter helps you to relax

A/N - Hey y’all I’m back with a new request and tbh I think I’ve cracked the best way to write anything (be it essays or fics) I wrote in comic sans (i was skeptical of that idea but it works wonders) and I listened to a 10 hour loop of the ‘Coconut Mall’ music from Mario Kart (which is my favourite Mario Kart track) anyway I don’t know why why but I’m really super duper in the mood to write some angsty Daryl Dixon fics after I finish my requests so please if you have any send em in. As per y’all please send in requests and enjoy!

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Your phone buzzed on your desk but you ignored it, you had two big essays to complete for the end of the week and along with your work shifts you were stressing and worried about losing precious time to complete your essays. You rarely left your room, only leaving to get food and pulling regular all-nighters in order to churn out as much work as possible, having to catch up with previous work after being sick for a couple of days. You would’ve finished your essays by now if you hadn’t been ill as you wouldn’t have had to catch up on other stuff to be prepared for the essays. But your immune system had to let you down the time you needed it working the most. Your phone buzzed once more and you tear your eyes away from your laptop screen to see two texts on your phone from your boyfriend, Peter Parker.

‘hey, you haven’t texted me in a couple of days. Are you okay?’

‘can I come over?’

You let out a small sigh at your boyfriend’s texts. Not that you didn’t appreciate his concern, you just didn’t want him to worry about you when he had his own stuff to do. Peter, while still Spider-man and an Avenger, worked in Stark Industries to create new programs and all sorts. He had enough to worry about without you needing to add to his plate of problems. As you went to type out a message saying you were okay, and that he didn’t need to come over another text came through from him.

‘Mr. Stark said I should go and check on you so I’m coming over, won’t be long.’ You cursed under your breath when you read the third text, you were studying in New York so Peter could swing by and see you whenever he could. You knew that if Tony was letting him off easily that Tony was probably equally as worried as Peter about you even if he never actually said it. Even though you weren’t an Avenger, the team adored you and if they were concerned about you they wouldn’t be afraid to ask Peter to check up on you or even do it themselves if they were really concerned. You figured you had about half an hour to cram in as much work as possible, you set to work immediately, desperate to do as much as possible despite your growling stomach and tired eyes.

A sudden knock at the door makes you jump; you look at the time in the bottom right corner of your laptop and at least thirty-five minutes have passed since Peter’s last text. You get up and open the door, being greeted by your boyfriend who steps into your room, his eyes widening at the sight. Your room was dark, curtains drawn with your laptop shining brightly in the darkness. Papers and books were scattered over your desk and some on your bed, Peter saw the cup of coffee on your desk and could tell that it had been refilled repeatedly just to keep you going. His heart broke at the sight because he never wanted you to overwork yourself, he knew that you’d be busy with work, but he never expected it to end up like that.

“oh y/n…” Peter mumbled as he picked up one of the textbooks from your bed and looks at it.

“Peter I’m fine, you don’t need to worry about me, honestly.” You say, rubbing your eyes to try and wake yourself up a little more.

“No, I am worried. You look like you haven’t slept or eaten properly in days! Look you need to take a break; I’ll order some pizza and we can just chill and watch movies. Tell you what, go and have a shower and get into your pyjama’s, I’ll order some pizza while you do that.” Peter says, his eyes overflowing with worry as he pulls out his phone.

“No Peter, I need to get this done.” You exclaim, stopping Peter from typing on his phone as he looks up at you.

“They’re both due in on Friday at midnight and I got one done but this second one is much harder, I’ve got a bit done but I don’t want to risk anything.” You continue.

“It’s Wednesday y/n. You can get some early sleep after eating and showering and be ready to tackle the rest of the essay tomorrow. I’ll spend the night and I’ll even help you with the essay. I just need you to put yourself first.” Peter says gently, when you look up and see his soft brown eyes looking at you with genuine concern you start to give in.

“Okay Pete, I’ll stop for today.” You say, watching as Peter smiles slightly and grabs your pyjama’s off your bed and holding them out to you, indicating that he wants you to shower and change. As you disappear into your en-suite bathroom Peter orders your favourite pizza and saves your essay progress before opening Netflix and opening a window to let the cool night air in. When you return, you feel slightly better, the warm shower helping you to relax. Peter then gets a text that the pizza has arrived and heads down to get it, telling you to get into bed and choose something to watch. You do as he asks, scrolling through Netflix until you find what you wanted. When Peter came back he slipped his shoes off and slid into bed next to you, both of you using your pillows as a backrest so you can eat pizza and watch the movie you picked out.

“Kingsman?” Peter asks, a smile on his face as he sees you nod.

“You know it’s my favourite movie Pete, I figured if anything could help take my mind of that essay for a bit it would be this film.” You reply honestly as you press play on the movie as the laptop sits on your legs while the pizza box sits on Peter’s. The two of you demolish the pizza in record time with Peter allowing you to have more of the pizza as he knew how hungry you were. Peter threw the box in the bin and pulled you closer as you rest your head on his shoulder, by now struggling to keep your eyes open.

“Thank you Peter, I love you.” You mumble sleepily, bringing a smile to Peter’s face as he slowly slides down the bed so the two of you are now lying down and puts your laptop on your office chair for safe keeping, the movie now forgotten. You cuddle closer to Peter, resting your head on his chest and allowing his steady heartbeat to lull you to sleep as he played with your hair. Peter watched as your breaths evened out and pulled the duvet over the two of you.

“Goodnight y/n, I love you too.”  

[dastardlydandelion]

Please post the sickfic prompt turned corpse disposal. 😂

sure! that one’s p bloodless, i can post that one. 

ao3 link 

content warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced spousal abuse, minimally described fresh dead body, illness description 

Billy isn’t sick.

Billy doesn’t get sick. He really doesn’t. Hasn’t had so much as a cold in years, albeit he’s claimed one as cover here and there whenever coke overuse made him maybe sorta sniffly and Neil started to eye him up like he might be suspicious.

Billy isn’t sick.

If he’s feeling achy, well, he’s just sore because Neil laid the belt on him pretty hard two days ago after he got sent home from school midday Monday, written up and suspended. If he’s coughing, well, it’s just because he’s been smoking more than usual. Neil’s been stressed out lately, so that means Billy’s stressed out too.

“No,” his father says sharply when Billy takes a seat at the breakfast table.

And Billy blinks at him, confused but careful.

“You’re not going to sit with us and cough all over the food like a human biohazard. I raised you to show more courtesy than that.” Neil gives him a stern look. “Go back to bed.”

“I’m not even—“

“Go back to bed, Billy.”

Billy hears the warning heighten in his father’s tone. He doesn’t argue. He hauls himself back to his bedroom and it’s whatever. He wasn’t really hungry anyway.

* * * 

Okay, so Billy is sick.

He got himself suspended because he felt something coming on. He knows his body. He was feeling off kilter and sluggish, uncomfortable in the chest when he inhaled too deeply. So he put his boots on the desk in history class and flipped the teacher the bird when she asked him to sit properly. Even went the extra mile and sneered, told her to blow him when her jaw hit the floor.

He figured it’d buy him enough time to recover without having to call in sick, or get in trouble for skipping class. A suspension was one indiscretion and only likely to invoke one punishment. Skipping multiple days would’ve been multiple indiscretions and more likely to invoke multiple punishments.

In retrospect he should’ve just called in sick because the whole point of avoiding that route was avoiding having to admit it, but he can’t really hide it. Whatever he’s got came on hard and fast, doubled-down by Monday evening. It hasn’t gotten any better. Billy feels bad all over, the cough is near constant, and he’s shaking with chills. Puts his leather jacket on before he buries himself under the blankets and still can’t get warm.

And the coughing, ugh, the fucking coughing. Billy knows he’s being loud. He tries to hold it in but he just can’t. Spasm after spasm squeezes his lungs until they’re aching for air. His chest feels like it’s full of swamp muck and all he can do is ride it out, clutch at his ribs until he makes it to the oxygen on the other side.

Billy should get up. He should make himself get off his ass, go buy some cough drops or at least refill his glass of water. He’s going to make it happen. He’s definitely going to make it happen…just maybe not yet.

He never really gets around to it. Spends most of the afternoon slogging through coughs and trying to get comfortable even though it doesn’t really matter which way he tosses or turns, he’s still cold to the bone, chest stabbing with every burdened breath. The day drags and Billy catches snippets of the other members of the household moving about, knows it’s evening when Neil sticks his head in.

“I dug this out of the cabinet for you,” he announces, holding up a blue container. “Vapor rub. It’ll calm your cough down. Help you sleep.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

His father pads across the carpet, sets the container down on Billy’s nightstand, right within reach. He hovers uncertainly, eyes narrowed. Opens his mouth to say something and maybe he does, but Billy doesn’t catch it, snapping upright to bury another flurry of coughs into his closed fist. It’s a forceful fit and before he knows it, his father’s thumping him on the back. He’s probably trying to help but the heel of his hand connects with one of the bruises the belt buckle left and Billy can’t stop himself before he flinches.

Neil retracts his hand, leaves without another word. Billy rakes in breath at the coda of the coughs, air scraping against his roughshod throat. He goes as deep as he can even though it hurts, snatches the container of vapor rub.

Billy begins to unscrew the lid and notices some of the ointment is crusted under the lid. It flakes off. This stuff looks old. Billy checks the date on the label. Sure enough, it’s been expired for close to a year.

He throws it across the room in frustration, watches it bounce off the wall. Lies back down and pulls the covers up to his chin.

At some point Neil bangs on his door and demands he cut out the racket, probably thinking Billy rebuffed his generosity. Billy’s too exhausted to bother explaining the shit’s expired. Instead he turns his face into the pillow and smothers his fits into the fabric, hoping it muffles the sounds.

* * * 

Sometime later Thursday morning, Susan knocks on his door. Billy contemplates pretending to be asleep. Really, he wishes he was. He’s feeling pretty rundown but he can’t seem to get more than a wink before he wakes up coughing.

But if he doesn’t answer it now, she’ll probably just bother him later. So Billy plods to the door and pulls it open.

“What?”

“Um,” Susan begins eloquently, blinking at him as she fiddles with the thin object in her hands. A thermometer.

“Neil tell you to do this?”

“N-No, but, uh. It’s probably a good idea to check your temperature. No offense, Billy, but you don’t sound so good and you’re awfully flush…”

“If I cared, I’d check myself,” he snorts irritably. “Try to stick that under my tongue and I’ll break it in half. Save your mother hen shit for Max.”

With that, he slams the door in her face. They’ve no love for each other. On infrequent occasions Susan will forget this and make some half-assed attempt to get closer to him. Billy’s always quick to remind her where they stand. It doesn’t take much.

Afternoon rolls around without Susan bugging him anymore. Billy isn’t a big reader but he doesn’t feel up to much else between increasingly productive coughing bouts that leave him hacking up gross, greenish globs into his small wire mesh trashcan. So he flips through some music magazines and the book he’s supposed to read for english class until he gathers enough energy to kick himself into gear.

He didn’t bother changing out of his clothes yesterday so he doesn’t need to change now. Just sprays himself with some cologne, figures he probably smells because he’s sweating nonstop. Discomforting drenching cold sweats like getting caught outside in icy rains, an experience Billy was blissfully unfamiliar with until Neil decided to leave sunny California behind.

He browses the small medical selection at Melvald’s, grabs a couple bags of cherry flavored lozenges  and a bottle of cough syrup. Covers a couple fits with the crook of his elbow on the way to the counter. He swallows the gunk that comes up because there’s nowhere to spit it into and scrunches his nose in disgust, feels like freaking slime sliding down his throat.

It’s the town cuckoo who rings him up. Or that’s her reputation anyway but she doesn’t seem particularly nutty to Billy. Hell, seems less weird than Susan does when she’s doing shit like talking to the spiders she takes outside.

“Time to go, Little Creepy Crawly,” she’d singsonged last week, shaking a daddy longlegs out of her tissue on the front porch. “Go be free.”

“You need fucking friends,” Billy had told her after the fact. Sound advice, he’d thought. Susan only ducked her head and disappeared into the next room.

Town Cuckoo gives the amount. Billy digs through his wallet and comes up two dollars short. Ugh. Fucking brandname linctuses. Shit’s a ripoff but there was no generic equivalent on the shelf.

She tells Billy it’s on the house, forehead crinkling just a bit as she studies him, eyes all melty with sympathy. Screw that shit. Billy isn’t anybody’s charity case. He gives her a pointed glower as he stamps a five down on the counter, takes the two bags of lozenges, and leaves.

He eats through half of the first bag until his throat tingles with menthol and artificial sweetness, and actually manages to sleep for a few solid hours. He knows it’s been hours because when he wakes himself coughing, it’s dark out. Nighttime.

Billy curls inward with the spasms, tries to catch his breath between stabbing pains. This sucks so much. He’s hacking up more gunk. Attempts to rub some of the discomfort from his heavy, congestion leaden chest to no avail.

He just keeps coughing and coughing and he knows before long, Neil’s going to get in his shit about the noise so he forces himself to throw off the covers. His bruises are still healing. He doesn’t need any more.

Billy crams his feet in his boots and drags himself down the hall. To his surprise, Susan’s sitting at the kitchen table. She’s crying. The sobs wrack her whole body the way the coughs wrack his and her cheeks are blotched cherry red just like his lozenges, tear tracks shining under the kitchen light. It throws him, really. He’s lived with Susan for years and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her cry. She just. Doesn’t show much emotion at all, let alone displays like this.  

Billy watches it the way he’d watch a car crash. Susan doesn’t even notice him until he’s coughing again. He curls his fist around his mouth, muffles them as best he can. Fumbles for his car keys when he’s made it through to the other side.

“Where could you possibly be going?” Susan asks, her voice thick, like there’s a bubble in her throat.

Maybe Neil hit her. Billy’s seen it so he knows it happens sometimes even though he’s pretty sure it’s not often. Not like how Neil hits him. Or hit his own mother. Susan is probably Neil’s favorite, obedient like a well trained dressage horse following all of his cues. Isn’t anything like his own mom who defied Neil like a wild mustang he couldn’t tame, who went braless and smoked hash with the hippies, screamed her lungs out at Neil in furious harpy volumes and called him names no matter how mad it made him. Who did her best to give back as good as she got even outmatched, even if it made him madder, throwing things or fists or swinging Billy’s Little League bat.

Susan is submissively behaved and tepid tempered, always wears her bra under the clothes Neil buys her in the fashions he prefers her in. Susan speaks softly and sweetly, never stays out unscheduled and doesn’t smoke anything at all, always smells like floral perfumes and lotions, never ever, ever like cigarettes or marijuana or other men’s cologne. When Neil hits Susan she goes slack and sloth and silent, and does not lift a finger to fight. It is the only thing she and Billy have in common.

“Nowhere,” he answers. “Gonna sleep in the car before Neil gets on me about making noise.”

“Billy, it’s too cold for that…besides, Neil isn’t going to wake up yet.”

“How do you know?”

What, does Susan think she’s a fucking fortune teller now?

Sure enough, she doesn’t have a straight answer for him. She stumbles over syllables that don’t shape into sentences and the last thing Billy feels like doing is indulging her.

“Pfft. That’s what I thought. By the way, you’re ugly when you cry.” Billy glares at her until she turns away, timid, bowing her head. He heads out to the Camaro, gets in the driver’s seat and pulls it back.

Yeah, it’s cold out but he can’t get warm inside under the blankets anyway. Neil’s already in a bad mood. He’d only barked about the racket last night but his father’s bite is worse than his bark and Billy knows better than to expect a second warning.

* * * 

Friday morning, the frosty air scrapes Billy’s throat raw and makes him cough so, so hard. He’s beyond done with this shit, fuck everything. He takes shallow breaths to avoid the pangs of going too deep. The coughing still brings up gunk he spits out and he can feel the congestion crackling in his chest like thick, goopy molasses drowning his lungs, sticking between every rung of his ribcage.

It’s actually. Kind of. Beginning to concern him.

Is being sick normally like this?

Billy hasn’t been sick in so long, he seriously doesn’t know. But it’s been days and he’s not feeling any better. He feels worse. He really does. Breathing has become a grueling travail. Even to his own ears, his exhales sound wet and ratty. The coughing was a nuisance when it first came on but now it’s just downright exhausting.

But.

Well. He’s gotta be okay. He’s too young to be like, seriously sick. It’s probably just one of those things where it’s going to get worse before it gets better. A lot of things are like that, right?

Everything gets worse before it gets better. He’s fine. He’s definitely fine.

Billy goes inside. Everyone’s at the breakfast table and he doesn’t take a seat because he’s a biohazard and Neil already looks dour. Susan’s pouring him coffee. Max nibbles at a piece of toast. She has a cut on her cheek that wasn’t there when Billy saw her yesterday. Doesn’t look bad, just a simple scratch stretched under her eye, but when he peers closer is that…is that a bruise?

Yes. It’s pretty small. Faint. He would’ve missed it entirely if the thin red thread of her cut wasn’t so stark against Max’s pasty skin.

He’s smart enough not to ask in front of Neil. He doesn’t say anything. Gets the juice from the fridge and pours himself a glass. He’s two sips in before he has to set it aside, covering his mouth as another fit takes hold.

Neil is glaring when he makes it through. Right. Don’t cough around the food. Billy isn’t even sitting with them but whatever. He’s not gonna poke the bear. Heads off to Max’s room and waits.

Eventually she comes in to get her backpack, frowning at his presence. “What’re you doing in here?”

“What happened to your face?”

“Geez, Billy, you sound terrible.” Her nose crinkles.

“I asked you a question, Max.” Billy impatiently twirls his finger, slightly annoyed. He already knows he sounds bad, doesn’t need to be reminded.

Max turns away from him with a shrug, starts stuffing her textbooks into the bag. “I fell on the pond yesterday when I was playing with my friends. Where I fell…the ice wasn’t smooth. It was rough and it scratched.”

Billy narrows his eyes and measures her up. It isn’t a particularly unlikely story. But he wants to be sure.

“You’d tell me if it was Neil, right?”

“…of course I’d tell you if it Neil.” Max looks up from messing with her stuff and faces him with clear resolution in her gaze. “Neil hits you all the time so if he hit me, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”

Billy keeps his eyes on her as he goes over what she said. She doesn’t look like she’s lying. She doesn’t sound like she’s lying. Besides, Neil’s striking hand probably would’ve left a bigger bruise and he can’t place anything on it that would’ve scratched her skin like that. Neil’s fingernails are short and blunt, smoother than Billy’s, which get jagged when he bites. He doesn’t wear rings beyond his wedding band, and his is smooth silver, no shiny rock cut in the middle like Susan’s.

“Alright,” he concedes, turns to leave.

The coughing fit hits heavy, like a wrecking ball to the chest. Billy hangs onto the doorframe with one hand, covers his mouth with the other. It’ll pass. It’ll pass. It’ll pass.

Christ, he’s sick of being sick.

It passes. Billy keeps his grip on the doorframe as he works on drawing in air.

“You okay?” Max asks from behind.

And he can’t actually answer that just yet, still catching his breath.

“You sound really gross, like you’re literally dying.”

“I’m not…I’m fine…even run you to school, if you want.” Billy relaxes his grip on the doorframe and turns back to her.

“Oh.” Max perks up at that, eyes bright. “Yeah, can you?”

She lowers her voice as she adds, “I’m mad at my mom. I don’t really wanna ride with her.”

Billy doesn’t ask what for. It’s probably something stupid. Susan getting after her for not zipping up her coat or touching yellow snow or some other dumb shit. He’s too tired to care, really.

“Sure I can, s’what I just said, isn’t it? Finish getting your stuff together, bus leaves in five.”

* * *

Billy does’t go home for a long time. After dropping Max off, he just sits in the parking lot for awhile, rests his head against the steering wheel while the heat blasts from the vents. He’s got it all the way up and he’s so sweaty his hair’s plastered to the back of his neck, but he’s still freaking cold.

He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this.

Or.

Okay, maybe he does.

Eventually he pulls out of the parking lot, drives around listening to music just to be doing something. Winds up in another lot, an empty lot, where the rumor is they’re going to build a mall next year. Billy hopes so. Hawkins is mind-numbingly boring. Sometimes he just wants to scream about it, set fire to the fucking cornfields and scream at the top of his lungs.

His lungs aren’t really up to screaming right now though. Neither is his throat, really, tender from coughing spasm after coughing spasm tearing it up. Billy doesn’t know if he’s even been this sick.

He’s even considering bringing it up to his dad, maybe even. Asking Dad for help. And that.

That means he’s either desperate or delirious, and neither is a particularly reassuring thought.

Fuck.

Billy despises the fact it even crossed his mind. He can’t go to Neil. He won’t. That’s stupid. Neil would probably just dig him out some more expired vapor rub. Definitely wouldn’t take him to a doctor, at least not until the bruises heal. Maybe he’d compromise and get him the cough syrup Billy didn’t have enough cash for…

Between musings, Billy finds himself squeezed in another fit that pummels his chest like invisible fists. It’s so bad he’s left battling for just a breath of air, so forceful for one very scary second he’s even worried he won’t get it. That the coughing will go on and on, and he’ll never take another breath again. That they’ll find his body right here in the empty lot where maybe the mall will be one day.

Except the coughing eventually does subside and Billy does manage to get some air. But the fit spooks him a little. Takes enough out of Billy that he decides he’s probably going to have to go to Neil. Shit.

He puts it off as long as he can. Doesn’t even go home until he knows everyone is done with dinner. To his surprise, Neil isn’t watching tv. Billy heads down the hall. The light is on under Max’s door. The light is on under the master bedroom door too. Billy hesitates before knocking.

Does he really need to go to Neil?

Maybe he was exaggerating when he was worried earlier. Billy’s hand retracts from the door. It's promptly clamped around his mouth for what must be the hundredth time. He’s hacking hard into his palm, chest throbbing.

He doesn’t actually mean to open the door. But he grabs the knob for support and jerks when the metal is shockingly cold under his fingers. The next thing Billy knows, he’s stumbling over the threshold.

Susan whips toward him, eyes as wide as dinner plates and mouth frozen open in horror. At first Billy thinks it’s him. She’s so disgusted she’s horrified by him and his biohazard germs and any second Neil’s going to pick his head up from the bed and bark at Billy for intruding without so much as a knock, and then—

Then his eyes fall to the long bloodied baiting needle in Susan’s suddenly trembling hands.

“S-Self d-defense,” she quavers, backing away, that needle outward in her shaky, shaky hands almost like she thinks Billy’s going to advance on her. “It was s-self defense, B-Billy, I had to.”

Because Neil’s still motionless, facedown on the bed even though his son’s still coughing, making a racket and expelling biohazard bacteria in his very bedroom. He’s still coughing, fuck, his eyes are watering, but they aren’t so watery he can’t see what’s right in front of him. Billy plants a hand down against the dresser and tries to breathe.

“Self defense,” he rasps at the end of the fit, blinking at the acupuncture kit open inches away from his hand on the dresser.

“S-Slightly preemptive self defense,” Susan amends, swallowing. “Make no m-mistake, I had to. I had to, he— he was right on the verge of a b-blowup. You know your father, Billy.”

That is true. Billy knows his father well. He doesn’t speak to Susan as he shuffles up to the bed. Gulps down some of the gunk in his throat, grazes his father’s cheek with his fingertips. There’s blood welled up in a hole at the base of his skull but he’s warm, kinda, so maybe Susan didn’t kill him after all. He moves his fingers to feel for a pulse.

It isn’t there. Neil’s dead? Neil’s really dead?

“Dad?” he tries. It comes out a hoarse squeak. He clears his throat and tries again. “Dad? Dad, c’mon.”

Billy jostles his father’s shoulder. It yields no response. The bare skin is still warm, deceptively so. There’s not so much as a flicker of life beneath it.

“Holy shit,” Billy gasps.

Susan presses back against the wall, eyes still very wide, clutching that baiting needle so tight her knuckles are blanched. Her hands shake and shake.

“What are you going to do?” she asks in a whisper.

“What am I going to go?” Billy echoes. “I— I don’t know! What are you going to do? Call the cops?”

Because even if her self defense was preemptive, to use her description, maybe it’d still fly. Billy has bruises. Maybe Susan has some too hidden under that deep cranberry dress.

“Cops?” Susan’s mouth tightens as her head gives a firm shake. “Of course not. Don’t you know what police are like? Your father would’ve fit right in.”

Billy considers this as he coughs, stuffing them into the sleeve of his leather jacket. He can’t say his own experience with the law has ever been positive. And Neil was a security guard. What’s a security guard if not a wannabe cop?

“You planned this,” Billy heaves out when he’s done coughing.

“I’m….I mean, y-yes, but I—“

“What was your plan?” Billy interrupts. “Where were you going to go from here?”

“I didn’t expect you to show up,” Susan says, soft and frowning.

“I live here,” Billy points out and he laughs. Strange, strained laughter peals out of him until it triggers another bout of coughing because. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“Oh, Billy…do you want some water? Maybe you should sit down.”

“Where?” he rasps between coughs. “Next to my dead dad?!”

“Keep your voice down,” Susan urges, waving the needle like a conductor’s baton. “Max is still awake.”

Billy wipes the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. Stares at Susan as he does his best to take even breaths.

“You’re wheezing.”

“You’re deflecting,” he fires back. “What are you going to do?”

“Um, uh…chop him up,” Susan admits quietly. “I’d p-planned to chop him up.”

“That’ll make a mess,” Billy blurts out, blunt.

“Messy, yes, but it’s the easiest way. I can’t exactly carry him.”

Billy touches the small of Neil’s bare back, skims his fingertips between hair thin acupuncture needles. He probes at the small of his own back, winces when dull pain pulses through the bruise. His throat is thick with something other than phlegm and his heart is racing rabbity fast. In this moment, Billy makes a decision.

“Not by yourself.”

Susan gapes.

“Where we taking him?” Billy asks.

“I…I honestly didn’t have an exact location mind, but farther away. Not here in Hawkins, the town is too small.” Susan swallows again and tugs at her sleeve. “I planned to bag his parts in pieces and drive a few hours out and spend the night disposing of the bags in different areas.”

That makes sense, he thinks.

“Sometimes I go to this gay bar about two hours away. Pretty big dumpster in the back.”

Billy tries to hit it at least once a month, if he can save up enough of his allowance for gas. Sometimes he collects enough chump change from idiots at school who forget to close their lockers, and isn’t above duping people outta their dough by turning on the charm, either. His interest in girls isn’t exclusive, he finds a helluva lotta guys interesting too. It’s just nice to get out of fucking Nowheresville even on the nights he doesn’t end up fooling around with anybody.

Susan looks absolutely bewildered.

“Gay bar,” he repeats slowly. “You know. Pride pub, homo hub?”

“I know what a gay bar is, Billy. Why on earth are you going to one?”

“Gee, I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m secretly a drag queen bingo champion,” Billy scoffs in annoyance and it turns into a cough. The one sets off a fit.

“Billy, um…I don’t, um. I’m not judging your preference in partners or your private life, but you’re too young to be going to the bar. Any bar. It’s not legal, you’re a teenager.”

Jesus, he can hardly breathe. He feels like he’s going to fall over. Maybe he actually should’ve sat down next to his dead dad.

“Oh dear. I’m— I’m going to get you some water.”

Billy doesn’t fall over. He has good stamina. He’s hard to knock over, prides himself on that fact. He makes it through the fit upright. His chest is sore from the stabbing and he’s a little dizzy, perhaps from fatigue or breathlessness, but he’s steadfast.

Billy accepts the glass Susan holds out to him upon her return. Her fingers feel like icicles as they brush his and he suppresses a shiver. Takes slow sips and finds a little relief. Eventually sets the glass down on the dresser when he’s done.

“Technically, it’s not me who goes to the bar. You’re right, I’m not twenty-one yet. But Jason Scott on the other hand, well, he’s twenty-five.” Billy fishes his wallet out and frees his fake ID from its fold. “Looks pretty legit, right?”

Susan silently studies the piece of plastic and worries her lip between her teeth.

“But we don’t actually have to go into the bar to put my dad’s body in the dumpster anyway. I mean, going inside would really be a pretty bad idea…”

“Indeed it would, but I’m glad you showed this to me. It wouldn’t be smart to put Neil anywhere you or I associate with at all. But if you’re not actually associated, it’s an option.”

“It’d take less time than the way you were gonna go about it. Cleaner too.”

Susan nods her agreement. “However, I still might…mm, Billy. I’m not sure if you’re going to like this. But in order to prevent him from being identified, I think I’m going to chop off his head…and his hands. Well, perhaps those I’ll just burn with the clothes iron, um. Either way, his fingerprints need to be destroyed.”

Billy’s gut lurches as he soaks it in. It sounds logical. He can’t deny that, but something about the idea of his dad’s decapitation doesn’t sit. Kinda gives him the heebie-jeebies. And that’s weird. That’s really weird because he’s okay with everything else.

Well.

Okay, maybe he’s not okay with it, but. He understands it. It’s Neil. Of course he understands the bruises she may or may not be hiding, the fear in her heart regardless.

“Do you have to chop his head off? Can’t you just smash his face in?”

“I considered that,” Susan says, nodding again. “Those cast iron lion bookends on the shelf are nine pounds each. I weighed them this morning.”

Billy likes the sound of that better. Neil is going to be dead and disfigured either way. He’s not sure why it makes a difference. Maybe it doesn’t, really. He thinks he might have a fever. Maybe the fever’s just getting to him, making him a little loopy and pulling his thoughts in less than rational directions.

“I could do that part,” he offers. It’d probably take him less time to bash Neil’s face in than it’d take Susan. He has more physical prowess, after all, more power to put behind the blows.

“Are you up for that?” she asks, eyeing him skeptically.

“Yes,” he snaps, somewhat defensive. He’s sick but he’s not helpless.

Billy’s claim isn’t undermined by the brief bout of coughing that overtakes him. He halts the reflex to clutch his ribs. Not now, not in front of her. Especially not with what they have to do.

“There’s two bookends,” Susan points out, seems a little nervous as she watches him cough. “We could take turns.”

With that, she disappears from view. Billy hacks some more gross globs into his hand and for convenience’s sake, just wipes it off on his jeans. When Susan comes back, she has one of those big black contractor trash bags. Spreads it out on the bed beside Neil’s form.

They roll him together and Billy doesn’t know what to make of what he feels when he actually sees his father’s face, features devoid and dead. Very, very dead. Tears do not sting his eyes. They just well up watery because he’s coughing again, battling for breath again, so, so wrung and exhausted, lungs like sodden sponges sopped with sputum.

Then he’s holding the bookend, cast iron artistically sculpted, the maned king of the jungle bearing his teeth in a roar. Billy looks at his father’s dead face and hesitates for only a heartbeat. When he brings the heavy object down, he puts all the force he can muster behind it and it makes an utterly atrocious noise Billy will never forget, but—

Some part of him has always wanted to do this. For that part of him, it is the only thing he’s ever truly wanted. And when Susan takes her turn Billy watches her face and realizes, oh, going slack and sloth and silent with the taste of Neil Hargrove’s hand isn’t the only thing they share at all.

* * * 

They wait until late to don gloves and roll Neil up in the shower liner. They stuff him in the bed of his own truck for transport. Billy takes the torso end because it’s heavier, Susan hefts him under the legs. Billy drives because he knows the way even though it’s the last thing he feels like doing.

It goes mostly okay. He only has a paroxysm bad enough to make him pull over once.

Susan reaches across the seats and rubs his shoulder. Billy’s too busy getting his breath to shrug her off.

“I’m sure you’re not going to love this idea, but I think it’s time to see a doctor. This could be bronchitis, Billy, or even pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia isn’t real,” Billy grouses tiredly. “It’s like the boogeyman. Just some story old people made up so their grandkids wouldn’t play in the rain and track mud all over the house.”

“Uh…um.” She blinks owlishly, forehead creasing. “No, that’s not quite accurate…”

“I’m screwing with you, Susan.” Because that’s easier than conceding to her.

It would’ve been one thing with Neil. As fucked up as things were, Neil was his dad. Neil was supposed to take care of him.

But Susan. Susan is different. Susan is mostly Max’s weird mom who displays about as much emotion as a mannequin whenever she isn’t (wasn’t) dancing on Neil’s puppet strings or talking to the spiders as she shakes them free from soft tissues. Albeit tonight is a game changer. They’re very literally partners in crime now.

“We could even go to the ER after this,” she suggests uncertainly, wary edge to her tone.

“That’s for emergencies. I can wait.”

“If you’re sure.” Susan hums in her throat and draws her hand away.

They have good timing. The bar’s been closed for almost an hour by the time they get there and all the cars have cleared out. Billy backs up to the dumpster so he and Susan can stand on the bed and lift Neil in that way, rather than having to drag his deadweight out and struggle to raise his cumbersome bulk up over the side.

He doesn’t want to be out here any longer than he has to. Whole thing gives him the heebie-jeebies. He feels like a cop is about to pull up any second now and frankly, it’s cold as fuck. He’s cold as fuck.

Not as cold as the unearthly chill that seems to pierce through the plastic liner when Billy lifts his father’s trunk for the second time tonight.

“Do you feel that?” he irresistibly asks Susan, watching her adjust her grip on Neil’s legs and searching her face for the eeriness he’s feeling.

“Feel what?” Susan asks, frowning.

Death itself? Billy doesn’t know.

“Nothing, it’s…just cold, I guess.”

“Oh, Billy, I think you have the chills.”

And he knows he does but it’s not the same thing. He doesn’t comment any more on it. Together they get Neil up on the metal rim of the open dumpster, push him over. Garbage crunches and crinkles beneath his deadweight. Billy feels another coughing fit coming on and manages to suppress it until he gets back inside the truck.

“Do you want me to drive home?” Susan asks.

“No. I know the way better, it’s easier if I do it.”

“You could, um. I mean, you could direct me if I get a little turned around. You’re looking pretty tuckered out.” It’s dark but Billy can hear the frown in her voice.

“Alright,” he sighs out. “Fine.”

Because she’s not wrong. He’s drained at this point. Shoving his dad’s body in the dumpster spent the last store of energy he had. He and Susan swap places. She doesn’t have much trouble once she actually gets back on the main road.

“Thank you,” she murmurs eventually. “If I had to do this myself, I’d still be in the middle of it.”

“Yeah…sure thing, I guess.” She killed his dad. No big deal. Billy blinks, isn’t sure what else to say.

“…so, um…you like the fellas, huh?” she asks, voice light and not a bit unkind.

“Uh-huh." He shrugs. "Guys, girls, I mean, I'm not that picky. A hole’s a hole, a mouth’s a mouth, fingers are fingers.”

Susan chokes on a scandalized gasp and Billy gets a chuckle out of it, even as it turns into a cough.

“That’s, uh. T-That’s certainly crude.”

And it’s funny really, that Susan seems more creeped out by a boorish comment than she did by holding his dead dad’s corpse legs.

By the time they get home, Billy’s so beyond spent he knows he can’t even make it to his room. Doesn’t bother to try. Collapses on the couch cushions without attempting to take his boots off. Smothers what has to be the goddamn millionth round of coughs into the throw pillow.

When he picks his head up, Susan’s standing there, fiddling with the thermometer again, fretful expression on her features. Oh, fuck it. Fine. Billy bites the bullet and takes it from her, begrudgingly jamming the thing under his tongue.

[deepdonutkid]

Hi, I'm so sorry it took me so long, I wanted to make it short as possible but always failed so...I have one that is somewhat short (this hurt me so much because when I'm describing something, it is LOONG) and second that is LOONG (that is why I warned you that I actually wrote horribly written "one-shot" or what it is actually, it would be much better, if you have time, to read both...when I tried to make it short, I maybe cut out important things...).

Like I said the girl is my OC, and her name is Sinon (given by Poll), but she is actually Maya (given by her real parents). And I gave names to her parents. But yeah, you can read it, consider if you will write it and change anything you want. Surely there are mistakes, holes and things that don't make sense.

I completely understand if you don't want to write it like "You wrote it yourself, what do you want from me, go to hell." But hey, I'm not a writer, I hate writing and I'm dead sure you can write it 100% better. To me, it looks like a grocery list. If you don't want to write it, just tell- JUST TELL ME TO F*CK OFF. 🤣🤣🤣🤣 (my apologizing must be annoying, welp, sorry once again).

So yeah.

I will send both, if you have any question, or if you don't want to write it, feel free to tell me.

➡ Short one: Ada brings to Polly a baby girl after the woman stopped her, gave her to her and quickly left. Ada discovers a small book, with the letter and a note with the name "Shelby" written on it. Polly thinks that the woman was a whore and the baby is his due to having also blue eyes. Polly decides to not saying anything to Thomas and adopts her herself. The girl grows and is known as an angel among demons. The Shelby's brothers love her, but Thomas...he lives for her. She loves him and he loves her (just...ugh 💝💗💘💓💖💕💞). They play, dance, everything. She is helping him with nightmares, bad moods, not hearing shovels, etc. Life goes by and Thomas loses his wife and brother. Polly and Ada want to cheer him up by telling him that the girl is maybe his daughter but he gets angry and says nasty things about the girl, she hears it and runs. After some time he wants to apologize but Ada stops him. She tells him she contacted the girl's family to pick her up. Thomas is devastated, not only because she leaving, but because he was just a dick to her and can't properly apologize. The Shelby's say goodbye to the girl and she leaves. After years (S5), Thomas is not himself anymore, regrets everything, etc. One day he is closed in his office sitting on the floor, mess around him and hallucinating. Then he hears knocking on the floor and is met with the blue eyes of the much older girl. He thinks she is the only hallucination and wants to shot himself, but she throws stuff into his face, launches at him, hugs him and pushes him and herself to the floor. She tells him that despite everything she loves him and that she missed him. He just hugs her tightly, begging her to forgive him and to never leave him alone ever again. They'll fall asleep and after a few hours when Tommy wakes up, his sister comes in and tells him she and her father are back and he will buy a house here. The girl never left Thomas's side and helped him heal.

➡ Disgustingly long one (it's funny how much of a useless words/sh*t Tumblr allows you to write): Ada brings the baby to Poll after a weak-looking woman approaches her and asks her if she could look after her baby because she needs to check something. When they take a look at it, their eyes meet with two beautiful big blue ones and an adorable smile of a baby girl. After washing the baby Ada discovers a note saying the name "Shelby" wrapped in the blanket. Polly immediately thinks the woman was a whore, got pregnant, then fell ill and now threw fruits of karma back at where it belongs, to Thomas Shelby. Ada asks Polly what they'll do now, but Poll doesn't say anything, Ada look at her and see Polly with a sweet smile and tears in her eyes. She wants to keep it. Why give this sweet little being to the most dangerous man in Birmingham when she can say nothing to him and rise her like her own? Ada agrees but is unsure at the same time...what if that woman wasn't a whore? What if she never had something with the Famous Thomas Shelby? She looked weak, ill, but stressed and maybe...sad? She remembers her crying and kissing this baby's head when leaving, that is not what unloving mothers do...

Polly rising this baby as best as she could now was the most beautiful, kind, clever, brave girl that ever ran through streets of Small heath. She had honey-blonde hair, similar to Ada's in style and length with long curtain bangs on her face and beautiful blue eyes, similar to Tommy's. She never liked girl clothes, always wearing boy clothes after Finn. Shelby brothers loved her so much, she never was problematic, never wanted to know things about the business, only have her little happy life and do fun things with her family when they made time for her, and oh boy they made it plenty. They played with her, danced with her, sang with her. But Thomas, a man who was drawn to this little girl like no one, was everywhere she was. She loves him and he loves her, she was something beautiful to him, peace in mind and heart, always melting how she treated him like a normal person, not thinking about all the bad things he did and just loving him for not so many good ones. He wants her to feel loved like she is one of them, not allowing her to question herself because somebody said she is not Gray, nor Shelby, that she is different and too good for Gypsies like them, like a real diamond among cheap bijouterie, an angel among demons. She helped him to sleep after every nightmare, with bad moods, stop hearing shovels against the wall.

Life goes by and Thomas experience the worst days of his life...he loses his wife and brother. The girl wants to soothe him everything will be fine. She was almost there when she heard Polly and Ada in his office, so she stayed behind the doors and listened to what were they about to say, maybe they trying to soothe him too. Little did she know what she'll about to hear. Ada and mainly Polly tells Thomas a secret about a girl Ada brought home, that Poll didn't find her in front of her doors, that in reality some whore approached Ada and pushed her her baby with a note saying the name "Shelby", and left. She didn't want to take care of a bastard child. And, our girl has the same eyes. But Tommy only scoffs and slams his hands on the table. After everything he's been through, they come up with this shit? They thought they are helping him, that his sweet girl is actually really his, that it will give him new hope for a new beginning, Thomas thought they can't be serious. His wife died, is now a single father, his brother died and now this?? He starts to shout he's not the father of good for nothing, any whore belonging, an odd, snotty and annoying child he never loved. Polly wants to beat him, strangle him but hears behind the door sobbing of her " daughter"...Polly is cursing his nephew before running after her girl, Ada following right after her. Thomas is unable to move, doesn't know what to do...He regrets every word second after but being stubborn cretin in his whole gory, he doesn't follow them but sit into his chair and let silence eat him alive.

After a few days of not facing his family and overthinking what to say and do, his sister stops him in his tracks. He's forced to sit and she starts to explain why is she here. She pulled out of her coat a burned sheet of paper, a small book and starts reading:

"Dear Thomas Shelby,

If you receive this letter...I'm begging you, please, to help my daughter. My name is Bella Rogers and I got separated from my husband, Scott Rogers when we were running from America to England. I heard about you from people in London. (Some people told her Thomas Shelby, so she went somewhere he likes to go in London, to his sister. And bc he never stayed long, she gave the baby to Ada.). I know I can't expect anything but please, contact this person (her husband's mother), tell her you saved my daughter, Maya Rogers. Tell them our names. You are my only hope now. Please help my daughter, please help me...

Thank you deeply,

Bella Rogers.

(Adress or number of her mother-in-law)

Ps: Please tell my daughter I love-"

And stopped.

Flashback: When the girl was growing, Ada confronted Poll with a small book in her hands.

Present: She handed the burned book to Thomas and he took it.

Flashback: She told Polly that the girl belongs to someone else and they deserves to know what happened to her and her mother.

Present: He carefully opened it.

Flashback: Polly knew it was selfish to keep her here, but she loved her so much she ignored every word.

Present: He started to spell the girl's name, date of birth, her parent's names, their date of birth...

Flashback: Ada begged Polly to think about this, she felt bad for a father and family that they didn't know what happened to them, but Polly had enough, she grabbed the book and a letter Ada was holding and threw it into the fireplace and with teary eyes left, Ada immediately took a piece of wood and got both things out of the fire, hoping that everything wasn't lost.

Present: Ada knocked on the table, drawing Thomas's attention from his thoughts. She swears she could see tears forming in his eyes when she told him she already contacted Rogers family and they are coming from America to get her back. He felt betrayed, he wanted to vomit. Ada tells him Polly already knows it and hesitantly agreed and that maybe it's better he said what he said, she wouldn't miss him that much and he made it easier for her not to think about him, which made him snap his eyes from the ground back to Ada. He asks her when they will arrive. An hour. Instead of getting up and do something he just sat there, sharply inhaled, and started crying. He cried, with his sister by his side, hugging him, crying as well.

When an hour was about to pass, they took all courage they had and get going to meet their girl's family and say goodbye. He wasn't ready. He never wanted to be ready for something like this.

Now they were standing there, in the uncomfortably big room, face to face with their Rogers family, two grandmothers, one grandfather and one father. He looked more beaten up by time than Thomas himself. They on the one side and Thomas, Poll and other Shelby's, Ada not with them but with the girl preparing. They greet each other, had a glass of whiskey, awkwardly debated about stuff, business, America...when then a young man asked where his daughter is, not willing to wait anymore. They called and there she was, hiding behind Ada's leg after coming into a room full of people she knew and didn't know. Her father immediately started to cry, slowly kneeled and opened his arms. She was looking at him and after a minute she starts to cry too...she maybe was the baby, but she remembers him, his face, his voice. She lets go of Ada's skirt and runs into his arms for the warmest and tightest hug she ever received. All members of Rogers family are immediately around her, introducing themself. And she's smiling, hugging everyone like she knows them for years. Thomas can't bear the sight of them so happy, especially her. He wanted so much to be in their place. He doesn't know why but asks Ada if they are really who they may be and Ada looks at him, understanding from where this is coming from. She shows him a slightly burned photo of their girl and her parents. "I remember how her mother looked like," Ada says. "And I remember her." Tommy is pointing at the baby in the middle, and Ada chuckles. "Yes, me too." "And now she about to be taken away from us and we can't do anything about it" ". Ada tries to hide her tears. They now looking at Arthur and Polly with Finn behind him hugging the girl and begging her to visit them every summer and Christmas. They kiss each other, Polly goes into a loving bear hug and kisses the girl on the cheek like million times. Uncle Charlie, Shelby's wives, even some of Peaky Blinders members themself like Curly. Now it was Ada who hugs the girl and then looks at her lovingly. "I'm gonna miss you, we all will." The girl softly smiles but looks at Thomas with an apathetic expression. Ada looks at him as well but Thomas is ghostly absent, just staring at the girl with glossy eyes, happy moments with his girl running in front of his eyes. He couldn't bear it anymore, he never ran from things, but now...He snapped into reality, quickly shaken with hands of the other side, wished them luck, TOO quickly ruffled the girl's hair and left, Ada following right after him. Rogers family just stared. Eventually, Rogers family said goodbye with the girl in their arms and left. They promised they will visit them.

That same day at night Thomas couldn't sleep, well, he never really slept after the girl left...

Years passed and Thomas was like a corpse, functioning only on 50%, if even. Ada and Poll tried to talk to him, Lizzie, his brothers tried too, but nothing helped, eventually all of them stopped. He regretted everything. One day was especially hard. Thomas was in his office, sitting on the floor with face in both hands. Around him a broken glass, two other chairs and papers. He was hearing his wife, crying charlie, shovels against the wall, gunshots, ghostly breathing. Everything was too loud. But nothing as loud as three soft knocks on the door. He lifted his head when a person who knocked came inside. His blue eyes met other blue ones. There she was, standing in front of him, much bigger and older, with a teddy bear he once bought for her. She still had it? How?. He couldn't believe it. He thought his mind is messing with him. You're not here, you're not real he said to her and every time he said it, she denyed that. He wanted to end this, grabbed his gun at aimed it at his head, but before he could do anything, a teddy bear hit his face. He opened his eyes and tried to process what just happened. You just threw your teddy bear into my face he asked. She said yes and that if she wasn't real, it wouldn't hit him. So...she was real? But how best to know your sanity is gone, then to welcome whatever your mind was made you see into your arms?

She ran to him, Thomas expected her to dissolve under his touch, but little did he know both of them would end up on the floor. She was giggling, saying he doesn't have any strength and fell easily, he on the other hand had eyes wide open, tears start to sting them. Thomas didn't waste a second and wrapped his arms around her warmly and tightly, proving to her even he can give this kind of hugs. He started to cry, cry like he never did, everything went out, rocking forward and backwards, face in her neck, begging her not to leave him alone ever again. He continued apologizing about what he said, for how bad he is, what he's done. She told him that despite everything she will always love him and that he missed him so much. He stroked her hair gently and she cuddled into him. He felt safe again. He finally was in peace.

When he woke up, he and the girl were covered in a blanket. He sits up. He smiled but got worried at the same time. How did she get in here? He needed to know. But before he could wake her up, somebody knocked. "Tommy?" Ada whispered into the room and walked in. She smiled, seeing Thomas with a little one sleeping in his lap, both covered in a blanket a cuddled to each other was....beautiful and cute. She carefully sits next to him and leans against his shoulder. He asked her how is she here, where is her father her, family. She said he didn't want to go back to America, his only plan from the whole beginning was to move to England with his wife and raise a child here, that he is buying a house. Somewhere nice and safe. In memory of his wife. A new beginning, new hope. And that she was sad and depressed. It wasn't fair from them to keep his daughter and it wasn't fair to just grab her and leave, promising to come back and never mean it. He put his cheek on the girl's hair and brushed it slowly. I think I can live with that he said. Ada chuckled. The rays of sunshine shined into his office. This is his new beginning, new hope. And he was willing to fight for it like a lion.

Eventually, the girl stayed with Shelby's family. The girl's father bought a house a few villages away so he could always pick her up and be with him. He made a little monument for his wife where his daughter put flowers Thomas or Ada bought. He knew who Shelby's were, but just like his wife telling Ada she trusted her when giving her baby to her, he trusted the rest of the family. Happy Ending!

Thank you for your time!!!!😍😍😍😍

Omg, you didn't lie, this was fucking long for a request... if this can be called a request at that length!

I really like the idea tho and it's super cute, Tommy with his daughter, etc.

Like you offered, I'm going to change a few things or to be percise... I will take the short version, because this already got me thinking and the long version was basically a story already.

I like to fill in the gaps myself and make this a full story, but it's going to take a while... because I have loads of other requests and I can't shut up... so I might write +10k again... for this idea.

Or multiple parts, I don't know yet XD

Gosh, I have to say it again... this is a long ass request... coming from meeee, the person who writes 12k ONE- SHOTS XD

Thank you for sending this in! 🌹

[flutteringphalanges]

Summary:  “Am I in Hell?” Agatha’s voice was hoarse, a hint of fear in her tone. “That depends on your definition,” Dracula answered. “Perhaps.” His fingers felt cool against her burning skin, the fever raging through her body. “If you’re going to kill me, then do it,” she mumbled. The count chuckled, gazing into her eyes. “On the contrary,” he smirked. “I’m going to save you.”

((In which Dracula cares for a gravely ill Agatha))

Characters: Agatha Van Helsing/Dracula

Rating: M

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Thank you all so much for your support! It means the world! Quick shout out to @rheabalaur! She is incredibly knowledgeable about the history of Dracula and Vlad Tepes and though I ended up not exploring human!Drac in this chapter, I wanted to thank her! She’s got some neat posts on the history and I learned a lot! Anywho, feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! Here is the next chapter! 

                                    Chapter Ten (Part Two)

Psychosomatic heart palpitations. The only diagnoses one can give to someone whose heart has stopped so long ago. Settled deep behind his rib cage, Count Dracula could almost swear he felt the dead organ pound against his ancient bones. Its rapid beating battering against his ear drums. Agatha Van Helsing was gone. Vanished without a trace except for a final message scribbled hastily on a scrap of paper. And it was all his fault.

"Fuck, Agatha!" He cursed, feeling the draft from the air outside. She'd neglected to close the doors properly, though that was beside the point. The cold temperature didn't bother him. No, he was immune. But she wasn't. "Dammit!"

Transformation. On foot. But there was the issue of his missing boots. The vampire's mind reeled a million miles a second. Usually he was so good thinking on his feet. Decisions coming easily to his mind. Yet there he was, standing hopelessly like a fool, trying to devise a plan. A way to find her. Agatha. His Agatha. In all of his centuries of life, never had he made such a fatal mistake.

He stared down at the corpse of the young man whose lifeless brown eyes gazed back at him. His skin was so pale, almost lily white after being completely drained of blood. Dracula let out a grunt, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Sloppy. Careless. His new existence as a vampire had yet to come easy to him. Despite being a learned man, he was well on his way of opening Pandora's box if he wasn't careful.

"Oh don't look so stoic." The vampire exhaled, glancing up to the dark sky. "You were far from valuable to begin with. Now what to do with you…"

Thunder rumbled overhead and small raindrops began to fall from above. Dracula frowned and glanced towards the direction of his castle. Experimentation. Understanding what he was didn't just fall on his shoulders. No. There was something interesting he witnessed with each new kill. From cradle to grave and from grave to coffin. Dying from one life into the next. A small smirk crossed his features as lightning crackled from above.

"Perhaps you will prove more use to me after all." He stated, lifting the body with ease. "So we shall see…"

By some stroke of sheer luck, Dracula managed to come across a pair of old boots tucked away in an old closet. Dusty, they gave off an unpleasant smell that even he found rather foul. But his own comfort was far from his concern. Slipping them forcefully on, he hurried out through the front doors and into the winter elements. Going bravely forth into the bitter snowstorm that had begun to stir from its sleep again.

His pace was brisk, each long stride with purpose as he walked away from the castle. Much to his misfortune, the fresh snow had completely covered the ground, burying with it any sign of Agatha's tracks. Not even transforming into a wolf would help at this stage. No. He couldn't sense her and that alone terrified him. If she was...no, no he couldn't think like that. So he pressed on, faster now.

Lovech Province, Bulgaria. At least, that's what he had learned from her blood. A pretty little thing, traveling alone to meet relatives in a nearby village. She'd been an easy target and quite an interesting one at that. Someone he had deemed worthy enough to keep.

"Please!" Dracula heard her wail from her box. "Please let me go! I'm so thirsty!"

"No." The vampire replied simply, so casually as if he was merely telling her the time of day. "No, I think it's best you stay put for now. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you. I always do with my brides."

Brides. He scoffed at his own term. It had been something he had come up with after holding captive several of his victims. Dracula needed to, after all, have some sort of name for them. In a sense, it seemed fitting. They were his after all. Property. Like cattle. Valuable, unusual stock that any bidder would desire and yet not know the horrors they were getting into.

"Let me go!" The woman pleaded. "Please, I promise I won't tell anyone! Just free me!"

"I shall return later." Dracula sighed as he ignored her screams of protest. "Perhaps with something to eat if I feel willing." He paused before looking over his shoulder. "And do try to keep the wailing to a minimum. I hate how it echoes throughout the halls."

Brides. Cattle. He grinned to himself as he exited the cellar. Disposable indeed.

"Agatha!"

He mentally cursed the howling wind that drowned out his voice each time he called out for her. Of all the times for her to disappear, of course it had to be in the middle of a blizzard. On many occasions she had threatened to leave, but the vampire had never thought she'd go through with it. If he had, if he had half the mind to, maybe he could've prevented this. All of this. If he had just been honest. Maybe she'd still be safe. Warm. Tucked away with him in the castle. But she wasn't and he was to blame.

"AGATHA!"

He hadn't quite expected his time with Jonathan Harker to turn the way that it had. It wasn't often that Dracula was left to deal with a slip up-if one would even call it that-but he found himself in a quite peculiar situation. An instance that led him to the steps of St. Mary's Convent in Budapest, Hungary. To her.

Agatha Van Helsing was a creature he'd never seen before. Such wit. Such spirit. She did not fear him like the others. She tested him like a fishman precariously dangling bait off the side of a boat where a shark was spotted. And that very moment when those few drops of her blood met his tongue it was a euphoria he couldn't explain. Seeing glimpses of her past. Of her history. Of who she was and of him. Of the infamous Abraham Van Helsing who had proven for a while to be a thorn in his side. Her grandfather. The product of a vampire slayer. And Dracula wanted...no, needed more.

The next course of action ended grizzly, not that he was quite surprised. But it wasn't until he came upon Agatha and that innocent, weakling Mina that his desire for the nun became curious. In any given dangerous situation, one must choose fight or flight. To defend yourself against your enemy and possibly die, or to out run them in the hopes of living. Agatha did neither. Instead, she offered herself in place of Mina. Seemingly cared nothing for her own life but only that of the woman's.

And so against what he thought at the time was his better judgement, he freed them both. Unknowing that soon enough fate would have them meet again under even stranger circumstances. How delectable and useful just a small amount of blood could be.

He couldn't smell her. No matter how far he walked, he still had yet to pick up any of her scent. That gave him some hope that maybe she hadn't injured herself. That perhaps she had found someone by some chance who had given her a ride somewhere. Unlikely as it was, it gave him a false sense of peace.

But due to the hindrance of his tracking abilities, a part of the Count began to wonder if Agatha's former Convent's beloved God was punishing him. That perhaps his version of Hell was not having her. Losing her. And who was he to deny that truth? Hell had frozen over and with it the former nun's mysterious disappearance. Dammit, Agatha, where could she have gone?

Dracula found himself staring at her for hours when he had first brought her to his castle. Watched as her chest rose and fell with each unstable breath. How her creamy skin was blotched by the red of the fever. At any point he could've killed her. Any second. With how ill she was, she wouldn't even see it coming. But she didn't. Instead, he observed. Quiet as his unaware guest rested.

When she did wake, truly became aware of her surroundings, it was a fond memory. How furious she was. How spiteful. After everything he'd done, Agatha showed no sign of gratitude and quite frankly, the vampire took no offense to that. She was merely an experiment after all. Someone he desired to learn more about. Except, he never expected it to go as far as it did.

"Fuck!"

Dracula's arms shielded him out of pure reflex as a tree fell just a yard away, spraying him with the wet snow that had clung to its branches. He wiped the substance away, his skin cool enough that it didn't immediately melt on impact. The way it clung to his clothes like some form of unwanted camouflage. For the first time in a long, long while, he was starting to despise the stuff.

"Agatha!" He tried again, this time louder. "Agatha, answer me! Where are you?!"

But only the storm returned his calling.

Emotions. Perhaps that's why he found it confusing at first. These feelings that no cold blooded person should experience. But the first real flicker struck him the moment he saw her wearing the dress he'd gotten her to replace that dreadful habit of hers.

Dracula thought of them. The hundreds-thousands of women he'd seen throughout his lifetime. Many whose beauty was beyond compare. But Agatha was different. Something about her, the way she stood there before him. There was so much he wanted to say. And at the same time, he wasn't sure what.

"Well," she said testily. "If it looks bad on me, you might as well-"

"No," he interjected. "No. You look...lovely."

Lovely. Out of everything he could've said, those were the words to spill past his lips. She blushed, but it wasn't the same color as her fever. No, this was different. So it truly began. The start of something he had very much yet to comprehend.

It was growing darker outside and Dracula knew it wasn't just because of the storm. He began to pick up his pace, fear beginning to rise even further than before. How long had he been asleep? A few hours at most? Could she really have gotten this far?

That's when he smelled it. The very faint, but familiar scent of blood. An aroma he was so familiar with that his stomach dropped at the realization. Agatha. It was Agatha. And the sweetness he associated with it only made him want to gag. His worries had been confirmed. Something had happened to his nun.

Maybe it was when they lost control over dinner and ended up having sex so rough, the aftermath of their heated lovemaking shouted to the heavens the next day. Or when she got so furious with him once, she broke her hand against his face. But perhaps the moment it really dawned on him that his feelings for Agatha Van Helsing were far from just a whim of passion was that night he truly tasted her.

The way she trembled against his touch. How he had to hold her as he ran his tongue across the inner thigh and to her very center. Sweet, like her blood, and he savored her like a fine wine. It hadn't been rough. Fueled by aggression. No, the way she melted into him was something far different. And when he was finally inside of her, that same sense of euphoria that he'd experienced those several, several months ago struck him. And he lost it. Completely gave way and pierced his teeth into Agatha's sensitive flesh. Blessed with her indulgence once more. That was his first mistake.

The smell of fresh blood was stronger now and Dracula followed it like a bloodhound. Though he knew he had to be drawing closer, how potent it was becoming only left his stomach twisting into knots. This wasn't a mere scratch. Not with how intense the smell was. There was a significant amount and the vampire dreaded what that could mean. What the outcome he was about to face was. How he wished Agatha had just gone ahead and staked him.

Cruel. That was the proper description for his next actions. Never mind triggering Agatha with old memories of Abraham-a man he knew well enough while, not evil, lacked any sort of endearment towards his granddaughter. He only furthered his stupidity when he abandoned her afterwards, leaving what should've been a good moment with a negative, abrupt ending.

In an almost sadistic, poetic way, the stake to his heart had been the final straw that broke the camel's back. The moment where Agatha's walls completely crumbled to the ground. Where she had, in her actions, admitted her true feelings when he had not. Metaphorically piercing her own heart when she should've done his. And he smiled. Grinned and waved away her affections. If only he realized the cost. The consequences. Those few words scrawled upon a strip of parchment.

Something caused him to stop in his tracks. Not the giant branch that blocked his path, but the feeling that there was something else. And so he hesitantly gazed over the edge, over a set of ragged rocks that dropped down several yards to the bottom. That's when he saw her. A figure lying motionless below wet by something other than snow. Dark. Even from where he stood, his excellent vision could make it out. Blood. Agatha.

"Agatha!"

Dracula leaped with such grace it made the long drop seem like a mere step. He hurried over to her side. Blood. There was so much blood. It stained the rock around her, caked locks of her hair together. And for a brief moment, for a fraction of a second, the vampire thought he was too late. It was only when he heard her pulse, the weak thrumming of her heart, that he knew she was alive. Barely. But still with him. As he exhaled in relief, her eyes opened.

Quickly he knelt beside her, the smell of her blood burning his nostrils. Thirst. Hunger. But he fought it. Battle the feral urge to feast within him. Dracula's hands were warm, sticky and red as he cradled her head ever so gently. She stared back at him unfocused.

The Count wanted to berate her. Scream at her for being so boneheaded. But not because he was furious with her. No, she had terrified him. So many questions. So much to say. Yet he couldn't. There wasn't any time to do so. He was losing her. Right there in his arms, the only person he'd truly ever cared about was withering away. He couldn't let that happen.

"You're dying." And the words held far more emotion than he'd ever had anticipated. "Agatha..."

"I know," she croaked.

The way she said it. Her tone. She wasn't afraid. Far worse. It was as if she was more than willing to accept this horrid fate. This end where one no longer exists. And he had planted the seed that made her okay with that.

"I can save you." There was a tremor in his voice. "This doesn't have to be the end. Let me..." He swallowed, damn how he hated to sound vulnerable. "Let me..."

There was a moment of pause as Agatha struggled to catch a breath. It ached deep within him to hear the pain as she did so. She was so strong. Even in death, she fought with bravery. What a soldier she would've made. What a companion in his human lifetime she would've been.

"Tell me..." Blood bubbled up in the corner of her mouth as she struggled to remain conscious. "Tell me..."

"Agatha!" He spoke to her loudly, trying desperately to keep her awake. "Tell you what?" But the Count already knew what she meant. "Tell you what?!"

"Just..." She was fading now. Fading so fast. "Tell me..."

Tell her. He looked deep within her blue eyes as the light began to fade in them. Tried to hold her stare so she knew he really meant it. Weeks. Months. It was so long overdue and this was far from how he wanted to ever admit it. Open up to her like she had him. But now he needed to. So he swallowed, swallowed so thick as if his very life was caught in his throat.

"I love you." A statement so foreign, and yet, felt so right. Something wet brushed against his cheek. A tear. Was he crying? "I love you, Agatha Van Helsing."

A weight lifted off his shoulders. The entire universe relieving him of the pressure he'd felt for so long. He gazed down at her so longingly it was as if everything had stopped around them. Waited for her final words. Praying she'd give into his demands.

Agatha smiled weakly and closed her eyes at his confession. "Okay," his lover murmured. "Okay…"

And Dracula's fangs plunged into her throat.

[tigers-eyes-26]

Elope Part 1

Daisy and Donald had it all planned weeks ago. They had a month to prepare. Donald started by sprucing up his houseboat. No one much noticed. he was always working on something in his houseboat mostly because he was always breaking something.

The gardener was the one who noticed first. Someone had uprooted all the Daisies. He eventually found them in the planter box under the houseboat’s window. The gardener didn’t want to insight any wrath, so he let it be. For now.

The second person to noticed was Huey.

Huey had a question to ask Uncle Donald it was for a badge. He found Donald in his room making a….bed? Out of some spare wood.

“What are you making Uncle Donald?”

WAK! Donald jumped causing himself to hit his thumb with his hammer. He sucked his thumb as he turned to face his nephew.

“A thed thor th enther.”

Huey cocked an eyebrow. Donald rolled his eyes and got his thumb out of his bill. “A. Bed. For. The. New. Renter.”

“You got a new renter?!”

“Ehh not yet.” Donald started to sweat as Huey rapid fired questions at him.

“Don’t renters usually supply their own furniture? Didn’t Storkules sleep on the floor?”

“Well….” Donald scratched his head.

“Is this to make the room more preferable? Will you put ‘fully furnished’ on the listing? I guess it wouldn’t be ‘fully’ furnished if there isn’t…”

“YES!” Donald interjected. “YES. Huey is there something you came here for?” his tone was sharper than he wanted it to be. He didn’t know how long he could keep up lying to his family. They could piece together things pretty quickly if they actually notice his on goings.

Huey realized he was interrupting something, but what was so special about making a bed? “Oh umm. I need to ask you some questions about when we were little. It is for the Child Care and Development badge.”

Donald let out the breath he was holding. Thank Goodness that’s all.

Huey interpreted the sigh as one of annoyance. He decided he wanted to be helpful to his Uncle “BUT I can use my salesmanship badge to help you put out a listing for the room!”

“NO!” again too forceful. “No, the room won’t be ready yet… ah” He saw Huey’s face fall a little. “Umm…how about you ask me questions while I work on this.”

“Ok!” Huey whipped out his notebook. “First question.” Huey paused “Why did you start this on bed in your room and not the extra room?”

Donald looked up at the door frame and then back at the almost finished bed frame. “Awww Phooey!”

(Huey just chalked it up to Donald flighty-ness. Donald stopped working on the bed and helped Huey.)

The third person to notice was Mrs. Beakley. She noticed Donald was taking note of her laundry routine. Then one day he approached her.

“Hey Mrs. B I can help you with all that laundry.”

There was something going on and she knew it would end with a theft. Was it worth intervening?

“Fine. Do you need me to show you how to properly wash them?”

“Nope! I got it!” Donald hefted the laundry basket out of Beakley’s hands.

Beakley decided she would read some more of her book, while keeping an eye on Donald. Curiously he stole Mr. McDuck’s silk bed set, a top hat, and a tux. While all these things were trivial Mr. McDuck only had one tux.

Beakley set herself up on the top of the gangplank and waited. Donald soon sauntered up to the gangplank. He was so pleased with himself that he didn’t notice Mrs. Beakley until she cleared her throat.

WAK! Donald jumped so high he almost dropped his plunder. Beakley allowed him to stabilize himself.

“Oh Mrs. B!” Beakley eyed his Ill-gotten goods. “Oh, these things? They’re…..stained! Sooooo Stained! I know of just the thing to get these stains out! Kinda long process to get these kinds of stains out though. It will take about two weeks to complete the full process. YEP! After two weeks these will be good as new!”

She was done let him dig himself into an ever-bigger hole. She borrowed her eyes into his face that eventually stopped Donald from rambling on.

“Donald, you know that I know that is a lie. Now why don’t you really tell me why you are stealing?”

“I’m Borrowing!” He defended.                

Beakley rolled her eyes. “Yes, for two weeks, and what are you doing with these items in those weeks?”

How could Donald lie to an international super spy? He sighed. “Alright you got me. I’m going to take Daisy out on a cruise for two weeks.” He gestured to his boat. “I wanna make it nice.” Donald shuffled his feet. Waiting for Beakley to berate him.

Bealey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and then soften. The thought of romantic love and trying to impress the one your heart pines after. Donald looked up at the silent Beakley. She snapped out of her thoughts. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll allow it this time. BUT…” She squeezed his shoulder menacingly. “After the two weeks you Better return these items Clean, Pressed, and Intact!”

Donald heard the threat. He saluted her the best he could while holding his newly acquired loot. “Yes M’am Mrs. B!” She let him go.

It was getting close to the day Daisy had picked out. The fourth person to notice was Della.

Donald went to the hanger to ask Launchpad to take his boat to the marina. He would Prefer Della’s flying over Launchpad’s but Launchpad would do it without questions.

Donald heard 90’s music and someone working with tools. Must be Launchpad fixing something he crashed. “Hey Launc…”

It was Della! She was on a ladder looking into the propeller of the Cloud-Slayer.  “Oh, hey Donald! Now that you are here, can you help me with this propeller. I just need you to turn on the propeller so I can see what it is sticking on.”

“Umm actually I was hoping Launchpad was here. Have you seen him around?”

“I think he was having a movie marathon with his buddy Drac…Something?”

Oh no once Launchpad had started watching something, there was no dragging him away. Also, Donald didn’t have time to track him down. He needed his boat at the marina today!

Della climbed down from the propeller. “What did you need Launchpad for?”

“I needed my boat in the marina….“

Della perked up “Where you going to? A pirate ship graveyard? An island of magic wielding people?”

“No place in particular.” Donald gestured airily. “Just sailing around.”

“No destination eh.” Della eyed him. Donald started to sweat. “Were you planning on taking anyone with you?”

Donald Stuttered. “It’s k-kinda a solo trip.”

“SOLO!? You don’t want to take your amazing twin sister with you!?!?!”  she draped her arm over his neck smiling brightly.

Donald rolled his eyes.

Della put her hands on her hips. “How about taking the boys with you?”

Donald shook his head.

“Uncle Scrooge?!”

“Na uh”

“Mrs. Beakley?”

“Nope.”

“What… What about your Girlfriend?!”

Donald Flushed pink. “No, she couldn’t get the time off.”

“So, sailing totally alone out there in the big wide deadly ocean! What if there is a storm? Or you get eaten by a gross fish? I can’t save you from a gross fish!”

Donald gave her a look.

Della threw up her arms “I know the irony!”

Donald reached and grabbed her arms and brought them down. “Della, I’ve checked the weather and the tides, I’m only sailing to places I know, all my communication devices work, I will call you and the boys every day.”

Della looked down at their clasped hands. “But still this is weird for you.”

Donald scratched the back of his head. “I need time…. to think…. I guess…”

Things snapped into place in Della’s head. “ARE YOU GOING TO PROPOSE TO DAISY!?”

Donald went bright red. He flapped his arms. “Gaaahhh DEEEEELLLLLAAAAAA!”

Della pointed at him with every word that came out of her mouth. “YOU ARE! I KNOW IT! THAT’S WHY YOU’VE BEEN MAKING YOUR HOUSEBOAT ALL FANCY!”

“SQWAK! HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT!”

“I’ve known you my whole life! I knew you were lying when you said Daisy couldn’t get the day off! Also Huey mentioned that you were making the boat nice for a renter! Mrs. Beakley had to calm the gardener down because he was done with you stealing all his flowers. YOU DON’T PICK THAT MANY FLOWERS FOR RENTERS! Then I got Beakley to tell me that you stole Uncle Scrooges Tux! A TUX!?! What do you need a TUX for on the ocean?!”

Donald was sweating up a mess, blushing badly and leaning away from his sisters wild gesturing. While Della heaved some good breaths, Donald took this time to again hold his sisters’ hand so she could focus on what he was saying.

“Ok Fine I am planning something…Nice for Daisy.”

“If you are going to propose to her you need a videographer capturing the moment!”

Donald squeezed her hand tight. “Della! No. I want this to be a just me and Daisy thing!”

“Aww Come on. I need to see her reaction!” Della begged.

Donald stayed firm. “No. I need you to promise me that you will not sneak on my boat in the next couple of weeks.”

Della huffed “Fine I promise.”

Donald still didn’t let go of her hands. “And I need you to promise to not send the kids, Launchpad, Panchito, Jose, Uncle Scrooge, Mrs. B or anyone else to sneak on my boat.”

Della frowned.

He tugged her hands. “Della…..?”

“Okay I promise. Woodchuck’s Honor.” He let her hands go so she could give the Woodchuck salute.

Donald Gave Della a hug. “Thank you!”

She hugged him back. “yeah yeah ya big Palooka.”

Della got her kids together to help her strap up Donald’s Houseboat to the helicopter.  Once his boat was in the water and ready to go, they waved him off.  While waving and smiling Della whispered though her teeth. “Huey, honey, do you have access to a Spy bot?”  

[the-homicidediaries]

Mary Bell

The Tyneside Strangler

TW: child death, sexual abuse, genital mutilation

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Hello! So I’m back with another horrible story because people keep asking for them.

SO HERE WE GO

This is the story of Mary Bell, who is one of only a handful of the youngest murderers.. EVER.

Mary Bell was born to a 16 year old prostitute named Betty in Newcastle upon Tyne, England in May of 1957. (Yeah, this didn’t happen that long ago. Horrifying.)

Now, no one is entirely sure who Mary’s father is, but Betty made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with Mary from the very beginning, telling doctors, “Get that thing away from me.”

And the best thing the doctors could come up with was to continue to let Mary live with her mother.

Perfect. What could go wrong?

Well, a lot.

Things got way worse. Betty was away a lot in Glasgow for her “business trips”. When she wasn’t away, she subjected Mary to physical and mental abuse.

Betty’s sister testified that she once saw Betty try to give Mary away to a local woman who was unsuccessful in her adoption journey.

Betty’s sister also noted that Mary was very “accident prone”; i.e. “falling” down the stairs and “accidentally” overdosing sleeping pills.

After Mary’s “fall”, it was reported that Mary suffered horrible brain damage in her pre-frontal cortex, the part of the brain that deals with decision-making and voluntary movements.

(Richard Ramirez, John Wayne Gacy, Fred West, David Berkowitz, Ed Gein, Albert Fish, and several other serial killers also suffered brain injuries as they were growing up.)

(I want to mention here there is a bit of a debate amongst experts whether to Betty wanted to get rid of Mary because she wasn’t fit to be a mother OR Betty had Munchausen by Proxy, which should all know is my favorite mental illness. 😬

Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy (MSBP) is a mental health problem in which a caregiver makes up or causes an illness or injury in a person under his or her care, such as a child, an elderly adult, or a person who has a disability. The most famous case was Clauddinea “Dee Dee” Blancharde abusing her daughter Gypsy Rose Blancharde.)

Back to Mary.

According to family members, Betty began prostituting Mary out by the time she was four years old. (That’s hideous. That’s a year younger than Shiloh, my baby baby. I hope it isn’t true.)

I also read that by the time Mary was five, she had already had a brush with death, watching her five year old friend being run over and killed by a bus.

By the time Mary was ten, she was quiet, manipulative, and isolated herself from everyone.

In May 11, 1968, just weeks before her first murder, Mary was playing with a three year old neighbor when he was horribly injured from a fall at the top of an air raid shelter.

His parents deemed it an accident.

After this, though, a few of the neighborhood mothers came forward to the police and said Mary had tried to choke their young daughters. No charges were filed, however.

On May 25, 1968, one day before Mary Bell turned 11 years old, Mary strangled four year old Martin Brown in an abandoned house. Mary fled the scene and returned back to the body with her friend Norma Bell, (no relation), but found they had been beaten by two local boys who had been playing in the abandoned house and stumbled upon the body.

Police were baffled by what they saw. Besides a little blood and saliva on Martin’s face, there were no obvious signs of violence. There was, however, an empty bottle of painkillers on the floor near the body. This led police to believe Martin had swallowed the pain pills and his death was deemed an accident.

Mary might have gotten away with this had she not gone to Martin’s family’s house and asked his mother to see Martin. She explained to Mary that Martin was dead, and Mary said she knew, she wanted to see the dead body in the coffin.

Martin’s mother slammed the door in her face.

Shortly after, Mary and her friend Norma broke into a nursery school and vandalized it with notes taking responsibility for Martin Brown’s death and promising to kill again. Police assumed the notes were a morbid prank.

The nursery school installed an alarm system shortly after and Mary and Norma were caught at the scene of the crime but were later seen as loitering and let off the hook.

Just.. YA KNOW!? All the signs are pointing to this girl.

Mary even told her classmates she had murdered Martin Brown.

It’s aggravating as hell.

BUT I DIGRESS

On June 31, 1968, Mary Bell, now 11, strangled three year old Brian Howe to death in the same area where she strangled Martin Brown.

She later went back to the body and carved an ‘M’ onto Brian’s chest with a razor and mutilated his thighs and penis with a pair of scissors.

In a sickening twist, Mary and Norma offered to help Brian’s sister look for him when his family realized he was missing. Mary even pointed out the cinder blocks where his body was, but since Norma said it wouldn’t be there, Brian’s sister dismissed it and looked elsewhere.

Y’all. I cannot.

When the coroner’s report came back on Brian, police were shocked to find the ‘M’ carved onto his chest and the coroner reporting this death was most likely caused by a child due to the lack of force used during the attack.

MORTIFYING

Mary and Norma were not conspicuous at all; they were interviewed by the police and excited to learn new news pertaining to the case.

Mary was spotted lurking outside of Brian’s house the day of his burial. She was laughing and rubbing her hands together when she saw the coffin.

The police called Mary in to be interviewed a second time and Mary made up a story about an eight year old boy she had seen hit Brian, (police knew she and Norma had seen him the day he died), in the head and that he had a pair of broken scissors with him.

The 👏🏼 police 👏🏼 hadn’t 👏🏼 disclosed 👏🏼 anything 👏🏼 publicly 👏🏼 about 👏🏼 the 👏🏼 scissors. 👏🏼

This is where Mary done goofed. Only investigators and the murderer would have known about this clue.

Upon further questioning, Mary and Norma broke down and began blaming each other for the murders.

During the trial, which took place in December, the jury agreed that Mary had committed the murders.

Did she receive a murder charge, you may ask?

Absolutely not.

While the jury did find Mary Bell guilty, a manslaughter charge was given because Mary’s lawyer and the court psychiatrists argued Mary suffered from psychopathy, and the court agreed she was not fully responsible of her actions.

😐😐😐😐😐😐😐😐😐😐😐😐

Norma Bell, however, was regarded as an unwilling accomplice and was acquitted.

Let’s look at the difference between manslaughter and murder charges and why this is so important.

man·slaugh·ter

/ˈmanˌslôdər/

noun

1. the crime of killing a human being without malice aforethought, or otherwise in circumstances not amounting to murder.

mur·der

/ˈmərdər/

noun

1. the unlawful premeditated killing of one human being by another.

I obviously haven’t gone to law school, but I would argue that the little neighbor boy’s “accidental fall” and the mothers coming forward about Mary choking their young daughters could be viewed as premeditated. She was trying to kill them, she just managed to kill two little boys instead.

Yes she had a brain injury, but giving her a manslaughter charge is offensive to me. Offensive for the families who lost their sons. If she has a brain injury and there were several cases documented where she was hurting other children, she should have been locked away forever. Just my opinion. I agree with medication and therapy, but anyone could relapse at any time and I don’t think that’s a risk anyone should take. Again, just my unprofessional as h*ck opinion.

(Ed Kemper went to a mental institute and tricked and lied his way into letting the psychiatrists let him leave after he had killed both of his grandparents at just 15 years old. They assumed he was rehabilitated; he just learned the right answers to their questions. He later killed eight more people, including his mother.

Just an example.)

(Another example, they medicated Richard Kuklinski after he was arrested and did not feel the need to release him even though he showed signs of improvement.)

Moving on.

The judge concluded that Mary was a dangerous person and a serious threat to other children. She was sentenced to be imprisoned “at Her Majesty’s pleasure,” a British term that basically means the powers that be would release her when they felt she had been properly rehabilitated.

Apparently, they were very impressed with Mary’s treatment and rehabilitation and felt like it was appropriate to let Mary Bell out in 1980, T W E L V E Y E A R S after Mary committed these murders.

She was put in very strict probation but was able to live amongst her community as a normal person.

The cherry on top?

Mary Bell was given a new identity to offer her a new chance at life and to be able to avoid the press.

She had to move several times because the press kept tracking her down, however.

Today, Mary Bell and her daughter are in protective custody at a secret address no one knows.

Norma Bell passed away in 1989.

Do I feel Mary Bell needs court ordered protection and should be able to hide her identity? No.

Do I think they released her far too early? Yes

Do I think Martin Brown and Brian Howe got justice? No.

Does this story anger me even though I’ve heard it and read about it fifteen million times? Yes.

Her mother should be responsible. She should be responsible instead of hiding. The victim’s families deserve better.

Below are pictures of Mary Bell aged 11, Martin Brown, Brian Howe, and Mary Bell aged 51.

[alfernover]

Strike of the Dragon - Chapter I (StrikeTeam!Genji AU)

Chapters: Chapter 2, Chapter 3 (coming soon)

Characters: The Shimada Wife person, Jack Morrison, Gabriel Reyes, Ana, Genji(sorta), Hanzo(kinda?), Sojiro(dunno)

A/N: First proper fanfic yeah baby. Hope yall like it! Dunno how many chapters there’ll be, but we’ll just have to wait and see. Should also tell you that even though it’s mainly about Genji and Mercy. Both characters aren’t much or even in it, it’ll just explain how and why Genji got into the Strike Team. Enjoy!

She never got ill after giving birth to her second son. She remained awake to the open world and never fell into the darkness, but didn't go into the light either... not at that moment. They named him Genji, he seemed like a bundle of joy. His father, proud and beaming brightly at having a son. "He'll become a true helper to Hanzo," he declared as the anxious doctors watch in awe to see their leader smile, who they thought never could.

The mother stayed in the hospital to gain her strength. The father had gone to carrying on his leadership with his clan. But the eldest son came to visit his mother, who laid in her bed, gaining strength everyday. She would always be please to see him, the eldest son would always look down at Genji within his mother's arms, wrapped around in soft, white blankets and give an odd look and a tint of curiosity towards his now younger sibling. The mother would soon gain strength and eventually be taken out of hospital, on a wheelchair with her newborn son of course. She was taken back to the buildings of where she lived, with warm welcomes and stares towards the child which was held in her arms the entire time. Her husband was wearing his rare smile where the servants would whisper quietly to each other about it more than the newborn.

The mother thought she would be fine with her young son in her eyes, and her eldest son walking with her, and knowing she can watch him wait patiently for his brother to grow. But then, her husband came. He only gave a pleasant smile to her and told her that he'll be taking Hanzo away for a while. She asked why, he only replied that he'll be trained.

The mother knew this, and watched as two men came and took her eldest son, who's looks at them showed confusion and gave a worried look towards his mother, who could only watch teary eyed, knowing that it was pointless in trying to stop them. The father only gave a nod to the men who guided the eldest son out of the door and looked over to his wife, only smiled and told everything will be fine in the end. But as he left, the mother now knew it wasn't, they were going to turn her eldest son into a soulless killing machine. And then it'll be her other son too. But her eldest son was needed to become the heir of the clan, whilst the second son was dispensable, only to do dirty work for elders of the clan and do their bidden, he would be their machine to, their own little bastion unit. And he was right there, sleeping soundly in his cradle. No movement apart from his belly moving up and down, the mother looked down, tears welling up at what will happen to her sons. She quickly made a decision, she couldn't save her eldest son, but she will save her youngest.

***

She had to get some help, she asked her most trusted servants, with much persistence and begging, they agreed with helping her escape with the baby she held so close to her body. It wasn't big of a plan, she would only pretend to take her young son out for some fresh air instead of the castle. Her husband approved of this with a nod and continued to do his work. She headed out of the gates for the last time and went around the corner to be collected by a red hover car, which wasn't known to the clan, and off they went, away from the place the mother called home, and away from what life could've happened...

***

Whilst war was spread across the world, man fighting machine, the mother hid her son from the horrors of it, going from country to country. Running from the raging clan which servants had informed to the mother that her husband was furious and broken, and has his men hunting her and her own child down. But the mother never let this happened, she remained in houses which friends of friends gave her, she managed to stay in one for an entire year before leaving with a two-year-old son, confused on what was happening.

The son grew. There was no stopping that, and he grew with her mother's kindness and wisdom and she would smile at him whilst he played.

The war soon ended, human and omnic had finally made peace with each other. No killings will happen again and they the world hoped that they will rebuild the world once more. The mother only smiled that no omnic would come to harm her child, as grew to small boy.

***

But they were still endanger by the clan she thought would protect them both. The mother thought she could never protect her child forever and they'll be caught by the clan of which was furious on her betrayal.

They were caught eventually, but not by the clan.

An organisation made by the United Nations was made so to help with the war effort between the humans and omnics, after peace came about between them, the organisation soon just became an international peace-keeping organisation where they look into research and help and protect people from danger. They were called Overwatch.

Of course, the organisation was busy with the omnic crisis and didn't have time to track down any people who had nothing to do with the omnic crisis. But afterwards, the clan saw Overwatch as a threat and tried to attack them at one of the bases, they almost succeeded, until they brought out the strike team. After this, Overwatch began to search cases on the clan, they eventually found something very interesting, that the mother had ran away with her youngest son.

Immediately, they started locating her and after a month of them searching, they found the mother in Sweden with her son behind her legs. They took her and the young son to the nearest base where two men waited were waiting for her, they took the child to another room and took the mother to another, she only sat there, whilst a man converse with another who had darker skin and scruffy beard.

At last, both men came into the interrogation room and sat down on the other side of the table.

"Hi," said the dark skinned man, "my name is Gabriel Reyes, this man next to me is Jack Morrison... commander of Overwatch."

Morrison nodded at Reyes and looked over at the mother, who just stared down at the clear white table. Morrison spoke up from the short silence. "You're Akari Shimada, once apart of the Shimada Clan and wife to the current leader of the clan, Sojiro Shimada, am I correct?"

"...Yes."

Morrison and Reyes looked at each other for a split second and returned to looking at the downcast woman. "We were hoping that could explain to us why you had runaway from your clan and going into hiding for five years?" asked Reyes, venturing carefully as possible, though Morrison thought it was more reckless than anything.

Akari sighed deeply. "I ran so to save my son."

"Don't you have another one though?" asked Morrison quickly.

"Hai."

"Was that a yes or no?"

"It was a yes."

"Why did you abandon your other son then?" asked Morrsion.

Reyes groaned, eyes almost going into the back of his head, he leaned into Morrison's ear. "Be more respectful Jack," he whispered, the dark skinned man then went properly back into his chair whilst Morrison only glared at him. They both looked back at Akari, and to their shock, she was shaking a little.

"I only got one out because I was too late to save my eldest," she said, her throat almost blocking off her sentence midway. Morrison and Reyes continued to stare, whilst Akari continued on. "My husband, he and his men took my eldest son away so they could train him, I had no say in the matter," she said, "I knew then that my youngest son would be taken away from me again, he would become much worse than my other son, he would just a soulless pawn to the clan, who'll just kill the competition. I did what I thought was right, and make sure my youngest son got out of there."

"But you couldn't stay there too," said Reyes.

Akari nodded, tears streaming down her face, whilst still shaking. "The clan would've figured out it was me and the elders would've demanded my death. I couldn't leave my son alone either, a son needs his mother."

Reyes nodded with agreement whilst Morrison just sighed, his fingers went to his temple and thought for a few seconds. "So..." said Akari, "you're going to torture me for information and then dump me into a prison... aren't you?"

"Not likely," said Morrison, shaking his head, "we have a proposition for you."

Akari looked up at the two men finally, her eyes blood red and her brow raised with confusion. Reyes decided to speak next. "We can give you protection you need for your... ex-clan to stop trying to find and kill you... and also for you stay out of prison," said Reyes, "but you'll have to give us all the information you know so we can take down the clan."

She froze for a split second, then her body relaxed a little, she stared at Reyes, then at Morrison. "What about my child?" she asked.

"He'll be trained by Overwatch, of course, he will be trained in the... ninja arts? So you don't have to worry about him being vulnerable."

"And what will happen to him afterwards?"

"Join the strike team of course!"

Morrison flinched and quickly spun his head at Reyes. Akari nodded her head and looked back at the table. Reyes, barely looking back at the commander, carried on talking. "You'll have to obviously sign some forms and be coped up on the base, but we'll allow you and your son to roam freely from the base after a few months and you both share your own headquarters at a base somewhere best suited for your son's training."

Akari nodded silently. Morrison and Reyes then got up and left the interrogation room. A woman with dark skin, black hair and a tattoo under her one of her eyes looked over to them. "I think that went well," she admitted.

"It didn't," grumbled Morrison.

"What? Why?" said Reyes, "we've got her and the kid and now we can train a boy with those dragon abilities!"

"It's not that dammit!" exclaimed Morrison, "you said he'll be on the strike team!"

"...I did?"

"Yes, you idiot!"

"Well... Jack, we aren't getting any younger, by the time the kid is ready, you'll have grey hair."

"He won't be trusted by the public!"

"Jack!"

Both men looked at the woman with the tattoo, who looked back at the commander with a stern eye. "The public won't trust him at first, we all know that, but we must let them gain trust over time," she said, "we tell the UN what we're doing and make sure this doesn't get released to the press until the boy is ready. Besides, we don't want a child be in the dark, do we?"

Jack sighed. "No Ana."

"Then that settles it then," Ana declared, "the boy will be in the strike team and that's it!"

No more was said on the matter of what position the child would be. As the mother signed the form after Morrison and Reyes' signatures were on it, as well as some of the United Nations, she felt a little eased by the whole thing, they were flown to Switzerland to the base in Zurich, where her son would get trained, and hopefully be able to control his dragon once older.

[maerrybom]

Prompt: Your OC walks in on their crush having a nightmare.

aAAA THIS PROMPT !! I’m bursting with so much inspiration right now and jsdhasjkhdjds !!! I wrote this in a whim and tried my best;; I hope this was enjoyable to read + some character spoilers ! I tried to make this sweet and heart-warming, but I ended up making this angsty :(((

found in masterlist

Maye’s Route:

Takamagahara bar was finally quiet for once and I preferred it this way. It’s been a while since it’s closed down for the night and time has stilled down, yet I’m still wide awake. I left my room in search for a glass of milk by the bar in hopes that it’ll calm my nerves and soothe the tiny headache I’m having again. It’s been getting harder to sleep nowadays. Sigh. As I made my way past the couches, I heard someone breathing heavily and seeming to be groaning in pain.

“...Ugh.”

Instantly, I quietly crept my way towards the sound alarmingly and wondered if someone had managed to break in. As I got closer, I peaked over from behind the couch and to my surprise it was only Johann—Johann? What on earth...?

Johann was asleep but he was sweating profusely and was gasping for air every now and then. This is bad; sleeping on the couch won’t be good for his back and he looks uncomfortable. I watched his distressed features closely and silently made my way in front. Judging from his body language and his expression, he’s having a nightmare and I frowned in response. Should I wake him up? Or should I keep him company until he calms down?

‘I can even hear his heart pound loudly...’ I thought.

Before I knew it, my gloved hand was unconsciously reaching out towards his face and I somehow couldn’t pull away. I don’t understand why I’m doing this, but I don’t like seeing him in pain.

“Shavee...”

My hand paused and felt my eyes widen in surprise at the mention of her name. I’ve heard about Shavee from Luminous and everything that happened between them, especially with Johann. I also remember how Luminous told me that I share a lot of qualities with her in terms of intelligence and talent. But, I wasn’t sure how I felt knowing that. Did people think I was like Shavee too? Did Johann think the same way?

Johann was a bit of an air-head at times, but he was also known to be a ‘killboy’ due to his wild, stubborn & reckless nature. He was responsible for me and because of that, he set up a training programme for me to follow everyday and tutored me whenever I had an exam. Johann was impossible at times, but I never complained even when I felt like my brain was about to explode or my arms were about to fall off. And yet, he personally brings me medicine when I’m ill and prepares a glass of warm milk when I’m upset. 

And then I remembered what Principal Anjou told me about how my S-talent was too unstable. If anything went wrong, I could go berserk and Johann would have to kill me. Is that why he’s being nice to me?

‘Don’t be foolish, Maye. You’re overthinking again.’

Shaking my thoughts away, I pulled my hand back to my side and immediately left Johann momentarily to grab a blanket from my room. Once I returned, he was still in the same state when I left him, so I carefully laid the blanket on him and did my best to not wake him up. Afterwards, I saw his shaking form calm down and the crease by his brows disappear. He finally looked in peace and was sound asleep. 

Sighing quietly, I then made my way towards the other couch and laid on my back, staring at the ceiling with mixed emotions. I guess I’ll just have to keep him company for the night and make sure he doesn’t fall off the couch if it happens.

‘This is the best thing I can do for him—but is it good enough?’

Unfortunately, my thoughts are still racing against each other and felt my headache worsen, and yet seeing him in peace strangely puts me at ease. Turning my head towards Johann, I watched and observed his sleeping face for a moment as a small, sad smile made its way on my features. I probably always looked so pitiful in his eyes.

At least one of us is getting sleep tonight.  

Sol’s Route:

“Caesar—Oh...?”

Stopping dead in my tracks, I instinctively raised a hand over my mouth the moment I saw Caesar leaning back against the chair, arms crossed and fast asleep. It’s a busy night in Takamagahara and I’ve been running back & forth serving drinks for the customers. Johann asked me to find Caesar in the back room since some of the women have been asking where he is. So, here we are.

I quietly closed the door behind me and carefully made my way towards his sleeping form, pausing every now and then as to not disturb him. Caesar had been entertaining the customers and working endlessly ever since we arrived here. My eyes wandered over his face as a worried smile crept onto my face. I don’t think he’s properly recovered ever since Miss Makoto died and burdened him even more when I got shot with a bullet.

‘I know Johann is asking for him, but he’s so tired.’ I thought, biting my lip. ‘Should I just go back and say that Caesar is asleep?’

And with that judgement, I turned around to exit the back room to report back to Johann but flinched in surprise when I heard noises coming from Caesar. Stupid! I should’ve been more careful! Looking over my shoulder, I gazed back at him to see his handsome features scrunched up in pain. As I observed him, I can sense his distress and how his heart aches in agony. He’s having a nightmare? I knew it—he never fully recovered. 

Once again, I found myself creeping towards him in concern with my arms outstretched. I should’ve just woken him up, but I knew he’d be so bothered about what he dreamt and force himself to get out there and work. I don’t want that. So, I lightly cupped his face and whispered incoherent words under my breath as my hands glowed in the process. This action caused Caesar to sigh in relief and visibly relaxed, nuzzling his cheek against my hand in comfort.

My eyebrows furrowed in stress and almost pulled away because of that, but I needed to focus and kept my palms onto his face. The more I look at how serene his expression was, the more I felt uneasy and apprehensive. I’m probably only feeling this way because I’m transferring his pain onto mine and his feelings are so heavy that it makes me want to cry.

But at the same time, I just want to enjoy being able to be close to him like this. Even in his dreams, I only want him to be happy. These selfish feelings of mine are dangerous and will benefit no one. This isn’t right after all. 

And with that, my hands stopped glowing and my arms dropped to my sides, feeling the exhaustion weighing me down. However, Caesar started to wake up and I immediately stepped away from him without trying to be suspicious of what I’ve just done. His sleepy blue eyes connected with my own, looking at me with confusion.

“...Sol? What are you doing here?” He muttered.

“Um... Johann is looking for you and told me you were here.” I replied nervously, “I was just about to wake you up.”

“Ah, I see.” The blonde chuckled, scratching the back of his neck before standing up. “Thank you, Sol.”

Smiling in response, I stepped aside for him to pass through first and kept my mouth shut. But instead, Caesar stood in front of me and I looked up at him questioningly. He then reached his hand out and patted me on the head, smiling brightly down at my flustered face. It felt like I was being blinded by a thousand suns, yet I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. Why am I like this?

“To be honest Sol,” He began, “I’ve been exhausted lately, but seeing your face really does freshen me up and wash all my worries away. Please continue being yourself, alright?”

“...Of course.”

“Well, I’ll be off then.” Caesar walked past me to exit the room, “take care of yourself, Sol.”

And with that, I was alone with my own thoughts and clenched my fists out of frustration. My beating heart betrayed me once again.

I shouldn’t let this continue. I can’t risk it.

Thalia’s Route:

“Grrgh... Don’t—!”

Gritting my teeth in anger, I shot up from the futon and faced Luminous with a glare. It’s the middle of the night; the thunderstorm outside in Tokyo city was already making me feel restless and couldn’t sleep ever since it started raining. Why is he being so loud and annoying even in his sleep? He should’ve just slept on the other side of the room where Erii is sleeping and not right next to me. At least Erii is sleeping peacefully. Lucky girl.

As I continued to glare at his face, I felt my anger decrease and began to frown. Luminous was panting and his forehead glistened with sweat under the city lights of Tokyo. He looked like he just ran a marathon and was in so much pain, mumbling things under his breath. A nightmare?

“Nono... Don’t leave...” Luminous muttered.

My frown deepened and felt annoyance replace my anger. At this point I didn’t care how much noise I’ll make since Erii has the ability to sleep through anything even if there’s a war outside, so I aggressively threw my blanket off of me and crawled to his side, reaching my hand towards his face to smack him awake. However, my hand shook in place and couldn’t find the will to do so as I glared at his face that was stricken with torment. 

‘What’s wrong with me?’

Biting my lip in frustration, I then held onto his shoulder and carefully shook him awake.

“...Luminous. Luminous!” I whisper-yelled, “Wake up or else...!”

“Ah—!” Before he could scream and wake everyone up in this hotel, I closed his mouth shut with my hand and ‘shushed’ him with an index finger against my lips.

Luminous quickly sat up at the same time when thunder struck the sky, breathing quickly while looking at my irritated expression with pure shock. His wide eyes stared at me for a while as I slowly removed my hand from his mouth and unconsciously wiped my hand against my nightgown, feeling uncomfortable at his staring. He was still scared out of his wits, in distress and was looking around the room before laying his eyes on me again.

“...Thalia? You woke me up?”

“Who else did then?” I scoffed, looking away from his dumb face. “You...were having a nightmare and can’t even be quiet about it. I had to wake you up because you were disturbing my beauty sleep.”

All of a sudden, Luminous reached out to me and pulled me towards him, finding myself being placed on his lap. What? What the hell is he doing? I should’ve smacked him when I had the chance! I wanted to scream at his face and struggled against his grip, but he wrapped his arms tighter around me.

“Please...” I heard him whisper in my ear, “just let me do this once.”

My face was already buried on his chest and I definitely knew my cheeks was as red as my hair right now. I didn’t know which heartbeat I was listening to as both of ours were equally as loud, blocking the thunder away from my ears. I felt embarrassed, but I didn’t have the strength to fight my way out of his grip. Once Luminous noticed how I stopped struggling, he buried his face onto my shoulder and his hold around me tightened me once more, desperately clinging onto me like a child. 

I wasn’t sure what to do and sat still, keeping my arms close to me out of awkwardness. I’m not even sure how long we stayed in this position, but before I realised, I found myself laying in his futon with me in his arms. Luminous laid his chin against my head, so I couldn’t see his expression anymore and he didn’t show any signs of letting go. Out of all the people in this world, I would have never chosen to be held like this by him. And yet, I’m...not complaining about it.

When was the last time I was this close with someone? Was I even held like this before? Even my mother had never held me this tight in their arms—I didn’t think I’d feel this safe & protected. The faint scent of Luminous’ cologne, his strange warmth and steady heartbeat was starting to lull me to sleep. This is...very strange. 

This is the first time I’ve been so calm in a thunderstorm and felt my worries, irritation & fears wash away. My eyes were beginning to fail me and felt the unconsciousness block my vision, trapping me into their sweet embrace.

And with that, we slept through the stormy night under the comfort of each other’s arms.

Elena’s Route:

“Chisei Gen! Chisei Gen!”

After feverishly running around Hydra Palace looking for a target to mess with, I finally found Chisei sitting underneath one of the Cherry Blossom trees. I can’t see his face since he seemed to be looking off in the distance, but as I ran towards him I immediately stopped my tracks. This caused my Mecha, Chip, to bump against my back and I swiftly turned to face my friend apologetically.

“Ah, sorry! Are you okay buddy?”

Chip spun in circles and ‘chirped’ happily, telling me that he was just surprised at my sudden stop. Sighing in relief, I then stopped in front of Chisei to block his view and surprisingly ended up seeing him hunched over, fast asleep. I pouted and huffed in annoyance, kneeling to his height as I crossed my arms around my knees.

“Out of all the places to rest, someone of your status chooses to sleep here.” I muttered before looking at Chip. “What should we do now? Do you think I should draw on his face to teach him a lesson?”

Chip seemed to refuse that idea as he circled around my head in panic, knowing that I’ll do it anyways no matter what his response is. Then, I smiled mischievously at Chisei’s face and thought of what I wanted to write & draw. Johann & Caesar might scold me after finding out I had the audacity to draw on the High Patriarch, but it’s worth it! Even Luminous would be on my side!

But before I managed to whip a marker out of my kimono sleeve, I ended up just observing his face and how it changed into an unpleasant expression. At first, I thought Chisei sensed my mischief in his sleep and is disappointed in me but the way he was panting for air and the sweat on his skin made me think otherwise. Chip hid behind my back out of fear because he didn’t understand what was going on, but I knew this feeling all too well. He was having a nightmare.

“Chip, can you watch out for us? Do you think you can manage to set up an invisibility barrier for a bit?” I asked my friend to which he nodded enthusiastically.

And so, I carefully sat next to Chisei’s hunched figure before laying my hand against his head to push it down towards my lap. It feels weird to do this, but I remembered how my father used to do this for me whenever I felt scared after waking up from a nightmare. He would tell me that everything was alright while brushing my blonde locks with his fingers as I tried to sleep again on his lap.

My fingers lightly brushed Chisei’s hair away from his face, wiping some of his sweat in the process. It seemed to be working because he was finally starting to visibly relax and sleep soundly. As I stared at his features, I got a closer look on his handsome face.

‘I thought he was cute at first, but he really is handsome...’ I thought, feeling my cheeks warm in response.

I think I liked this version of Chisei better than the one who’s awake and serious all the time. But it makes me wonder why he’s out here instead of resting in his quarters. He must be really exhausted then.

Before we arrived Japan, we were warned not to trust the people here too much and I’m sure these people thought the same way. We all had the same goal, but our beliefs were too different. But... I wish everything was like this: being united together in harmony. It’s only wishful thinking, but I know we can turn the impossible to something possible. 

“Heh...” I’m stupid for thinking so, but at least I’m still cute.

Chisei remained in peace on my lap, snoring lightly as I continued to caress his hair gently. I thought I would dislike pushovers like him, but I also want to prove him wrong and cling onto him until he gets sick of me that he has to agree with everything I say. Yet, I know it won’t work because he has a reputation and a duty to protect. He shouldn’t be wasting his time dealing with someone who has a mindless crush on him.

‘Hmph...! Chisei should at least be honored that I dare look at him!’ I thought pridefully.

But at least, let me enjoy this moment with Chisei this once. Just before everything falls apart.

[dandelions-and-white-wolves]

Reposting this Jaskier sickfic now that it's all done and together

Geralt cast another glance behind him, eyeing his bardic companion. He had noticed over the course of the day that the usual near constant chatter and song behind him had petered out into nothing but the sound of Roach's hooves. The quiet wasn't unwelcome, necessarily, but it was starting to get worrisome.

"Nothing of note to compose about today?" He asked, watching Jaskier. The bard looked tired and wan, scuffing his feet as he walked. He jumped at the sound of Geralt's voice, and it took him a beat longer than it should have to reply.

"Not particularly, I suppose." And the fact that he left it at that and didn't say anything more was more worrying to Geralt than anything. Geralt let them walk for another ten minutes or so, long enough that Jaskier wouldn't immediately think that their stopping was because of him. If he assumed the stopping was because of him he would have vehemently insisted that he was fit to continue, and as far as Geralt could tell, he looked half ready to drop.

"Say we set up camp here for the night?" He said, tugging Roach to a stop and hopping down.

"Isn't it another few hours to dark?"

"Maybe an hour, but this place seems secure. I could use the rest."

Another worrying thing was that Jaskier didn't protest or ask anything further, just nodded and went about setting up camp with relief written on his face. Definitely something strange afoot. Geralt made a note to keep watch of him without making it obvious that he was doing so and began to unhook and spread out their bedrolls, tightly side by side as always. As soon as camp was made and a campfire was crackling merrily in the center, Jaskier bid a rather quiet goodnight to the Witcher and curled up wrapped around himself. He was asleep within minutes, and Geralt sat awake for some time, half watching him and half lost in his own thoughts. Eventually after the sun died completely he lay down himself.

Some time later, what must have been hours but still long before dawn, Geralt's heightened senses caught some sort of sound, some movement, and he snapped awake, staring into the darkness, lit only by the dying embers of the campfire. Jaskier had risen and was stumbling away from their camp in what seemed like a hurry. Geralt took up a lantern from their bags and, without even bothering to lace his boots, started out after him.

"Jaskier?" He called. Jaskier didn't respond, didn't seem to have heard. He braced himself on a tree some 20 feet from camp, bent over double and pressed one arm across his stomach. He finally caught sight of the light of Geralt's lantern and tried to straighten himself, as if afraid to lose dignity. Geralt shook his head.

"If you need to vomit then vomit," he said, "best get whatever it is that turned your stomach out of your system."

Jaskier shook his head. Geralt wasn't sure if he was denying his need to throw up or telling Geralt to leave, but he fought against his own body for another few moments before losing the fight and retching hard. He bent in half with the force of it and Geralt moved around behind him and pressed a hand between his shoulder blades, an uncharacteristically tender act as he rubbed the spasming muscles there. Jaskier dry heaved a few more times and then brought up everything he'd put into his system since the day before, dropping to his knees with the force of it. Geralt braced a hand around his stomach, half in comfort and half fearing that he'd fall forwards into his own sick if someone didn't hold him up. Tears streamed down Jaskier's face and he gulped for air around the heaves until they finally subsided. He went limp and Geralt caught him and pulled him back into his lap. Jaskier's head fell bonelessly against the Witcher's chest, and Geralt pressed a light touch against his sweat-soaked forehead.

"I think I'm ill." Jaskier's voice was horse and spent. His skin was so pale it was almost grey.

"Are you also prone to understatement?" Geralt asked, but there was none of the typical harshness there. He moved his hand from Jaskier's forehead to the back of his neck. "You're warm. Did I not tell you that the pheasant you cooked was still raw at the bone?"

Geralt regretted his question as the bard further paled, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth and closing his eyes. "If it was the food why aren't you sick?" He asked, not opening his eyes.

"Witcher constitution," Geralt mumbled, still smoothing little circles across Jaskier's stomach almost subconsciously as the bard leaned into him. "Takes a lot to take me down. Do you think you're done trying to turn yourself inside out for now?"

Jaskier didn't look much better but he nodded and tried to rise. His legs wobbled beneath him and Geralt caught him and kept him upright. "Let's get you laying down before you fall down, then." He didn't pick Jaskier up even though he could have with little effort; he wanted to afford the man some modicum of dignity.

"You didn't tell me you were feeling ill," he said, once they were both back. Jaskier didn't answer and his eyes drifted closed. Geralt guessed the conversation could wait until later, when he could properly scold Jaskier for hiding the fact that he was unwell. "Don't sleep yet, I need to get some water in you first."

Jaskier shook his head again. "Probably just throw it back up."

"And then you'll drink again." Geralt pressed the cantiene against Jaskier's lips, helping him to sit up, and when he felt like he'd gotten an appropriate amount of fluid into the bard he capped it off and let him lay down again.

"Sleep," he said, "and get well. I'll be here if you need me." He set to rifling through his bag, looking for herbs to make a soothing tea and watching the rise and fall of Jaskier's chest as Jaskier slept on fitfully.

Geralt found the proper herbs he was looking for in his satchel, perhaps a bit stale but maybe of at least some comfort. He rekindled the fire with the thought that it was going to be a long night and then tied their kettle over it, heating water from the stream they'd set up nearby. Jaskier was tossing and turning in his sleep, struggling to fight off the extra blanket that Geralt had tucked over him and then shivering in the night air. His face was stark white except for two points of flush high on his cheeks from his growing fever.

The water was coming to a boil as Jaskier shot awake again, fighting to get away from his bedroll but making it no further than to turn and vomit to the side, entire body trembling. Geralt made a low noise of sympathy in his throat and moved to his side again, leaving the tea to steep for a moment. Jaskier, still hunched over and trembling, reached out a hand towards Geralt and Geralt caught it, giving it a little squeeze of comfort. He vaguely remembered a pressure point that was meant to relieve nausea and he tried to find it on Jaskier, somewhere just below the pulse point of his wrist. Whether it helped or whether the bout was over Geralt wasn't sure, but Jaskier let himself collapse back down onto the bedroll. Geralt found a cloth and dipped it into the cool water of the stream, wringing it out and bringing it back to Jaskier.

"Will you sit up for me?" He asked.

"Don't want to," jaskier mumbled, his voice wrecked, but he sat up anyways, watching the Witcher with fever-bright eyes that didn't quite properly track anything. Geralt lay the cloth across the back of Jaskier's neck and then sat down behind him, giving him something to prop himself up on. It was almost alarming how quickly Jaskier had gone from walking alongside him to barely even able to hold his own head up. Geralt figured he would take off for a healer if Jaskier wasn't looking any better by morning's light, but there was no use trying to travel in the dark.

"I made you tea," Geralt said, producing the cup. "Spearmint and a few other things. Should help settle your stomach. Get some fluids in you at least."

Jaskier took the cup and pulled it in close to him as if trying to absorb the warmth. Geralt could feel the heat radiating off of him and wondered how he could possibly be feeling cold.

"Just little sips. Don't throw up on me."

He was almost hoping for a snarky answer back by then, something to let him know Jaskier would be alright. What he got was a little nod and Jaskier taking a microscopic sip of the tea as if to test his body's reaction and then a slightly larger one.

"I'm sorry," jaskier said, almost letting the cup fall. Geralt caught it for him and righted it before it spilled.

"Sorry for what?"

"All of it. Slowing you down. Making you take care of me."

"Hmm." Geralt pressed the cup towards Jaskier's lips and Jaskier took another sip. "You couldn't make me do anything if you tried. I'm taking care of you because-

I love you, he thought. I want you to be okay, he thought. You're worrying me, he thought. He let his words trail off.

Jaskier always knew what he meant.

The next time Jaskier woke up it was with tears in his eyes and his breath hitching, coughing out a "fuck, Geralt, it hurts, make it stop, please."

"Your stomach?" Geralt asked, though he didn't need to with the way that Jaskier was curled around himself, fists balled up and pressed into his middle. He'd gone from worry to some sort of gnawing panic that clawed at his own insides like an animal.

"Come here." He helped Jaskier lay down in his arms again, hoping a change of position might help, and started rubbing the knotted, spent muscles of Jaskier's abdomen. He felt helpless. Monsters, he could do. Wounds, he could patch up. Fever and sickness were another thing.

"Can you do the thing you did earlier?" Jaskier mumbled, face pressed into Geralt's chest.

"Mmm?"

"You did something to my arm and it made the sick stop, for a moment."

Geralt found the pressure point again with the hand not over Jaskier's stomach, glad to have some sense of control in the situation.

"Go back to sleep, Jaskier." He said when he noticed the bard's eyes growing heavy again. "I'll still look after you."

Somehow Geralt's ministrations lulled Jaskier and he fell asleep, entire body curled up in the Witcher's lap.

At some point Geralt drifted off as well, and the next time he awoke it was to the morning sun. His heart stopped for a moment before he realized that Jaskier was alright, looking wan and more sick than he'd ever seen him but still breathing, the most important.

"Feeling any better?" Geralt asked, running the pad of his thumb over Jaskier's cheek. He was almost certain he'd never committed a gesture so tender before, not to any lover or friend.

"A bit, I think." Jaskier sounded exhausted. "Feel pretty weak. Not sure I'm up for much travelling today."

"You spent the entire night trying to rid yourself of your internal organs and you think I'd make you travel?" And then, as if to prove again that he was going soft, he pressed his lips against Jaskier's forehead, testing for a fever that way. "You're still too warm.

The slightest smile crept across Jaskier's lips at the gesture. It still looked too pale, too thin. Geralt brought some cold, clear water to his lips and Jaskier sipped at it.

"Geralt?"

"Mm?"

"Are you okay?"

"I told you it takes a lot to make me ill."

"Not like that. You look... haunted."

Humans lived for so much less time than witches. This human in particular always seemed to be getting tied up into messes. Just travelling with Geralt was a mess waiting to happen.

It was terrifying. Gerslt pushed it aside. Jaskier was fine, he was probably over the worst of it and he'd be on the mend and any further worry was useless, especially in the situation at hand.

"Don't worry about me, focus on feeling better, bard." And he pulled Jaskier close to him, and thought, this time he is okay. This time he will be well. And he finally let his own body relax.

[thebeautyofdisorder]

The Undone & The Divine (BBC Dracula) - Chapter 6

A/N: Longest chapter yet! And also the smuttiest. Though not exactly in the way you might expect… Basically, Drac deliberately takes advantage of his and Zoe's mental ties

Pairing: Dracula & Zoe/Agatha, Dracula/OFC 

Rating: M (as of this chapter), for blood, language, insinuations of violence, voyeurism, vampiric mind-tricks of a sexual nature, some semi-predatory behavior by some very human males, some very predatory behavior by one immortal bastard, and smut. 

Chapters 1-2 Here - Chapter 3 Here - Chapter 4 Here - Chapter 5 Here

Can be found on AO3 - Right HERE - or enjoy below the cut 

Chapter 6

Appetite decidedly ruined, at least for the time being, Dracula had taken to the streets of London and began to walk them with the single-minded effort to put distance between him and any events that had previously transpired. He was not used to allowing anyone else the last word – Lucy had once pointed out that he often killed anyone before they could give it, but even so. Not being the clear cut dominant party in any scenario left him disgruntled and however novel the experience, confused - a most unnatural state. And not the only one plaguing him either. 

Trudging might have been a better placed verb for the stalking, almost antsy pace he kept, potentially for hours. He didn’t keep time. It wasn’t as though it would tire him out, and the dawn was no longer a threat. In fact, he quite liked to watch the sun reach her penultimate peak.  It was still hours out from the gradual brightening of the horizon when, as he paced through an otherwise deserted back alley to avoid a torrent of rowdy youths exiting a rather degraded club that the unmistakable dirge of human voices raised in aggravation briefly drew his attention from his own brooding.

Half turning in potential amusement, hoping perhaps some insipid humans were engaging in some kind of drunken brawl, it didn’t take long for the Count to size up what was actually occurring. Two young men, one short and stocky as his compatriot was lanky, were drunkenly blocking the way of a petite young woman, scantily clad but carrying an armful of books, as she tried to pass them up the alley and presumably to the main road.  

“Gonna dance for us again, love?”

“Club’s closed boys, go home,” she persisted, clearly uncomfortable despite keeping a casual tone as she tried to dodge around them again, to no avail.

“We could give you a riiide home…car’s parked right up the road,” the taller and obviously dumber one of the two leered in the most obvious failure at looking genuine the count had ever seen. It was frankly embarrassing.

“I called a cab. Now move ,” the small black haired creature demanded, doing her best to raise her voice and attempt to shove past, but the men only laughed, and the stockier one grabbed her by the waist and began trying to lead her off, despite her cursing refusal.

She tried to hit him with one of the heftier tomes in her clutches and ended up dropping the others, leading the idiots to laugh even louder and continue to try to maneuver her. Just as she let out a screech of what to Dracula’s amusement sounded more like valkyrie-esque fury rather than panic, the vampire decided to step out of the shadows and interrupt the frankly pathetic attempt at hostage taking.

“Boys, I really don’t think this is an effective method to pick up a lady.”

Even at its least threatening, Dracula’s voice stopped them in their tracks, the taller lad almost stumbling into the wall in surprise, as the other, hand still gripping the girl’s waist, turned to face the voice with clearly forced bluster.

“Who asked you?”

Dracula quirked a brow, a crooked smile cracking his otherwise stern facade in the face of that response, and he began approaching at a steady pace.

“Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

The young men exchanged worried looks as the man came out of the shadows and, in fact, towered over the both of them to an unsettling degree. Not even bothering to protest as the girl took advantage of their distraction and lurched out of their clutches and hurried back towards the door of the club she’d left, they seemed to both come to the same stupid conclusion at the same time, and took on a defensive ‘fighting’ stance that almost made the Count giggle.

“Sounds like you need to mind your own business, gramps,” the dumb one spoke this time, clearly trying to show off, though to who he had no idea. His friend may have spoken first, but was currently too frozen in terror under the piercing and unnaturally glowing gaze of the vampire to hear a word he’d said. Dracula, however, heard him perfectly and snarled, flashing just a glimpse of sharp teeth which sent them both into a headlong sprint in the opposite direction.

The Count laughed outright at their fleeing backs, shaking his head. Idiots. He almost regretted chasing them off, truth be told, the amusement of terrifying them reminding him that he had forgone his dinner that evening – though he was positive they would’ve tasted terrible.  

“Wow,” a small voice said from behind him, and he turned quickly to see the young woman peek her head back into the alley, too curious to stay as far away as she rightly should have. Instead of looking frightened, she approached the giant of a man and smiled, craning her neck to look out to the now empty road, fascinated. He appraised her properly now and took note that although she was certainly young and very pretty, she was not as juvenile as he’d originally assumed. There were faint lines and dark circles under her doe brown eyes and despite her outward show of anger prior, there were smudges where the black lining her eyes had smeared, pin pricked with the beginnings of tears too stubborn to fall.

“No idea what you just did, but… fucking thank you.  Those pricks have been hounding me for weeks.”

“It was my pleasure. Fools of such poor taste like that need to be put in their place, at times. ” he assured her smoothly, looking down at her with a stare she could only describe as penetrating and it took her a moment to remember how to breathe. Finally blinking and clearing her throat, she caught sight of her high dollar text books still splayed on the ground where they’d fallen, one of them half in a puddle of some unknown substance.

“Shit,” she hissed, and hurried over and crouched down to the retrieve them. In one smooth motion, he too bent to assist her.

“Go back to school, they said…it’ll be fun they said,” she murmured in a weak attempt at both humor and what he assumed to be an explanation for her rather spontaneous studying location as she gathered some loose pages of notes that had been stuffed inside one of the titles. The cover of one the books caught his eye and he couldn’t suppress a crooked grin of recognition.

“Medieval Warlords of Eastern Europe. Quite a fun read.”

“You’ve read it?” she found herself asking in a skeptical tone, as she stood and bashfully adjusted the short hemline of her skirt over her fishnet covered thighs.

“No, but you could call me a bit of an expert on the subject,” he offered as he handed it back to her, keeping the rest of the books in his free hand as though they were weightless, a knowing glint in his dark eyes that made her brow quirk in curiosity.

“Is that a line or are you serious?”

He shrugged innocently, something that looked almost comical with his broad shoulders, though the smile that followed was more genuine, and spiked her pulse as it spread across his handsome face.

“That depends. Is it working?”

She found herself smiling in return. “What are you? …A history professor or something?” Clearly that idea did not exactly deter her interest, ‘student’ though she was.

“I…have some experiences with that,” he replied in a strangely vague way, though didn’t give her much time to dwell on it as he held out a frankly massive hand to her in introduction. “I’m Dracula.”

“Katherine – though everyone calls me Kat,” she offered, watching her hand be engulfed in his grip, though instead of shaking it he gripped her fingers gently and brought her knuckles to his lips.

He narrowed his eyes almost conspiratorially at her, having kept hold of her hand, not that she would protest. “You didn’t actually call a cab, did you Kat?”

Kat chewed on her bottom lip and shook her head. “No…I was planning to walk. It’s not that far, really.  Just didn’t want them to know where I live.”

“Then allow me to escort you.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she began, a default ‘polite’ reply that the hopeful gleam in her eyes clearly contradicted, the invitation so close to the brim of her mind that it practically spilled forward even in silence.

“I insist,” he bent to her ear somewhat to murmur lowly, which seemed a large expanse despite the height of her heels, and she could only nod in wide-eyed acceptance as she took his offered arm.  

—-

Zoe hadn’t dreamt since waking up on that table weeks before. Each of her bouts of sleep were fleeting but deep and utterly untainted by consciousness, until that night she came home from the club. She had crashed onto her mattress, kicked off her boots and practically forced herself into a fitful sleep immediately, the way she often would before, when she was so ill her entire body was riling against her. It wasn’t really a dream, though, but a memory - Agatha’s memory. Zoe had a distant knowledge of everything she had experienced since she’d drank Dracula blood, but only rarely did she see actual events in such a clear and precise manner.

She distantly wondered if it was being shown to her out of spite, since she had been irrationally infuriated by Agatha’s existence in her mind the entire cab ride back from the club. Clearly that was all Agatha’s fault, whatever the hell it was. Distracting him, fine. Setting him up to fail, sure. Great. Snogging him, no. That was not part of the plan, no matter how ‘negotiable’ their plans had been to start with. It was far easier to be mad at yourself when there was an entirely separate entity you could blame your stupid actions on, at least.

In the depths of her mind, Zoe could smell the salty, stagnant air in the hold of the Demeter, feel the subtle rock of it on the water, as she watched the proud and sickly form of her great, great Aunt simply decide to commit suicide for the sake of everyone else’s safety as though she were deciding whether or not to wear a hat that day. Her chestnut curls were matted on the ends with blood, but her smile was as casual as anything as she bid the Captain to let her blast a hole in the side of his ship, while he and the rest of the crew took out a lifeboat.

He pleaded with her, but she insisted. Insisted that the curse of the vampire could never reach England, told him to lie about where the ship went down (no wonder they had trouble finding the bloody thing), and then came a part of the memory that it seemed even she had tried to repress. Perhaps, in case Dracula lived, in case he tasted her blood again, he wouldn’t know.

Agatha pulled a neatly tied but clearly bulging collection of papers from the inside of her habit with shaking, raw fingertips and pressed it into the Captain’s hands.

“I want you to make sure this gets into the hands of Dr. Abraham Van Helsing.”

“Van Helsing? Family?” The Captain asked distractedly, still slightly shaken from learning her plans. He had grown an attachment to her, Zoe could see it plainly, even if Agatha had dismissed it entirely.

“Yes, my older brother. He’s…a trifle eccentric, but knowledgeable in all the right areas, in the event that Dracula ever does reach England, someone needs to know what I know. It’s my entire account…from the convent up until this morning, all of my research. Read it, if you like, but just make sure it gets into the right hands. He has acquaintances in London. A doctor, I know, by the name of…Seward I believe. He’s mentioned him in his letters…”

The rest of the memory blurred and sped by after that, giving her glimpses of what she knew to be the last moments of Agatha’s life. Zoe had always been told that she’d died at Dracula’s hands, but no. It was just as he’d said earlier. She’d died trying to kill him, twice now. And she’d died smiling at almost accomplishing it. The last look he’d given her was somewhere between respect, contempt, fury, and a disturbing but brief expanse of silence which Zoe distantly placed as longing. Even Agatha only seemed to realize in retrospect that the last thing the Count did before throwing her on the deck to save himself was try to memorize her face.

When Zoe awoke, it was with an immediate and clear knowledge that, regardless of any other information she’d gleaned, she needed to see if that letter existed. Her family would’ve kept it, she knew, though whether somewhere at the institute or in their family home, she wasn’t sure. She would have to find out. Clearly, information did not travel untainted through generations.

The lower levels of the Jonathan Harker institute were fully modernized, as sterile and clinical as you could get, but there were still parts of the old ruin of a building that stood before that kept the old occultist spirit of her family, something she herself had tried desperately to wipe out. It didn’t exactly look good for a scientist to have a family name that was synonymous with the study of life after death and mystical phenomena. Over time the Van Helsings had begun to quantify the study - of vampires especially - into as much of a science as they could, to the point that it didn’t feel particularly supernatural anymore – though deep down Zoe knew that wasn’t exactly true.  Now, more than ever.

Whether all of her associates would agree was a concept she would need to consider at a later date. Dodging as many members of the staff as humanly possible, she made her way to the stairwell. The elevator only went so far.

It took her a proper two hours at least, battling her way through dust laden relics and paperwork from '60s utility bill’ old straight back to 'turn of the century insurance voucher’ antique until Zoe found it: a large wooden chest with her grandfather’s initials barely visible in peeling letters. Inside was an assortment of oddities, some more interesting than others, but in a fading manila envelope (obviously not its original home) she felt the warning crinkle of 19th century parchment. A precursory glance through the first few pages left her with three critical bits of information:

These were exactly what she’d been looking for, and more even.

A good three quarters of the contents were in Dutch.

Somehow that didn’t stop Zoe from comprehending it

She’d headed straight home after that, as though the hounds of hell were at her heels. It was not, however, because she thought Dracula’s warnings about her colleagues were worth any weight - or so she firmly reminded herself. She was only excited. So excited apparently that she fell into an unexpectedly deep sleep atop her fully made bed in a chaotic swirl of typewritten copies no more than four hours later, despite not being tired at all.

——

Bzzz!

Kat’s eyes shot up from where they’d been blearily zoned out on her barely written essay towards the front door of her flat. She hadn’t been expecting anyone, and given it was almost 11 pm - not exactly the witching hour but certainly late enough to be weary, she was cautious as she approached the door.

“Who is it?” She asked, cursing the lack of peephole in these bloody doors.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” a smooth, lightly accented voice easily permeated the door, and Kat’s eyes widened in excitement followed by a brief moment of panic. Shit shit shit. She bit her lip as she rushed for the nearest reflective surface to ensure she looked at least semi-appealing. A stretch, but…fine, she settled, pulling her hair down from her sloppily done ponytail at least, just before returning to pull open the door.

For a moment she forgot how far up she needed to look to meet Dracula’s gaze, finding herself without the aid of her platforms barely eye level with his sternum and had to quickly redirect her focus pseudo-casually away from his chest hair to find his dark eyes. This apparently amused him judging by the small smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“…Hi there.”

“Good evening… I apologize for the late hour. I hope you weren’t turning in. I’m a bit…nocturnal.”

“Oh, no,” she persisted with carefully controlled enthusiasm, glancing back at her sofa where her laptop still sat. “Me too, honestly. Just doing class work. It’s my night off.”

“How convenient,” Dracula said, seemingly pleased. “I brought something for you. I thought you might find it useful in your studies.”

It was only then that Kat took note of the large, leather bound book in his left hand as he offered it to her. Finding she had to grab it with both hands, she was surprised to feel the richness of real leather pliant but sturdy in her hands. Her fingers traced the slightly raised letters on the binding. It appeared to be proper gold leaf, and the pages had a patina of wear to them despite its otherwise unblemished appearance. She carefully opened it, looking through the first pages carefully.

“How old is this?” She breathed, for a moment too intrigued to look up, which considering what was standing in front of her was saying a lot.

“Late 18th century, but it’s an English translation of a much older volume. I used to own a copy in Romania, but I’ve had to…restock my library. It’s not a very good translation, to be honest, but it does contain a great many things the modern world seems to like to forget…for better or worse,” he stated with a strange, knowing lilt that finally drew her attention back to him.

“Is that where you’re from? I wouldn’t have placed that from your accent,” she asked, cautiously stepping back from the door in silent invitation for him to enter.

He hesitated, mouth opening as though to protest, but just as quickly closed it and stepped over the threshold in one large stride, looking satisfied as she moved to shut the door behind him.

“I haven’t been home in many years,” he responded truthfully as he turned to meet her, watching her appraise his approach with the all but expected antsiness born of equal amounts unease and desire. Fight or flight or another F-word the body knew well but the mind didn’t quite know how to factor into the equation.

Kat held the book against her chest, her mind’s subconscious attempt at shielding against a known threat, even while her feet carried her a step towards him.

“Thank you - very much. I’ll guard it with my life,” she 'swore’ dramatically, attempting to lighten the suddenly thick atmosphere.

“Oh, nonsense. Consider it a gift,” Dracula assured her.

“Oh, I couldn’t-”

Kat found herself silenced by one long, cool finger pressed against her lips, and her breath staggered.

“You Brits are always so polite,” he remarked with an exaggerated sigh, bringing his thumb together with his forefinger and cupping her chin lightly, craning her neck to meet his eyes. She distantly registered the uncharacteristic sharpness of his nails, though her first thoughts were full of anything but fear.

“I saw your eyes light up when you saw it. You know you want it. Don’t you?”

Dracula’s voice turned to a whisper and she nearly forgot how to speak. And when exactly had he gotten that close? She swallowed, eyes wavering from his eyes to his lips.

“Yes. Yes, I do…”

He arched a brow. “Then take it.”

Kat didn’t need to be told twice. The white-knuckled grip she had on the book relaxed slightly, and without looking away from his hypnotic gaze she extended her arm and placed it on the shelf beside them, successfully removing the weak barrier it had created between them. Then without another thought she’d launched onto the tips of her toes and crashed her lips against Dracula’s self-satisfied smirk.

She’d barely adjusted to the bruising pressure he’d returned when it had been ripped away again to her initial gasp of protest, but his hand gripped the full length of her hair and yanking, bared her throat for him to attack instead. Her head spun, feeling almost delirious for half a moment as his tongue drug an icy-hot path up the hollow of her throat, something akin to a growl reverberating through her ear and directly to her core. His teeth drug downward in the same path his tongue had taken, and just like that her feet had left the floor and he had a stranglehold on her hips, the bookcase digging into her back.

——

Zoe knew it wasn’t a dream from the heat alone. It began at her center and flung outward through her limbs like an internal wildfire, until even the tips of her fingers thrummed with it.

The vision was blurry at first, like from the eyes of a fly on the wall (knowing the vampire,  a very real possibility) except she could feel it. Feel the iron grip of his hand pinning her wrists, the ache at the base of her spine as her back arched into the force of his thrusts, measured and unrelenting. There was no delay for human error, no stagger or pacing for control - just pure hunger made flesh. The ripped remains of her camisole clung uselessly to her breasts, and he let loose her wrists if only to obliterate it further so he could set upon them with blunt teeth and tongue.

Her black lacquered nails dug jagged lines into his back that vanished as soon as they appeared as she came apart beneath him, just one of many occasions that blurred in her lust addled mind. Ever the consummate showman, an arm snaked beneath her, arching her petite form further upward to meet his chest as he rocked forward, the headboard hitting the wall hard enough to scrape paint. But the show was reaching its expiration, Zoe could hear it, echoing through the chambers of his mind.

The thundering of her heart, the singing of her blood like a siren’s call. It was becoming harder to ignore, to drown out, and the beast was struggling to stay hidden, a crimson haze seeping into his eyes. His head buried into the curve of his lover’s neck and he let out a low wolf-like keening muffled into the midnight of her hair that all too soon erupted into a growl. His hand gripped her throat, and just as she clenched her thighs around his hips like a vice to draw him in, his teeth sunk deep into her flesh.

Suddenly Zoe could no longer feel the bursting pleasure/pain of her ecstasy, but taste it. She could feel the heat of the blood as it coated his mouth, thick and sweet with surrender…

She finally jolted awake with a force, half launching herself off the bed like she’d been restrained by it. It was still dark, her entire body throbbed, and worst of all she could still taste the coppery tang of the girl’s blood, tangible and tingling on her tongue. And she wanted more.

—–

He’s such a little shit, I swear he thought this up all on his own and I had no input whatsoever ;)  Do let me know what you think. I haven’t written anything smutty in ages, so spent forever trying to make sure it actually worked out alright. 

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