#it’s so ironic but the rain is growing harder again

[dkniade]

He’s from Snezhnaya??

Marcel: So that's why you suspected me... *sigh* Even after hearing your reasoning, I still can't help but find it a little preposterous.

Marcel: I'm used to it, though. You've always been an impulsive and sentimental child, Navia. It's one of your most endearing traits.

Silver: No need to appeal to pathos.

Navia is drawing conclusions from the evidence she gathered while Marcel is, as Silver states, appealing to pathos. Hm

-

Marcel: Alas, who won't feel at least a little hurt by an accusation of murder from a girl you see as your own daughter?

Marcel: But if I were to dismiss this completely, you'd also think I'm not being considerate of your feelings. Ah well, let Uncle Marcel teach you another lesson.

Marcel: Do you know what the biggest flaw in your reasoning is?

Navia: I suppose you're going to tell me anyways...

Marcel: It's "timing," again.

-

Marcel: I think you've done a superb job of dissecting your father's feelings as he neared the end of his life.

Marcel: But aren't you going against all of his wishes and expectations right now?

Marcel: He wished for you to become more rational, collected, and conscientious, instead of dwelling only on your own feelings.

Marcel: Once you've learned to be more considerate of others' feelings, and to stop rushing headlong into things, you'd have met most of his expectations.

Ironic, since he’s kind of describing himself here, and what he did to the women. As Navia points out later on, after the traveler brings in the edvidence:

Navia: You fixated your gaze on the lover that passed away, instead of paying attention to the living people around you.

Navia: So you never noticed how we changed, or how we grew as individuals.

Melus: You also never understood Boss' real expectations for his daughter.

Silver: Or our determination to see things through.

-

Warning: drug use, human trafficking/experimentation

Sinthe is known as 乐斯 (Lèsī) in Chinese. Phonetically they don’t sound similar, but as the Sinthe page on the wiki says, “The Chinese term for Sinthe, 乐斯 Lèsī, is possibly derived from the semantic meaning of the character 乐 lè, ‘joy, pleasure,’ referring to the euphoriant effects of the drink, and the Chinese transliteration of absinthe, 艾碧斯 Àibìsī.”

And before the trial (though this scene is spliced together with the accusation scene itself, which is great in terms of how the information is conveyed), Traveler and Paimon investigate the lair, and from a gaming perspective, this is environmental storytelling…

-

i. The Labeled Belongings

Paimon: What's all this... Ah, it's a bunch of really cute things!

Paimon: Pink accessories, a hair tie, a necklace, even a makeup box...

Traveler: There's a name, too.

Paimon: Oh, Paimon sees it too. But... why are all these cute things labeled with different girls' names?

Traveler: They probably belonged to the victims.

Paimon: Huh!? You mean, the girls from the serial disappearances... they were brought here!?

Paimon: And then, they were turned into water...

Paimon: And all these boxes of things... these names... that means... This is terrible...

-

ii. Vacher’s Notes

Paimon: What's this over here? Looks like some kind of place for research.

Paimon: "Experiment number sixteen aims to verify Jakob Ingold's research conclusions on the Primordial Sea, and use his theory as a foundation to achieve a breakthrough."

(—WHAT DID JAKOB DO. WHY IS IT HIM AGAIN. what is this Narzissenkreuz Ordo. Although if his research is used as the basis of Vacher’s experiments, did Jakob also do some pretty terrible things in his own research?)

Paimon: "The experiment was a failure. No individual managed to resurface from the Water from the Primordial Sea. Female specimens twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four were dissolved..."

Paimon: Waaaaaah!!!

Traveler: Calm down, Paimon.

Paimon: Sorry, (Traveler), Paimon will try her best! It's just that P—Paimon's never read something so scary before...

Paimon: How can someone write something that terrible in such a matter-of-fact tone!?

Paimon: You read the rest... Paimon's too scared to keep going...

Traveler: The goal of the researcher...

Traveler: Is to save his lover, a woman called Vigneire, who was dissolved.

Paimon: So that's why he did all of these experiments...

Paimon: But did he really think he'd be able to find a way just by dissolving people over and over? That's just insane!

Narratively, Paimon appeals to pathos and highlights the tragedy of the situation while the Traveler and to a more extreme extent, Vacher, reveals more information to piece together what’s behind the mystery itself, huh. So we get both the emotional reaction and the truth of what’s going on, with two characters. That… yes, that works very well together. This also happened with Navia and Marcel earlier in the trial scene, so Neuvillette’s comment in his demo was…

“The court is always filled with a cacophony of voices. Passion, schadenfreude, indignation, terror… Emptiojs burst forth from the depths of the heart, and surround their host like a dense fog.”

-

iii. Vigneire’s Diary and Marcel’s Name

Paimon: "Vigneire"... Isn't that Vacher's lover's name?

Paimon: Then, you found her diary? Let's see...

Paimon: Aw, it's just a normal diary chronicling their love story. She was so sweet too, Paimon feels even worse for her now...

Traveler: Take a look at this page.

Traveler: She made a list of baby names.

[image of a list of baby names]

Paimon: So many... A whole page's worth! But they're all crossed out. Was she unhappy with all of them?

Paimon: The final name she decided on was...

Paimon: "Marcel"!?

Paimon: Wait, but Marcel's pretty old... Has this case been going on for so long that he's Vacher and Vigneire's grown son?

Traveler: I've figured it out.

Traveler: Let's go, Paimon.

Interesting! So that’s where he got the name. And then, I’ve already watched the rest of this scene as the original post suggests

—

Childe: Ah c'mon, is this really necessary? Haven't you already caught the real criminal? Isn't it time for side characters like me to exit stage left?

Theatre metaphor…

Ah, so, this line from the 4.0 trailer:

You only have yourselves to blame! You set up this ornate opera house in pursuit of your so-called justice, your beloved drama, while turning a blind eye to the suffering of the people!

Is spoken by Vacher during his trial in Act II. That makes more sense in context. (He’s not Fontainian? Huh)

[endlessdreamworld]

Hey hey! Since your requests are open at the moment. What would any yandere genshin character's Interact with a Very clumsy Reader. Just imagine. The yandere watching the reader walk before tripping on their feet. Or maybe accidentally slipping onto leaves? That would be funny and I would definitely love to see their interaction!

Sorry to make you wait. I wanted to do a few shorter form responses, but this came out on accident. If you want more, please feel free to send in a request. Clumsy Reader X Diluc Ragnvindr

It started like any typical day in Mondstat. Markets were bustling, bards were performing, knights were patrolling, and the city was thriving. The sky was filled with a growing amount of storm clouds that were a welcome addition to a sweltering hot midsummer day.

For you though, this was a very irregular day with one unfortunate event chained after the other. A bag of flour went rogue in the bakery and you ended up completely covered in the stuff. Of course the bakery gave you bread as compensation for the situation – a lot of it. Ironically, this made everything much harder because the sheer amount of bread made the trip home cumbersome. Because of this delay and new handicap, by the time you were able to get your errands finished and your affairs in order it started pouring rain when you had just started the trip home. The flour that still coated your skin and clothes had turned to watered down sodden slime.

By the time you finally arrived at the front door of your home the compensation bread was ruined, and your clothes were heavy and cold with dripping rain. All you could think about was taking a nice hot bath and changing into dry clothes and climbing into your dry warm bed. You almost fainted though, when you reached into your pocket to retrieve your house key and found nothing. Your bones itched, your nose burned, the stress was transcendent. Honestly if you died at that moment you���d be fine with it, because you certainly wished you were dead.

You did your best to take a breath, though you were borderline crying at this point. The sun had set long ago, and it was pitch black. You had no idea where your keys could be, and worst of all, it was still fucking raining.. You dropped the bag and it landed with a wet heavy flop. You’d just have to deal with that in the morning.

You started retracing your steps back to the bakery. It’s incredibly likely you left them inside, which would be the worst possible scenario because you didn’t have enough money to stay at the inn. Then it finally dawned on you that there was no happy ending here, and you might need to find a place and just wai—

Air, vertigo. You fell.  

You’re not sure if you slipped on something, or if you misstepped outright, but what you did know is that you were in the elevated part of town, and you had a long way to go. Could it be? The death you wished for? You accepted this ironic, tragic fate with a sardonic smile.

And just like that…

A sharp tugging on your wrist. Something – no… someone grabbed your hand before you fell too far. You opened your eyes, and saw someone holding you up by the wrist, but between the rain and the ambient darkness, you couldn’t get a proper look at them.

“You know, you really need to be more careful.” You felt a firm tug and then you found yourself on solid ground. The stranger who had saved you stood before you. “What are you doing outside during a rainstorm in the middle of the night?”

You were about to answer, but your savior tugged on your wrist again. The figure led you to The Angel’s Share bar which, luckily, was nearby. Now you had the protection of the bar’s awning to shield you from the rain. The shadowy figure looks at you expectantly. “Right, so it all started when…” You took your time to explain the situation step by step as to how you got here.

“So you’re locked out of your own home, and have no money for an overnight stay at the inn. Does that sound right?”

You nod. The shadow figure put his hand to the bottom of his chin in thought. “Very well, I understand the situation completely now. And... I have a solution.”

You could scarcely believe what you were hearing. “It’s simple really,” You could hear the sound of light jingling ever so slightly through the heavy droning of the rain. The mysterious figure handed you something, a pouch filled with… mora. So much mora!! This is way more mora than you would need for the inn.

You look up at your shadowclad mystery knight slack jawed. “Think nothing of it.” He sounded flustered. “Now come along, the inn is this way.” The figure walked with you the entire way to the inn, and then a thought crossed your mind. ‘Did he think you were going to take the money and run off? 

No.

Absolutely not. Your mystery knight just wanted to be sure you made it safely to the inn considering you could have died if you took the fall intended for you earlier. Speaking of your knight… Was he one of the Knights of Favonius? He certainly wasn't dressed like one. You walked in comfortable silence, or as comfortable as it could be when you’re so cold you were in physical pain and your teeth were chattering as loudly as the falling rain.

You arrived at the inn. You turned to thank your mystery knight, but when you did you saw nothing, just empty darkness. He must have left silently when he saw you made it safely to the inn. It was frustrating, because you really did want to thank him, but you were unfortunately left unsatisfied in that department. The rest of the night was a blur that ended with your face planting into a lush feather bed.

You woke up the following day, miraculously not sick. though you weren't going to complain about that. You returned to the bakery which was in fact where you left your key and headed back home. FINALLY, you were home, but you saw something unexpected on your doorstep.

Where you expected to find a gloopy pile of paper and gluten was instead a basket with a replacement of all of the ruined goods that got trashed in last night’s storm. Your mind wandered back to your mystery knight, but it’s not like you were going to get an answer so you cut your losses and moved on.

And so it was yet another typical day in Mondstat. Markets were bustling, bards were performing, knights were patrolling, and the city was thriving. You had plenty to do today, but there was an extra pep in your step. The mora you received from your mysterious hero was going to be a tremendous boost to your quality of life.

Unfortunately, it seems like there was simply too much pep in your step since you missed your footing – again. And found yourself plummeting towards the lower part of town… again. Then you felt a sharp tugging on your wrist….. Again? A wave of deja vu washed over me.

“You know, you really need to be more careful.” Today was almost a mirror image of the previous day, but unlike yesterday, the view of the person holding you by the wrist was bright and clear. His head was backlit by the sun, looking fittingly, just like a shining halo.

 Holding you by your wrist was Diluc Ragnvindr of the Dawn Winery.

[blackbutlerfandomnerddomain]

Day 5: Needing Advice

Sebastian works hard cooking up a storm in the kitchen, the birds chirping just outside the kitchen window as he slices some apples and pears.

Late autumn is a pleasant season for him. He greatly enjoys the slightly colder weather as the red and orange leaves dry up and shrivel down as the clouds grow thicker and colder until snow covered the land, he adored the ways hearts swell and beat in one motion as the sounds of crispy winds hit against the now bare dark bark trees, he loved the fun hunting seasons he used to attend alongside his kind before leaving Hell.

But now, he enjoys the hunt just as much.

With a small hum on his lips, the butler made his way upstairs to the young Earl of the house in the grand study of a room, the afternoon a calming affair around him as he walked his way down the hall.

His gloved hand reached out and knocked on the door softly before he entered the room, a habit he’s used to throughout the years. Upon entering the office, he sees the bluette Earl sitting at his desk staring at a letter of sorts in his hands. The butler smiled softly,

“Did Earl Trancy write to you again, Young Master?”

Ciel sputtered and “hid” the letter by shoving it to his chest, his lone blue eye glaring at the demon as he wheels the cart to the side of the desk and pouring some sweet smelling tea. “Today’s afternoon tea is a vanilla tea blend from the town’s market, and as a snack I have prepared some sliced apples drizzled in caramel sauce for you.” Said the man in black with an innocent yet knowing grin as he placed the tea saucer and cup next to the papers in front of the teen, the plate of apple slices coming afterwards.

He took notice of the Earl’s pink cheeks and still glaring eye and chuckled out, “Some friendly advice, My Lord, I say invite him over to a chess game. He’s a person, like you, who enjoys games even if he isn't quite good at them. I can even request Miss Doll to come too if you so order.”

Ciel blushed harder and practically slammed the paper down at the desk. “Oh, shut up!” He growled and took an aggressive bite off an apple slice, earning another soft chuckle from the demon beside him.

—

The afternoon rolled around carefully as Sebastian finally took notice of the rain that’s creeping up beside the human race. A smile comes to his lips as he looks to his Master where he pauses. Has Young Master been this tall before? Indeed, the once little Earl of the manor seems to be marching around proud with his height just easily noticeable and not just mere inches. He grins and shows off his peacock feathers to the butler as if sensing the surprise on the demon’s face. “What is it Sebastian?”

Sebastian blinked and chuckled a bit, “I just did not realize you’re actually becoming an adult now, My Lord. Though surely your legs are hurting, shall I put a kettle on?” The master shook his head, his hair slightly longer than the ears’ ends, swaying softly against pale skin. “I’m fine.” He said, a smile on his lips still as pride is obviously filling his chest. The butler smiles at this expression, “Very well then, My Lord.”

—

Snow falls down from the night sky as Sebastian walks down the halls of the manor, the scent of roasted chestnuts still lingering in the air alongside in perfect harmony of the soft pine that still hangs beautifully around the corners and every inch and bend of the stairway, the soft glow of candle light giving the halls that were once dead and haunted a warm welcoming glow of happy blissful memories in contrast of the once gloomy ones from the past. A cart with a small plate of chocolate cake and a warm iron kettle wheels in front of the butler as he walks past the frosted windows that face the illumination white landscape in front of the dark black canvas of the sky. Finally, he reached to a door and knocked softly, “Young Master, I have brought over your midnight snack.” Said he as he turned the glittering knob and entered the room. Instantly, the sound of a whine catches his attention.

Red eyes watch the scene of a grown adult dressed in pajamas that fit his age now but still have some ribbons and frills of youthful pasts cradling a little human of light brown locks of hair in his no longer small and weak arms, behind him seated in the lounging chair of the bedchamber is a blond fellow who softly sings to a wee infant with soft brown locks barely showing pass the blanket that wrap them up like a gift from God, and just beside the first adult is a woman with shoulder length brown hair who’s not having a so soft image like the two but instead dealing with the fussing dark haired toddler on her lap. Sebastian smiled softly in amusement at the scene and started to pour the sweet brown liquid of hot chocolate in three cups for each. “Is Little Albert fussy Miss Doll?” He asked, a small smirk hidden away showing he knows that boy is a fussy mess. The lady giggled softly at the tease and accepted when the cup of cocoa was handed to her, her golden band of marriage glittering under light. “Thank you Sebastian.” She said, her voice a sweet honey tone, kneeling the cup to the son in her arms who slowly took some careful ships and relaxed into her bosoms. The demon walked to the lounging chair to the blond man and offered the cup, pausing when a hand reached up in a stop motion. “Maybe later Sebastian, little Rachel is finally resting.” Said he, a smile full of love and happiness on the beautiful face as icey blues stared down at the soft skinned face of the sweet little babe in the cotton blanket. Sebastian smiles, “Of course Lord Trancy.” He turned to the final adult, and before he could open his mouth to ask, he spoke out before the butler, “You know I’ll never say no to your hot chocolate Sebastian.”

Sebastian chuckled and gave the cup to his master, smiling at the look of the little boy dozing off against his shoulder. As the three adults enjoyed the finally calm energy of the room, the butler gave Ciel a slice of cake and carefully took hold of baby Rachel from Alois so the man could enjoy a cup of cocoa alongside his partners. The demon stared at the small resting face in his arms and smiled, looking to the three who carefully moved the two boys onto the bed after they both tuckered out with little to no protests at all as they tuck them under the blankets at last. With a soft hum of his lips of a ditty from long ago, he carefully and gently places the littlest one in a lovely wooden carved cradle right by the room window, smiling softly at the view of dark lashes curled against pale eyelids. Carefully lifting the glass barrier, Sebastian snuffed out the candle light that lit the room and left the chambers with the parents with care.

The butler walked alongside the three who now show their tiredness fully as he helps them to their rooms as if something were to happen if he wasn’t along their sides at night. After they snuggled into the large bed that usually is only reserved for the husband and wife but have long since been used and worn by the Earl and his wife and their lover, they drank the remains of the warm cocoa and nibbled on the cake slices. Sebastian watched as his master yawned, smiling softly at the forever image of his small frame bruised and thinner than the icicles outside drinking some warm milk and honey even though now he’s grown and far past the little hurt lamb he was in the past. After accepting their dishes and bidding them a good night, the butler soon left the three be, and back again was he walking down the hall to return the dishes to the clean state they were prior. It’s almost strange to imagine these walls covered in cinder He thought as he walked and admired the manor he grew used to thanks to a certain small child rich in revenge and pain, smiling as he does as red eyes show warmth. Have a good rest, My Lord. May you dream of happy memories and the future.

I had a lot of fun this @dadbastianweek2023 thing! I hope to do this again!

[willowwind78]

1 Annabel- Chapter 4

˜ Chapter 4 - Frankenstein - Mary Shelley ™

My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature;

The past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil,

And the future gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy.

˜ ™

            The rain had stopped by the time Christina opened her eyes again. Her body lay against the base of a tree. She vaguely recalled passing out. She marveled at the brilliance of the stars in the cloudless sky, lost in their wonder and awesomeness. She felt amazing. For the first time in months, there was no pain. She had slept and there were no dreams. The world around her was new and full of possibility. A strange feeling crept up within her, dark and alluring.

            She was overwhelmed by the vividness of color and light surrounding her so much so that she failed to hear the heart beating not ten feet above her, despite how it echoed cleanly in her ears. Christina was engrossed in studying the craters penetrating the moon’s gray surface when a pair of wing-tipped shoes landed with a silent thump next to her. Silently. She quickly realized they had landed with such delicacy normal ears should not have heard a sound but she did. Her heart tightened, the muscle straining against the inside of her chest at his nearness. Her limbs moved without her, twisting and manipulating her body, prostrating herself before him, head down, arms outstretched.

        ��   “You may relax my child, it is not your body that I need right now, but your tongue.”

            Her voice sounded from her body without her. “Anything your ears wish to hear, my Lord.” Panic gripped her in her reverie. What was happening to her? She felt her body right itself and lean back against the tree seemingly without her. It sat cross-legged and looked up to the suited man eagerly. Christina peered through her own eyes to look down at her hands, something was off. Her skin had taken on a greyish-green tone and was hardening slowly but definitely as if it were growing scales in places. She was in her body but it was no longer hers.

            “Christina, my dear, would you please tell me what you were dreaming about?” His voice was just as inspiring as it was hours, days, or… weeks ago. It soothed a small part of her panicking.

            “I dreamt nothing, my Lord, for the first time in months.” She felt shame in not pleasing him. His disappointment was clear in the roll of his eyes that she had answered him incorrectly. Her head bowed. Through a tear in her tights, she could see where her scabbed over shin had turned to scale.

Her Lord appeared to be growing impatient. His head tilted awkwardly to the side. “What was the last dream you had, Christina?”

The Christina inside had a bad feeling about this but could not prevent herself from thinking back to the horrible nightmares, nor could she stop the Christina outside from recounting everything as she remembered it like a possessed narrator. As soon as the white steeple flashed through her memory and her body began to speak Christina was filled with dread. “There’s a small church; white-washed wooden siding with a tall steeple containing an old iron bell.” As her body betrayed her desire for silence, she felt less and less in control of anything.

“Where is the church, Christina?”

“It looks familiar. There are rolling hills and it is fall. The leaves are all different colors and there is a cliff off in the distance. The church is in the valley with a small cemetery next to it...” Her body’s voice sounded like an automaton, unnaturally punctuating every word and speaking in a monotonic drone. The Christina inside tried to stop thinking about the dream but failed. The harder she tried the more she felt the need to obey. “There are many people dressed in black. They are sad.”

“Do you know these people, Christina?”

Christina would have cried if she had still been attached to her body. This dream had been haunting her for months. It had cost her everything. “Yes, I know them.” He had promised her no more pain but this was torture. She was reliving the dream over and over and over again in her own head. “They are my family.” It was then that she realized where she was. “We are at my mother’s church in Walkersville, West Virginia.”

The dream Christina suddenly appeared and everything went dark. Christina became lost in her own dream listening to the distant sound of her own voice echoing outside of her. “I am in the casket carried by my two brothers, two uncles, my father, and my husband.” The details were lost in the monotonic recitation. It included nothing of her screaming and kicking at the inside of the coffin lid. The body of Christina said nothing of her nails scratching away at the satin lining. It spoke not a word of the real Christina’s desperate attempt to escape her wooden prison. “They place the coffin in the ground.” It speaks not of the panic and fear causing the walls of the casket to shrink ever smaller or of the sinking feeling of the casket as it creeps its way lower and lower into the ground with her inside. It does not even try to describe the horrifying sound of dirt hitting the outside of the wooden box slowly drowning out the sound of her sobbing family.

“Thank you for helping me. We are done now, Christina.”

Christina was horrified as her body collapsed at the base of the tree and her eyes closed throwing her into the darkness she felt in that last dream. She tried to scream but her body did not respond. She could feel nothing but heard the sound of his heartbeat diminish as he walked away. NO! The Christina inside screamed in horror as she realized what was happening. She had been dreaming of her death. She had been dreaming of this. She was trapped inside her own body, helpless. Her mind screamed, trying desperately to cry out while birds chirped cheerfully in the air around her. He was right. There was no pain, only fear.

[rainbowchewynuggets]

TMA Encore #14a

The earth is crushingly heavy. Jon has no room to expand his lungs, nor any air to breathe. His lungs are on fire. He could try to struggle his way out. A knowing voice in the back of his mind tells him that there is a way out. But the voice also says that every movement he makes presses on someone else trapped nearby in the trench of soil. The thought of squeezing the life out of them to grant him a feeling of agency makes him sick. It could be someone he cares about. Someone who doesn’t deserve it. Tense brittle bodies press on him between layers of dirt as he sinks further and further. He keeps his eyes screwed shut as grit creeps through his nose and ears.

The sand slides off of part of his elbow, and his skin prickles in open air. His heart quickens. It could be an escape, or at least a pocket of air. Should he move? Can he risk it? He seriously considers, but too late. His arm is quickly entrenched again.

His blood pressure builds, pressing on his throat.  A strained grunt escapes him. The sand around him is shifting, pressing harder. He pulls a little tighter, but the pressure prods at his arm. Something cold grabs him and pulls. He resists, but the force is overwhelming.

The next thing he knows, he’s on the ground, staring up into a pale familiar face. It looks like Martin–if Martin had been left out in the cold. His colorless skin doesn’t move an inch, staring down with featureless scrutiny. There’s almost something hostile in it.

Jon tears his arm out of the hand that still holds it and scrambles to his feet. He brushes off the dirt and lets himself stabilize, sizing up his rescuer. This Martin mirrors his gaze. Then, the Martin steps back and walks away. Jon says nothing. His throat is too dry, anyway. He takes in his surroundings.

He’s standing on a piece of flooring beside what used to be part of the prison exterior. Martin just pulled him out through a window. The sand shifts down solidly as if the window weren’t there. The area around him is dark and hazy like a humid cave. Dingy light trickles in through the ceiling high above and quickly diffuses. It’s hard to see beyond the assembled chunks of stone that clutter his immediate eyeline.

Jon follows cautiously behind Martin to a patch of amber light over mesh wire–only because Martin proves that it’s sturdy enough to stand on. Jon swallows and starts to ask a question when Martin shushes him. He looks upward. So does Jon, reluctantly.

A shaft above them looks like it was burrowed out through layers of wreckage. Something long, black, and spindly blots out the light for a moment, accompanied by echoes of screeching metal. Bits of rock rain down around them.

Martin heads off in the opposite direction as the creature above them. Jon follows. This Martin doesn’t seem as intimidating as he first thought. Mostly just tired and fidgety. Still, he doesn’t follow too close. He tries to get Martin’s attention, to ask him questions only the real Martin would know. The man only returns a quick glance back at Jon before continuing.

The atmosphere finally lightens, revealing a room filled with fog. Ghosts of bulky forms and tilting pillars pass on either side of them. A far away clamor overhead gets Jon’s attention. Martin stops as it grows closer.

Be ready to run, Jon tells himself wearily.

The scraping of metal hinges and breaking of heavy objects compete to be heard over a monstrous voice that shakes Jon to his core. Another voice answers, but he can’t understand it past the prevailing sound of tumbling boulders and spokes. Jon throws himself back as they arrive from out of the haze above them and break cleanly through the mesh into the void below. Martin makes no adjustment to his position, his head turned skyward to face the falling debris.  

Jon sees an iron rod the width of his thumb bury itself in the front of Martin’s shoulder. Martin stifles a yelp and manages to stay on his feet. He wraps a hand around it and removes it. The bar clatters loudly on the mesh. Only then does he turn to Jon, who is sat down, stupefied. Open confusion crosses Martin’s face.

Martin: Jon? You’re alive?

He asks as if seeing him for the first time. Jon’s jaw moves somewhat, unable to make words. Martin awkwardly slaps a hand over the wound in his shoulder.

Martin: Don’t freak out! Don’t freak out! I can explain.

The detached demeanor is gone so fast that Jon can’t help feeling a little slapped. He snaps up and charges over.

Jon: Martin, what the hell?!

Martin: It’s not as bad as it looks, I promise.

Jon ignores him and tears his cold hand away to see the puncture. To his utter surprise, he finds nothing there. Not even a blood stain.

Martin sheepishly explains his method of subverting the Fears’ influence in their new domain. As long as he’s not afraid, he can’t really be harmed. Jon doesn’t like to think that’s right, remembering the cuts on his arms that aren’t there anymore.

Jon: That’s insane.

Martin: Yeah, but it’s working.

Jon pushes his hair back. He does his best to express his bafflement and exhaustion, but he looks nothing but relieved. Martin stifles a smile.

Martin: Uh, actually, could you do me a huge favor? I think there’s one in my back.

Jon turns Martin around and sees another rod sticking out. He cringes.

Jon: Oh, god.

He shuts his eyes and pulls. It hits the floor with another loud clang.

~

Tim and Sasha want to find a way out.

They want to find Jon and Martin first.

They search.

Sasha finds a new area.

The way is locked.

Tim finds a way to open it.

They search.

Something terrible happens.

They can’t continue.

They go back.

Tim and Sasha want to find a way out.

They want to find Jon and Martin first.

They search.

Tim finds a hidden passage.

Something terrible happens.

They continue.

Sasha finds a new area.

Sasha hears Jon and Martin nearby.

Something terrible happens.

They go back.

Tim and Sasha want to find a way out.

They search.

Tim and Sasha get separated.

Tim gets injured.

They go back.

Tim and Sasha want to find a way out.

Something terrible happens.

Sasha gets injured.

Tim gets injured.

They go back.

Tim and Sasha want to find a way out.

They go back.

They go back.

They go back.

They go back.

They go back.

Tim and Sasha want to find Jon and Martin.

They move forward.

Sasha finds a new area.

The way is locked.

Tim finds a new area.

Something terrible happens.

They go back.

Tim and Sasha want to find Jon and Martin.

They move forward.

The way is locked.

Sasha finds a way around.

They continue.

Tim finds a new area.

Something terrible happens.

They continue.

Sasha finds a new area.

Something terrible happens.

They get separated.

They continue.

They find each other.

Sasha finds a hidden passage

Tim finds a new area.

Something terrible happens.

They go back.

Tim and Sasha want to find Jon and Martin.

They move forward.

~

The hellscape is silent and eerie. Everything feels far away, leaving Jon and Martin to talk quietly to each other as the area around them grades from mangled prison to mangled tunnels.

Jon recounts his ordeal being chased by the voices of their friends in the concrete forest. The coercion of the whole exercise is obvious upon retelling. He apologizes for being suspicious of Martin all the same. Martin listens solemnly and accepts. He, himself, had chosen to be cagey earlier rather than risk giving Not-Jon any information he didn’t already have.

Jon: You thought I was a spy?

Martin: Kind of.

Martin tells Jon about the fake death snare in the entry area. It’s sickening to hear, yet Jon finds himself hanging on every word. He stops himself from asking for details, not trusting the desire.

Jon: You said you haven’t seen either of them since?

Martin: I looked for a long, long time. There’s just no sign at all.

Jon sighs worriedly.

Martin: I’m starting to think it’s that way on purpose. I tried to go back the way I came, but the arrangement of this place is nonsense. When you just popped out in front of me as I was exploring, I found it… suspect.

Jon nods.

Martin: I’ve mostly been trying to get the lay of the land and track Not-Jon’s movements. It’s weird. It doesn’t seem like he’s actually all that focused on us. As long as I’m steadfast, everything mostly leaves me alone. It’s--I dunno--reactionary. Like he’s just leaving the place on autopilot while he does other things.

Jon: He sought me out.

Martin: Well, he doesn’t like you.

Jon: True.

Martin: When he’s not trying to get away from Not-Martin, he goes somewhere up in the very top. Like there’s something he wants. I mean, I don’t have a full picture of what the apocalypse is supposed to look like, but doesn’t this all feel shaky? Small-scale, y’know?

Jon: I suppose.

Martin: Based on the arguing I’ve overheard, I think he’s stuck in his own domain. The rest of the world is out there, and he’s trying to dig his way out. That’s why the walls keep shifting down.

A thought immediately stirs in Jon’s mind. Something about the tunnels collapsing. It struggles to form fully, but it compels him to agree with Martin.

Jon: It might explain why he’s not after either of us at the moment. Kind of a poor omniscient, if you ask me. Unless he’s still planning something.

Martin and Jon decide that if they can’t find Tim and Sasha, they’ll have to free them from the hellscape before anything happens to them. Martin has observed that Not-Martin can’t get Not-Jon to stop, only distract him temporarily. He summarizes the conversation he had with him before–about how their mortality functions and the possibility that Not-Jon is going to have to die. Jon is magnetized to the idea. He replies that Not-Jon might actually be vulnerable by that logic. He could see into the creature somewhat as it stared into him.

It was scared. Really scared.

Not-Jon has been deeply shaken by his transformation. He feels like he’s losing all control as everything spirals back to the outcome he was trying to avoid. He knows he’s on the cusp of leaving Not-Martin with all the hunger because he’s already so weak. However, he refuses to give up on salvaging the situation. He can’t be stopped, but he could be killed.

Martin concedes. It doesn’t sound like a guarantee, but it’s better than what they had before. Neither of them are reluctant to put Not-Jon out of his misery at this point. They’ll have to figure out what to do about Not-Martin, though.

Their surroundings grow narrower and clearer as they reach pathways leading upward.

~

Sasha: Think you can make it?

Tim: I think I’d be better off growing an extra foot first, but I’ll give it a try.

Tim takes a step back, sprints, and clambers up a plaster wall nearly twice his size. He scrubs his hands against the floor of the next story up and pulls himself over the lip. Sasha jumps to clasp his hand, and he pulls her up to join him.

Tim and Sasha are deep inside the interior of the island. They had lost all concept of direction hours ago. After fighting, fleeing, and clawing their way through gauntlet after gauntlet, they’ve made it to a region where their nightmare encounters are further apart. They take the chance to rest before restarting their search for their Jon and Martin. They need it. Both of them are ragged.

They pause among the shattered halls of the Institute.

Tim: You think he needs a lot of oil for all those arms?

Sasha: I’m sure he does, and I’m sure he’s not using any. My ears are still ringing.

They chuckle.

They had encountered their grotesque warden some time ago. Even now, miles deep in the folds of the enigma, he follows them in spirit. Might as well laugh at it, however difficult. Tim’s idea.

It’s a nice distraction. Neither of them dare think about what comes next. The onslaught of terror had forced them to measure their survival in moments. Looking back at all those moments strung together to bring them this far is elating. But they can’t look ahead. Can’t wonder where all this could possibly lead until they find the boys. It just isn’t practical. Sasha’s idea.

They’re shoved back to their feet before long by the sagging of the ground underneath them. The path ahead continues to sag as it branches upward. Tim and Sasha are hurried to stay ahead of it, having to make their decisions on instinct. Left. Right. Left. Left. The middle one. Right. Left. The warped hallway degrades to exposed wood to paper to a tight ventricle of pulp.

Tim feels his feet lose traction. He careens forward, propelled by Sasha’s body. They jam together in the limp paper tube as the path behind them fully tears away. A thundering mass of paper, then wood, then stone and brick fall inches from the soles of their shoes. The two of them are dumped out as the dust settles.

They don’t go far, landing hard on the pile of brick. The fallen path has exposed their trajectory: a long winding branching track strung back and forth across a deep red cavern. The entire thing, every step since they began their journey, has torn out of its fastenings and now slips down into the gloom. Sasha can only tear her eyes away when she feels Tim nudging her.

The mess of bricks had the fortune to spill out onto an outcropping in a wall that looks like someone made chewed meat out of a building. The paper shaft ahead of them continues, and there are several narrow ridges they could take down to other platforms. But they instead become fixated on part of the wall that came down with the tunnel. It left a craggy cone-shaped hole behind.

As they approach, they can smell fresh air. A twinkle of sunlight peeks in the distance between more layers of rubble. Tim and Sasha instantly dig at the brick and stone. The hole widens marginally. Sediment and iron mix with the fresh air. Just as the hole widens enough to crawl into, the ground under their feet suddenly comes away, as if yanked.

They fall for what feels like years.

Sasha wakes up and finds herself staring ruefully from the bottom of yet another hill. The foulness in the air she had all but forgotten pours heavily in her lungs. Everything hurts, but not as badly as before. She works her way to her feet. Turning, she sees Tim sitting nearby at the edge of the peninsula that apparently caught them in their descent. He’s facing away from her, his shoulders hunched tiredly.

Sasha: Well. That sucked. I guess we’ll get started again.

Tim: We can’t.

She swallows her despair so as not to lose her nerve.

Sasha: We’ve done it once. We can do it twice.

Tim: Sasha, come look at this.

Sasha wills her legs to show her what’s beyond the edge of the cliff.

Tim is staring into an acre-wide pit filled with bodies. Their bodies. Many are broken and torn in obvious ways. The injuries are precisely consistent with their journey so far. He points to a pair among those in the most recent layer. They have bloody fingers.

Sasha is repelled.

Sasha: It’s just a scare. It doesn’t mean anything.

Tim: How’d we survive that fall, Sasha?

Sasha: Come on. The Things upstairs wouldn’t want us dead. We can’t give them anything that way.

He looks at her with urgency, letting the thought he’d been sitting with propel to the surface.

Tim: They’re hardly getting anything from us at all. They want the whole planet. If they kill us and make us into their ghosts, they can send us out to do their dirty work.

Sasha: That’s what Not-Jon is for.

Tim: Maybe he’s not doing it fast enough for them. He may be screwed up like them, but he hates them. He wants to do the right thing, so he tries to stop them from using us. He threw everything at us he could to keep us from getting out, and then showed us the landfill of failed tries when we found a way around him.

Sasha: Or to just stop us from escaping. We almost had it!

Tim: We weren’t supposed to escape! We were supposed to be looking for Jon and Martin! That was the plan, no distractions, right? And it was working. But we couldn’t help ourselves when we saw that opening, could we?

Sasha hesitates.

She can’t deny that he has a point. This isn’t the first time they’ve fallen for a false exit–they should know better. She retraces their route through the paper tunnel. The odds that they wound up at the one part attached to the wall seem uncomfortably slim. More memories surface. Drowning. Crushing. Burning. She had pushed them away before as intrusive thoughts brought on by close calls. She isn’t sure now. How many times, indeed, should they have died by this point?

She desperately wants to argue with him. She wants to prove that she hasn’t already been replaced. The more she searches, the foggier it gets. Tim reads her face.

Tim: I’m not sure, either. But if we’ve come this far to keep them from having their way, we can’t risk it.

Sasha: We shouldn’t even go after Jon and Martin, should we?

Tim frowns.

Sasha buckles to her knees. She and Tim sit in silence.

With nothing else to draw his attention, Tim notices a variance in the color of the ruddy ground. Something plasticky is wedged in the crags just under the cliff. One of the crappy old handheld tape players from the supply closet. He reaches for it, careful not to fall in with the rest of the dolls. It’s heavy. Through the clear plastic window on the front, he finds that it has a cracked cassette inside.

~

Martin and Jon come to an intersection of paths in the wet grey stone that surrounds them. Things are closer and clearer than they have been in a while. Unsettling noise comes from each option, a promise of danger. Martin takes a breath.

Martin: *rhetorically* Any preference?

Jon: *definitively* Second from the right.

Martin looks at him with wider eyes. Jon had told Martin about the glimpses he’d been getting from the Eye, but this is the first time it had done anything but make both of them more nervous.

Martin: You can see where he is?

Jon nods shortly.

Jon: Both of them. They move around, but they’ve been over this way for a while. This is the best way through. Our other options here are… nasty.

Martin considers. Avoiding the nasty stuff kind of defeats his immunity, but he supposes that Jon wouldn’t make it alive. He accepts, and they move on.

They approach the sound of rushing water again. The hollow ends at a T-junction with a giant water pipe. Fluid spews down into a hole that’s been punched into the rock. There are speckles of erosion everywhere.

Jon picks up a long piece of stone from a place where the wall is cracked. He holds it out to the current, and the rock forcefully melts. They both step back.

Jon: I didn’t realize. We should turn around.

Martin: Is there another way through that won’t kill us?

Jon: … No. We can look for something further back.

Martin doesn’t move.

Jon: Martin.

Martin: Well... I was hoping it wouldn’t be this way. Should have known better.

Jon: No. We’re not going in there.

Martin: Jon, we both knew we might not be getting out of this alive. You said yourself that was on the bill from the start.

Jon: I lied! I was never willing to let any of you get hurt. Me? Maybe. But not like this.

Martin. That was before. We’re on Their rules now. Our mortality’s a handicap. And death is-- Well, we... we could use it if we’re not afraid of it, and it’s just about all we’ve got left.

Martin exhales, having successfully dragged himself through the sentence.

Jon: You should be afraid. Not-Martin might act like he’s on the side of reason, but there’s clearly as much wrong with him as the other me. Think about what this could do to you!

The anxiety Martin had been pushing down since the talk in the security chamber boils high in his chest. It isn’t the anger in Jon’s voice that disheartens him but the genuine concern in his face. He is suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to listen. He doesn’t want any of this. He wants someone to tell him it’s okay to stop.

Jon waits, trying to appear resolute.

Martin’s face loses its softness.

Martin: We have to accept it, Jon.

Jon gives in to impulse and decides for him. He takes Martin by the hand and pulls him back the way they came. Martin’s ice cold fingers numb his own.

He refuses to let this get any worse. He searches through the Eye for Tim and Sasha, but it still won’t show him. He tries harder, despite the prickling discomfort. It takes him a minute to realize that his deadened hand is clutching nothing.

Martin isn’t behind him. He’s nowhere that the Eye can see, in all the cavities in the stone around the one Jon is standing in. Jon stares into the rushing acid. 

Could he survive if he jumped? If he mustered the detachment that Martin talked about, maybe he could catch up to him. Save him from whatever he’s about to try to do alone. But he can’t. He knows he can’t. His skin burns. Anger, guilt, and powerlessness rush through him. All he can do is go back and be reabsorbed by the hellscape.

A drop hits his neck with a sizzle. He quickly wipes it away. Another one plinks down on his arm from the eroded stone roof before he can put it down. To Jon’s surprise, the liquid isn’t eating through his skin. It’s evaporating, leaving his skin untouched. It’s so cold here, he hadn’t discerned his temperature growing exceedingly hot. Desolately hot.

The Eye made sense, but not this. He could have been marked–at most–by the door knob, if that even counts here. He shouldn’t be able to use it. It doesn’t work like this. What did he do wrong?

Jon approaches the wall of the passage. He extends a hand, and the cement recedes at the command of the Buried. Jon looks dejectedly at his palm. He can still feel the burning. The grit and filth in his pores. The wind whistling in his ears. The cuts all over. The mortifying terror or being hunted and loathed. He rubs his eyes as a white-hot streak of fire walks across his face.

He has to keep going. Or it will all have been for nothing.

Jon opens a way for himself and steps through.

————

Next

Prev

First

So, I’ve decided on a solution to my second big problem. I’m going to finish posting the text with longer chapters and way less art. Maybe one panel per. Hope that works. Thx! :)

Index

[the-smallest-star]

The stranger

It had stayed out there all night, hammering against the barrier like a wild animal. Hannah knew it had been annoying Cromwell and he was probably not far away from doing something about it... but something was bothering her about it.

She got up earlier than normal before anyone would usually come wake her, the sun only just starting to peek over the castle. It was raining so she grabbed her umbrella and headed out.

Sure enough the beast was still there, though its clawing and growling and punching was weaker. If this was normal an animal would of just walked away or taken a break... but it hadn’t. Upon seeing her it snarled and tried to push harder, but it didn’t have the energy.

“... hello?” Hannah tried to speak with it, but again no reaction. It must have some kind of intelligence, it wore clothes. Sparky popped into existence, hissing at it before looking to Hannah and nudging into her, trying to encourage her back inside. “Sparky, somethings wrong. Can you take a look for me? I don’t think it’ll attack you....” Hannah asked, the floating friend puffing out slightly in annoyance.

If it would keep her from leaving the barrier.

Bobbing over to the beast Hannah was right, it didn’t even react to the warm glow nearby even as he passed the barrier. Examining it Sparky gave a small chirp and moved the shawl enough to show a heavy iron like collar. It thrummed strangely, causing glowing blue lines to show beneath the fur and skin of the beast.

Maybe Hannah was right.

Suspicions further proven Hannah approached, remaining in the barrier as she stood at the very edge and raised her hand. She could see the seam and focused on it, her crystal like gems starting to grow out of it and straining the metal. It took a minute or two, it was sturdy to prevent it from coming off, sparks flickering from it as the beast growled and slammed against the barrier still.

CRACK. CLINK.

The heavy collar fell to the ground, blue blood coated metal prongs that protruded from it. The beast staggered a moment though its striking finally stopped and it slumped to the ground heavily, unconscious. Sparky snuffled and nudged around it, finding a metal slim card holder of some kind. Picking it up the orb returned to Hannah and handed it over.

Opening the container Hannah found a few things; an odd green rock on the end of a leather like thread like a necklace, a weird metal flat circle with a button on it... and what looked like an ID card with the beast’s face on it written in a language she didn’t understand, but there was a name on it in letters she could make out.

“... Alvar Akita?” She read aloud, noticing the beast’s ear twitch but it still didn’t wake. This wasn’t a monster... it was a person of some kind. Looking at her umbrella she carefully extended it past the barrier, laying it against this Alvar person to shelter their head from the rain. “Can you watch them Sparky? I’m gonna get the first aid kit.” Hannah watched her friend nod, with that she hurried off back into the castle.

[rhpsdys]

for a unpredictable child-like ... being ... the collector seemed to go out to play with king around the same time everyday. which mean that eda could sneak out and see raine. checking in to make sure they were okay. though they were never much for conversation like this, it was still nice to see they were ... okay. it didn't mean eda didn't miss them and that she didn't spend as much time filling raine in on what they've missed so far. how lilly was trying to help keep the curse at bay, though it was a lot harder than you'd think when it was the end of the world as they all knew it. she sighs, sitting up a bit awkwardly. slapping her hand against her tigh as she makes her way back to the broken cage door. hand gentle on their shoulder, though she wonders if they can hear her. " i'll bring you back, just hang in there rainestorm. " the end of the world came quickly -- and a lot quieter than eda would ever expect. staring up at raine, her raine -- but the face that looked back wasn't recognizable. even as a puppet play thing for the collector she still knew it was raine underneath. this? this wasn't them. they'd never hurt her, even when they'd been pretending. " give me back -- " she growls, from her place on the ground, far from defeated but definitely worse for wear. after all she couldn't being herself to return the attacks. just dodging as best as she could. arm shaking as she pushes herself up to her feet once more. nothing but her normal form before them. she couldn't -- wouldn't hurt them. never again. when she speaks once more, it's loud. angry. her own voice and the owl beast's mixing together. " give. me. back. my. raine. " ( @iorast xoxo totally a legit eda blog )

you CAN hear her, even if the voice sounds echoy && far away, && your clouded mind struggles to remember — you know her, at least. you always would.

it's ironic. that she should be with you, at the end of everything, after you abandoned her && spent so long running. here she is, at your side.

then he returned, && you can hear him inside your head. a fight for control is futile — you already had no control of your body. the stringless puppet has found its puppeteer at last.

no, no, no —

even as your body is steered toward you, you're helpless. even all your mental fortitude cannot eject this usurper from your mind, && you're forced only to watch from behind glassy eyes as your own hands batter her to the floor.

fight back. please fight back. you know she won't, though. at least you can't do magic like this — a green tendril shoots out from your hand ( ?!?!?! ) toward her. okay. maybe you can, though it's nothing like any spell you've ever seen. there's something deeply wrong with belos. more than the obvious.

you can feel your mind clouding over as the presence of thing inside you grows.

eda...

UNPROMPTED.

[tiens-letters]

Oohh another request haha. I love this thank you and i hope you like it :>

were the bruises to your heart worth it?

Childe angst

You mulled over your sister's words for the nth time today. Her voice playing on loop inside your head, drifting in and out of a mundane daydream.

"why are you still with him?" you wondered as well as to why you still stuck with Ajax, all these days in 3 years of being wit him. Perhaps it was devotion, it was love to persevere even in the wrath of crumbling times and yet why does your heart ache a little more these days he's been far from you.

The days when he would come home, wounded and tired you were there to nurse him back. Back then it was something you'd do out of care and worry, which was until these recent days where it felt as if it were a job you didnt want to do as he would shrug you off instead and locking himself in another room. You barely remember the time where you both shared a quiet night basking in each other's presence, with limbs in a tangle and your forehead upon his beating chest, it was almost none existent as the home you both had felt so utterly desolate, void of the homey ambience.

Youve endured a month of his uncalled behaviour, breaking you even further as things slipped from your grasp leaving you empty and in agony. There were times you'd silently let tears fall as he slept so soundly beside you, unbothered by your pain. He's become more and more as the harbinger you forgot him to be and not your darling lover Ajax.

He never noticed your puffy eyes, sunken cheeks and dwindling weight yet he noticed all the small mistakes youve made. Where one day, left you with a bruise on the arm due his snake like grip after blowing up on you right after he came home from a long journey to sumeru.

You left. 

Childe came home earlier than expected, once again tired and nursing a few minor wounds on his body. All he wanted was your touch on his skin as you lulled him to sleep only that to his utter surprise that the house was empty. Perhaps you went out for an errand or for another pot of your favourite flower that you kept in the small garden at the back.

Not giving it too much thought, he lounged on the couch awaiting your return, eyelids soon drooping as the soft pillow coaxed him to sleep.

As the grandfather clock swings its pendulum, the sound echoing through the whole room signifying the arrival of midnight, an eerie sound waking Childe back to consciousness. Groggy from rising he scanned the room only to find it darker than before, if it werent for the nearby lamp he switched open, he swore he couldve been swallowed by the darkness.

Were you not home yet?

A dreadful feeling washed over him as your presence was nowhere around the house. He called out for you as he rushed through the halls, a sliver of hope vanishing every corner turned and every door opened led to nothing but misery.

You always leave a note as to where you are going and yet it was another one out of the many abnormalities in his home.

"Darling? Please i hope youre not playing with me!" he calls out to no one in particular, denying the fact of your existence gone with the wind. Your clothes were all intact and so does your other belongings. He thought of every possibility of what couldve befallen his lover, mostly gravitating towards the worst of the worst case scenarious and may the archons forbid, he would never recover from the blow.

"Where are you?!"

Then it dawned on him after much pondering and pulling his falling parts together. The things he did, the words he said it all came flooding through him like a rushing cold river, hitting him fair and square in the chest and came forth an otherworldly pain and regret. He gasps, almost suffocating by the weight of his sins and he wished he had died right then and there in atonement for his crimes.

Soon his vision became bleary as eyes misted over with tears that fell freely from his ocean eyes. He ruined it. Ruined you.

And yet he could not let you go.

Days seemed to pass by so fast that it had already been 5 months of liberation from Ajax's presence. You were slowly building yourself up once again, the temple that was torn down by a single crack, slowly being rebuilt brick by brick.

Your love for Ajax, even if it left quite the bruise to your heart, it was still there, lingering in the air and a part of you missed him so. You wondered how he would be doing, you wondered if he looked for you just as you did when he didnt come home on the date set, you wonder if he wept when he couldnt feel you next to him, just as you did 150 days ago. You wondered if he ever called your name all the while giving a lingering kiss to the painting that hung on the foyer. You wondered if what you both had, had any significance to him at all.

"Stop doing that." you jolted from where you sat, the book falling off your lap as you met your sister's stern glare from across the room.

"Stop doing what?"

"You are thinking about Tartaglia again. Its been over 5 months and that blundering fool never made an effort to find you much less apologize for what he did when you were still there." there was anger in her voice as she recounted the day you came to her door, teary eyed and just utterly torn. Never once did she felt like murdering someone so bad, especially when it had you, her only family involved.

"Im sorry, I-i just--"

"Hush now." she came over in her elegant strides to take you in her arms, the familiar scent of your mother's favorite perfume stayed on her like second skin and you were so grateful that you had her. You let yourself cry in her embrace in quiet comfort.

Childe never stopped.

Secretly searching for atleast a tiny clue of your whereabouts wore him down to the bone and yet he never gave up. How could he? Even if he thought he was so undeserving of you he still pushed on to right what wrong he's made. The details gathered had been insufficient to serve as a lead making Childe more desperate in his attempt to search for you. Nights were spent on scouring places and information seeking and his work, only done in the daytime. He never wasted a wink on sleep as it was an obstacle to getting closer to you and even when his body collapsed due to exhaustion of overworking all he could think was you.

The search has led a certain fatui informant who works for one of the harbingers. With a note slipped in secrecy on a specific time containing an address on the small parchment. It was all Childe needed to fuel his buried hope as he took off towards snezhenaya.

He never imagined he'd arrive right in front of the iron gates that encased the whole estate atop a mountain. The wind bellowed stronger than before as the snow rained harder upon the place. Luckily, he was born in this region and had survived throughout. 

He wondered why you came here, to such a dreadful place but then again, anywhere was better than right by him.

Trying to push open the gates only to be repelled by cryo magic, burning through his gloves and into his skin, leaving fresh burns on his palms as he gasped in pain. Whoever lives here clearly didnt want anyone trespassing much less had a fancy for guests.

He was starting to grow cold as his energy was slowly being siphoned by days of travel, it would only take a matter of time before he passes out.

He calls out, hoping someone inside would hear him.

And you did, only that it seemed like the wind but the time you looked outside the library window, you saw a person outside the gates. The familiar ginger hair tousled with the wind and as you strained your ears to hear and that was when it filled your ears, Ajax's voice. Something you havent heard in quite a long time.

As quick as lightning you stood, half running half gliding through the halways and down the stairs, there was no coherent thought, only him. He was freezing outside the barrier and you pushed yourself more to reach him.

Your figure stepping out through the door was almost like a dream to him. Your name oh so longingly leaving his bluing lips.

"Ajax!" you were in time as you caught his figure which seemed lighter than before. He clung to you, legs desperately tryinf to hold him up. You were here, right in his arms, alive and warm.

"Im sorry. Im so sorry. Please I love you." he rambles on, like a mantra he apologizes over and over again, sobbing and stumbling on his words as he held you so achingly close "Forgive me. Forgive me..."

"Step away from him this instant." your sister, Signora hisses from behind you, just as you were about to coax Ajax she already had a cryo dagger aimed at his head

"Sister please!" you plead, your panic growing as you saw Ajax huffing in labored breaths "Let him come inside or he will freeze to death."

Signora sees the urgency in your eyes and the undying devotion you still hold for the man in your arms. She dematerializes the dagger with a wave of her hand.

"Fine but if I see tears in your eyes then dont you ever dare stop me from what Im going to do to him."

"Thank you sister." you smile at her as she steps backs inside the house and you follow in after her with Ajax leaning on you for support. Once inside, you had him lay on the couch by the fire after helping him out of his winter garments and replacing it for a knitted quilt.

"Im sorry." bloodshot ocean eyes looked at you with so much guilt and a love that you almost forgot "I-i im so so sorry."

"Lets talk about this after youve rested." this time you couldnt look at him, the ache in your heart throbs from the bruises it still nursed. You stood before falling further only for him to catch your shaking hand with his equally shaking one.

"Dont leave." he whimpers, the fear of abandonment increasing as he pleaded for you to stay. instead, you let go of his hand and placed yours instead over his eyes making him uncharacteristically shriek surprising you even more, making you think what other worldly pain he was experiencing as of  the moment. "No! No No.  Please Its dark." 

Ajax cries as he thrashed around because he feared that if he sleeps he would go back to the nightmare of you not by his side and that would leave him all cold and alone just like in the past. he didnt want to go back there, not now when he's seen you. As much as he'd hate to admit, he was truly and utterly terrified but you had to let him rest and with the help of your vision he finally succumbed to a dreamless, peaceful sleep. Only that he calmed down did you notice how much he's lost, where your once sunken cheeks, puffy eyes and weight loss now transferred to him and it made you sick to your stomach. your lips found his forehead as you wished him a good rest, you left the room after bandaging his burned hands to gather yourself for when he finally came to his sensible self.

when you thought it was going to take a full day for him to wake up  only to find him stumbling about in the living room calling your name on his lips like a broken record. you immediately rushed down and burst into the room to find him clutching his head and gasping breathlessly. he looked crazed until he caught sight of you standing by the door, a worried look on your face was when he finally came to. he ran to you, clung to you like it was the last day of the world to live and sighed into your welcoming smell. 

"are you alright now?" you ask him as you part in arms width 

"Hit me." he tells you in all seriousness in his worn out state 

"W-what?" you were certain he was still out of it until he grabbed your hand in an attempt to hit himself to which you stopped immediately 

"Hit me! Scream at me all you want. Call me words Ive called you. Ive broken you! Do you not see that?!" funny how he couldnt see himself, he who's become worse over the course of the months . his tone rose and fell until it was only a whisper above his panting 

"Just dont abandon me." he shuts his eyes, steeling himself for your judgment  until he felt your hands on his face again, making soothing circles on his cheek 

"look at me Ajax." you coax him and he did and he could see assurance and the love for him still remained and he wanted to cry again but tears have long gone abandoned him and left him in such a regretful state, he truly didnt deserve you and you never deserved to be treated that way. "Youve hurt me yes and nothing can change that but I wasnt planning on you leaving you. I couldnt as I love you too much that I wouldnt imagine life without you but Ajax, the things you did to me, to us,  was painful." 

"I know and Im so sorry." he held himself from rambling as the pain in chest grew even more burdensome, something he would willingly carry as he vows to himself to never hurt you and if he did  then he would tear himself down "I love you" 

"and I to you Ajax. Just promise me that when you are having a hard time, let us talk it out and not result to screaming and painful banters." 

"I promise darling. on my life and everything in this world. I vow to never cause you pain like I did and to only give you love and care that someone like you deserve." 

there he was, your Ajax. He was home. 

[littlefreya]

Velvet Chains

Summary: For a generous fee, August Walker is yours. A man devout to pleasure, who will worship you for an entire night and make sure your first time is more than memorable. 

Promot:  

 A thought - August as a gigolo who specializes in deflowering. 👌

Pairing: Soft! August Walker x Virgin Reader.  

Word count: 1.6K

Warnings: 18+. August Walker as a sex-worker, sexual intercourse, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, a depiction of bodily fluids, soft!August themes, a tinge of angst and August’s monster c... 

A/N: When I received this prompt, I didn’t think I can actually do it justice, but it was 3am and I started dabbling around. Then in the morning, I took another look at it, and this little drabble turned into a one-shot. I hope you’ll like it, I hope I did well. Many thanks to @agniavateira​ my muse who beta’d my story. 

Please give feedback and reblog if you enjoyed reading. 🖤 DM if you want to be added to my tag squad. 

Title: Velvet Chains

They were all little flowers to him, fresh peonies and flushed roses. Young or mature, it never mattered as long as they were still oh so pure. Undefiled, succulent flesh. Kissed by dew and wrapped by the last remaining petals of their innocence.

All for him to willfully pluck.

Sprayed with notes of tobacco, and boozy fragrance of rum - August Walker was the top-tier kind of service, a man to die for with his three-piece suits and shiny leather shoes. At one point he didn’t even need to self-promote; they came to him, all doe-eyed and coy, willing to pay as much as it takes to have him breach through the sealed gates of their garden.   

The rules were quite simple: Cash in advance and always wear protection; other than that anything goes. August liked to see himself as a procurer of fantasies rather than a male prostitute. For a generous fee of $1500, his girls earned themselves a night they never forgot. Whether it began with a dinner at the most outrageous restaurant, a masked ball at a billionaire’s mansion, or an intimate evening with his homemade cooking at a cosy sublet. 

It was up to him to choose the experience for the ladies after thoroughly assessing and profiling each client. He was never wrong; after all, it was his job to study women, both mentally and physically. 

“I know what you need,” he would murmur as he kissed down their navel and swept between their shaky thighs. And in his grip they indeed laughed, cried, and came undone so many times over, reaching out to grasp heaven around his unapologetically huge cock.  

Until you changed everything. 

August couldn’t quite crack you; while he enjoyed, savoured, and conquered every woman he had, it was you who seemed to have more power over him than he did over you. The quiet abyss in your eyes reeled him in like an unfortunate, foolish fish teetering on a hook. Whatever mysteries that mind of yours held, he wanted to pry it open with his fingers and brush them through the parchments of your soul. 

He desired you more than just the flesh; he wanted to be deeper in you than he ever was in any other woman. 

‘Who are you?’

Shivering in his presence, it was crystal clear that you weren’t immune to his spells; yet you didn’t seem impressed by the theatrics or his suave appearance. As if you saw right through him, and knew it was all but a spectacle.  

Wanting everyone to witness your ‘claiming’, he took you to the dimly-lit roof of his private apartment and laid you on a blanket beneath the beaming stars. When his lips touched yours while slowly ridding himself of his clothes, August felt like he could tell you his most kept secrets though he didn’t want to. 

This is not how it worked. Not for him. 

Sorrounded by the fairy tea-lights that adorned the intimate rooftope, you flinched as he began undressing you, and trembled so vehemently once completely bare that all he wanted was to embrace you in his big arms. And he did so, collecting you against the dark fur of his chest, the heat of his body provided shelter from the cold October breeze.

“Beautiful,” he whispered sincerely and allowed his hands to roam the tender map of your body. Likely, he would never see you again, so he wanted to remember every curve, dimple, and scar; he needed your moans imprinted in the museum of his mind. 

The same desperate, breathless pleas only a virgin would make, purer than pure.

Breathing in shudders, you laid down beneath him with your legs spread out. Your little untouched slit displayed to his hungering gaze, asking to be reshaped by his intrustment. August was never one to lose control, but your entire existence has made him question every decision and in a moment of frivolousity, he lost himself completely and broke the most forbidden rule: 

He entered you bare. 

Painfully large and hot as flaming iron, his rigid cock tore through your maidenhood and delved into your velvety pit, desperately searching for the engulfing shelter that was your womb. Weeps of pain rained down your lips; he was too big, and he didn’t slow down. He unwrapped you, tearing your rose petals one by one, sinking in until you could have sworn he was infused between your lungs. 

Overwhelmed by the raw sensation of your wet flesh engulfing him, August raked his arm around the small of your back and held your body against his, forcing you to spread wider, to grant him the infinite access he demanded.

“Look at me kitten,” he murmured in a half-breathless, half-soothing voice and showered hasty butterfly kisses across your forehead, “I’m inside you. It’s done, now let me please you.”

He seared your body, your sensitive entrance pulsating with a twinge of grieving anger around his veiny cock, your walls squeezing, fighting off his lewd intrusion. While you anticipated the pain, the initial shock was too much to bear. 

“I don’t think I can take you,” you retorted and swallowed hard, trying not to cry as he swelled and flinched inside you further more.

August reached a hand to your jaw and caged it between his strong fingers. Not saying a word, he stared intensely into your eyes. Smoke and broken mirrors shadowed his glare. In your daze, you swore you could see his reveries and hear him whisper without moving his lips. 

The barriers of your guarded castle were in ruins, and so was your self-preservation. Fully submitting, you allowed him to take you beneath the shimmering, black silks of midnight. 

August was both gentle and rough as he rode between your thighs, his heavy body surrounding you completely. His entity seeped through your lungs and pores, his bewhiskered mouth left sloppy, ticklish kisses and chanted a hymn of pleasure against your neck. 

For a slight moment, you wondered if he was this passionate with all of his customers. But all thoughts died at the moment his crown slammed into the wall of your womb, and the entirety of your existence was flooded with both the tremors of sudden pleasure and satisfying pain. 

You wanted more, you wanted to be complete. To be completely his.

“Oh god, yes!” You cried for him, clawing your nails at the taut muscles of his back.

Grunting, he plunged into you, harder with every pull and deeper with every thrust. He sought for heaven between your legs and as inexperienced and naive as you were, you followed your instincts and complied to his arousal. Bucking your hips, you yielded to meet the jerk of his hips - your rhythm a savage mess, your demeanour that of a virgin-whore. 

“Good girl, my good girl,” August praised, thrilled of the shift in you, and by the helpless, glossy gaze and gaping mouth as you moaned and begged. Your freshly open cunt clung to his invasion with its growing tightness. Holding onto him the way the moon is bound to earth.

Control was gradually lost over your own bodies, enslaved to something stronger than your wills and wits. It was as if you became vessels to haunting spirits that made you slam into one another, lost in a sweaty, carnal trance until a flush of sudden rapture broke between your legs the way raging waves break upon a ship lost at sea, consuming it completely.

Like a dauntless sailor, August followed you into the depths of euphoria. Jumping to his knees, he hauled you by the waist and slammed you against him, needing to be balls-deep within you. With a loud shout, he came undone, astonished by the raw, unbridled sensation of releasing himself inside another person.

You both shuddered in shock as his thick cum bathed your womb in three, warm gushes. 

‘Oh, August, what have you done?’

Spent, he nearly collapsed on top of you, holding his hands flat to the side of your head. He took a deep breath before pulling out from your hurting hole and moving to lie by your side. The pink mixture of your essence trickled between your simmering lips just the way it coated his still-swollen cock. Glancing down upon it he felt an odd notion of triumph, more than the usual complacent feeling usually evoked with his clientele. 

“Don’t worry, I am clean.” He promised. 

In a way, you were his first as well.

Pulling you against him, he nuzzled your neck and hummed lowly, “I don’t imagine you could give me anything.”

Still trying to land back on solid ground, you said nothing. Words didn’t make it, not through your chest nor your head. You basked within the moment, trying to memorise every vibration that flowed through your veins as the glow became dimmer with every passing minute.

Limbs entangled, he decorated your shoulder-blade with honey-sweet kisses while your spine attached to his hairy chest. He watched you quietly, admiring you completely until the two of you fell into a dreamless sleep under the guarding sky. 

Come morning, August was awakened by the sounds of the raging street below. The scent of toxic vapours hung heavy in the air and his face curled at the sounds of the beeping horns. For a moment, he forgot where he was but then you were the first thing on his mind. Even though he knew the deal was for one night only, something in him itched for a generous ‘on-the-house’ lazy morning sex.

As he rolled to lie on top of you, his chest felt abruptly empty. He was met with nothing but the defiled blanket.

You were gone.   

Though the scent of your body, your sweat, and viscous fluids were still stuck to his skin, your memory a sheer piece of silk carried away by the cruel wind. The weight of a thousand stones dropped in August’s gut and he flipped onto his back once more and stared at the cloudy sky. 

It resonated in him that this was all that it was, and he would never find a girl like you again.     

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own

*I don’t own August Walker or the Mission: Impossible Franchise

[angelicspaceprince]

The Eye of the Storm (Lightning Storms pt. 1/5)

Author: Toby

Title: The Eye of the Storm (Lightning Storms pt.1)

Pairing: Scaramouche/Reader

Character/s: Scaramouche/Reader

Word Count: 3, 250 words

Warnings: GRAPHIC CONTENT FOR THIS SERIES (18+ only) - Specifics for this chapter: Yandere!Scaramouche, kidnapping, (not in extreme detail) electro play, scarring, torture, hints of non-con, death and non-con somnophilia.

Tags: N/A

Prompt: You never wanted this, you never wanted to be the captive of a harbinger, trapped in a house in a country that you do not know anything about. How did it get to this? You had no idea, but you also know that whatever you did to earn this cruel and unique punishment, it was not worth it.

Notes: So when Scaramouche came out, he gripped me by my throat and shoved me into a wall to which I simply looked up at him and said 'harder Daddy'. Idk why he has me in such a grip, but he does. So. This was the first series I wrote about him (only one chapter left!). The series has extremely dark content explored, more so in chapters 2 and 4 but it's still mentioned in some detail in chapters 1, 3 and 5 (when it's posted). PLEASE read the content warnings before proceeding - if you decide to read anyway, I'm in no way responsible for any upset that my fic may cause as you have had your warnings.

In any case! Uh. Yandere might be my thing now? I have a lot of dark yandere fics planned so yeah. Get ready?

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The Eye of the Storm

‘Barely two words in and you already look like you want me dead.’

‘You’ve changed! You’re growing weak.’

Those two sentences replay in your head over and over as you try to take a steady breath, the sound of thunder rolling around you as the rain continues to pelt down against the walls of this too large house you were currently being held in.

It has been, what, nearly a year since your arrival in Inazuma? You weren’t entirely sure, time moved so fast and yet so slow since your imprisonment. It had, ironically, felt like an eternity since you were shoved off the Fatui’s transportation boat and onto the docks of one of the country’s many islands. Your visit here had been less for sightseeing and more out of forced necessity - the Fatui had called your captor to return to his homeland urgently, causing him to uproot you from your home in Liyue and force you to travel with him.

You didn’t have anything to do with the Harbingers - Childe had introduced himself once when you happened to walk past the Northland Bank, and you were subsequently freaked out enough to avoid him and the entire area since. You hadn’t had much interaction with the Fatui Harbingers in your hometown of Mondstadt, but the rumours were enough for you to know that it was in your best interest to avoid them as much as possible.

So, with all that being the case - you had no idea as to how or why you managed to catch your jailor’s attention, let alone keep him entertained enough that he decided this was a valid way to let his so-called affections be known. You had theorised, perhaps, that during the time when the meteorites were striking all over Liyue that your attempts to help those afflicted had garnered his attention. That, after all, was the only noteworthy thing you had done within recent times. But the ever elusive, ever secretive Inazuman never revealed as to how he came to know of your existence.

Instead, he kept you safe and sound, away from anyone and everyone, adorned in the finest silks, fabrics and jewels Tevyat had to offer - as if that made any difference to your current situation. Even the maids and other Fatui members steered clear from you in fear of what the short-tempered balladeer may do. Your life has become very lonely and very monotonous. You’d wake up in the arms of the only person you’ve ever truly hated in your life, have your chain removed from the bedpost and be escorted into the bathroom, be washed, dressed, before escorted yet again to this barely adorned room in the center of the house, well guarded by as many Fatui members as realistically could be assigned in the house. You would kneel in the same position you are in now, your hands resting neatly in your lap as your chain was attached to the floor, ignoring the grating sound of being wished a good day and a pair of lips pressing a kiss against your forehead, and then you’d be left alone. At first, food and drink was brought to you. Breakfast would always be waiting for you, and a silent, terrified maid would bring you fresh tea, lunch and snacks whenever the time dictated it. But, when it became apparent you were refusing to eat anything, either out of spite or out of fear of it being poisoned as your captor had once threatened you with during your desperate attempt to escape, food was no longer brought to you throughout the day. Instead, once the balladeer returned home and graced you with his presence, you would both be served dinner and, if you continued to refuse to eat, he would simply force you under threat or by hand to consume whatever he deemed was enough to keep you alive and healthy.

You had fought, at first. Clawing at your collar in a desperate attempt to remove it, attempting to remove the man’s eyes as he slept or choke him when he was in the bath. The scars that now litter across your body serve as a reminder as to what happens when you attempt to flee or hurt your prison guard. That didn’t stop your sass, however. Every comment he made, be it positive or negative, you had a retort, reminding him that he was a monster, that you would never return his affection, no matter how hard he tried. As it turns out, his words are just as electric as his hands, and dark promises of friends and family being hurt because of you became his favourite way to keep you compliant. In the beginning, you attempted to call his bluff, only for the news of your brother’s death to reach your way. It wasn’t known if the Fatui were involved, but you knew that the balladeer had some part to play in his untimely demise.

So, you remained silent. Answered when it was demanded out of you. Stayed in your cold, barren room as you await his return, where he would try to stir you up, attempting to get any reaction from you. Whether he succeeded or failed would determine the rest of your evening. Either you returned to bed, laid there as he used you for his own sexual relief and gratification, before being pulled back into his arms for the night. Although you did get sleep those nights, it was rarely peaceful, and never enough. The nights where you snapped back, however. Oh. You knew those were the balladeer’s favourites.

He’d forgo sleep for hours, spending the time belittling you, torturing you, attempting to break you to his whim, all with a cold, empty smile gracing his face. The one you had seen when he interacted with people that would be of some use to him, when he wanted something from them. And, in a way, this was no different.

You’d often be dragged, whimpering and bleeding, back to your shared room, your entire body screaming in agony from the electric jolts you had received as he threw you onto the bed and continued his torture there, not caring that your tears, your blood and your snot were beginning to stain the sheets. All that mattered was his entertainment, and your eventual obedience. You never won a battle against him, and over time, your resilience to his aggression had decreased. Your begging for him to stop came much sooner, your attempts to back away were no longer as desperate, your attempts to fight back were almost non-existent. He was so close to breaking you completely, you could feel it.

Last night was the worst of all. You had barely lasted five minutes before your begging had begun, pulling yourself into a kneeling position as you pleaded for him to stop as shock after shock was delivered against your system. You realise now, in retrospect, you were lucky he didn’t pull out his knife that night, instead using his hand to mark your thigh with electro. The purple mark still glows now, nearly a full day later, and is on clear display for the world to see thanks to the robe the man picked out for you this morning.

You still couldn’t see past those two sentences, those two lines that seem to mock you again and again.

‘Barely two words in and you already look like you want me dead.’

The feeling of your bloody spit hitting its mark on his face still fills you with a small sense of pride, remembering the rage that boiled your blood from his previous remarks. ‘Maybe it’s because I do! You’re fucked, you’re a monster! All I want in this life is to walk over your cold, dead body after you have been slayed by the Archons - maybe then I will finally find some peace.’

Each word you had said rings perfectly true in your mind, as does the look of pure excitement that graced your captor’s face at your mistake. He never took threats against his life well, and always seemed to find glee in your pain. ‘Oh, pathetic, little Y/N.’ He mocked, grabbing you by the chain that was wrapped around his hand and pulling until you choked. It almost felt like every scar he had gifted you before burned in warning and in fear. ‘You never learn, do you?’

It was in that moment, you realised how grave of a mistake you had made.

You can still remember the searing pain of his hand against your thigh as he watched you squirm and cry, laughing at your desperate attempts to push him away from you, mocking your pleas to stop. ‘What a pathetic little pup, barely able to handle the tiniest amount of pain.’ He stated as he pushed his hand in firmer, determined to leave his permanent mark on you. ‘When will you learn, Y/N? You’re mine . And there is nothing that your bitching can do to stop that.’

You were in so much pain, you could feel your body begin to grow tired from the amount of electricity it had been forced to endure. Somehow, the balladeer was always successful in only giving you enough to hurt and not enough to cause a seizure or cause permanent damage beyond the scarring he loved to leave behind. A talent within itself, if you were desperate to find anything positive about the man. ‘Please, please stop.’ You slurred out as your body started to grow limp against the floor.

You can remember his laughter clearly, and too his amusement at your pleas. ‘You’ve changed! You’re growing weak.’ His hand seemed to ghost over your cheek just as a pitiful whimper leaves your dried-out throat. ‘Soon, you’ll break. And I can’t wait for that day.’ 

‘Please, please let me go.’ You had stopped trying to hold back your tears the moment he allowed the first shock to grace your body. He seemed entertained by your weeping, merely wiping away your tears with his thumb as he moves your head to rest in his lap.

‘Dear, sweet Y/N. You know that will never happen, you and I? We were meant to be, even if you can’t see it yet. And you are simply too weak to leave. What do you think would happen if I let you go? Let you wander a country you barely know, with a decree which would leave you stranded and homeless amongst every other foreigner?’ His voice pretended to be caring, his hands stroking your hair in a faux attempt to appear loving and to soothe your anxieties. ‘This is why you need me. To protect you. To keep you in line. To remind you that you belong to me .’ The last thing you remember before your consciousness started to wane was him leaning down to lick away at the tear tracks your weeping had left behind.

And then. Nothing.

You woke up the next morning, body achy, the smell of burnt skin and blood filling the air, the sound of rain slowly beginning to pick up on the roof above you, and the feeling of a too heavy arm resting around your waist, and the small huffs of air ghosting over the back of your neck. If it wasn’t for the pain of your thighs resting together, aggravating what would no doubt be a new scar, it would be just like any other morning. Down to the feeling of stickiness dripping from out of your sore cunt and the amused rumble that comes from the balladeer’s chest right before he presses a kiss against your pulse point, simply greeting you with a ‘good morning’.

It still does your head in, how could a man be so cruel? How could he have grown so obsessed with you without ever meeting you? How could all of this have happened?

You want to cry, you want to sob, but all of the tears you have wept in mourning for your past life have long since dried away. All you could do was survive, and hope that someday soon, you would be allowed to see your beloved Liyue or Mondstat once more.

Your ears prickle at the sound of the door opening, the muffled sounds of shouting echoing throughout the large estate that was apparently in the balladeer’s name. Ah. It appears he was home.

You count down from 20, almost feeling the vibrations of his careful footsteps approaching you. Today mustn’t have been a good day. You can only hope and pray to whichever Archon was listening that he wouldn’t take out his frustrations on you.

You feel yourself straighten up as he enters the room, ignoring how he automatically comes to kiss your temple. “I see you have yet to move from your usual position.” The amusement in his voice grates on you. “Did you behave yourself today, pup?”

There it is. The nickname given to you by a dear friend now having turned into a derogatory and degrading title. You have to keep yourself from snapping straight away, but as a result, time drags between his question and your response. “I’m waiting for my answer, pup.” He says it with emphasis, as if he wants to see you react negatively. You can’t tell from his empty tone, but you know deep down that’s what he wants.

Your eyes open, your gaze automatically laying down by his feet. ‘Don’t look up unless he tells you to.’ You remind yourself.

“Yes. I spent all day simply enjoying the feeling of the sun against my skin.” You report, trying to keep your voice as monotone as possible.

Just as you finish your sentence, a rather loud clap of thunder calls out your lie. Your captor’s eyes narrow, you can feel his glare piercing into you. “Now, Y/N. You wouldn’t be lying to me now?” His voice sounds dangerous, tension thick in the room.

You are quick to backpedal, keeping your voice as quiet and as monotone as before. “Merely a joke, sir.” You somehow reply without flinching.

He hums. “Perhaps we need to work on your sense of humour next. Even if I’m glad to see you in better spirits than you were this morning.” It’s clear to everyone in this room that the balladeer is the one who is lying now. “I think I’m ready to forgive you for your misdemeanor yesterday.” He continues nonchalantly, moving to take a seat across from you, your eyes staying firmly placed in the small part of the tatami mat between the two of you. Silence rings between the two of you as he clearly waits for an answer. “Don’t go testing me now, Y/N.” His voice lowers, the darkness you had grown so accustomed to providing enough bite to his tone that you flinch in reaction.

“Thank you.” You finally get out, tense and clearly not genuine.

You hear yet another faint hum. “Thank you what ?” He prompts.

You hesitate. There were, in theory, two correct answers to this question. The issue was, only one of those answers were correct at any given time. You decide to go with the option that you were more comfortable with, and one that surely would make him somewhat happy. “Thank you, master.” You murmur, loud enough to be heard over the pealtering rain, but only barely.

A small, amused huff causes your heart to sink. “You’ve behaved well enough today that you can call me by my name.” You can hear the smirk, see the amused glint in his eyes at your refusal to say his name. Your eyes narrow as you glare into the mat in front of you, precious seconds ticking by.

He moves so fast and silently that you barely have time to react, his hand moving to grasp at yours, pinching your cheeks together as he forces you to look up at him. You move your gaze quickly to avoid looking at his face, not wanting to see the monster dressed as a man. He tuts, squeezing just that bit firmer. “And here I thought we were making progress.” He sighs. You can hear the crackle of electricity, the air filling with static as you feel the hair on the back of your neck slowly start to stand on edge. But it takes you a moment to realise that rather than coming from outside, it was coming within the room. Your heart freezes, your body trembling, as you prepare for the pain that is about to come. “You still have time to make it up to me, pet.” The purr in his voice only makes you want to stab him harder. “Be a good pup and say. My. Name.”

You swallow, trying to steady yourself once more. He knew how much you hate his name, how it made you feel vile, how it felt like swallowing the deadliest of poisons. But the sound of electro slowly coming closer means you have to make a quick choice. Poison, or a slow, painful death that seemed never ending, that you will have to experience again once you disobey him.

Swallowing poison was slowly becoming your favourite choice.

“Scaramouche.” You whisper, somehow succeeding in making it sound less like a hated statement and more like a breathless confession.

“Look at me.” Your eyes automatically snap up to his cold, lifeless gaze. Sure enough, his hand is by your side, ready to reach out and touch your neck, no doubt infused with electro, his grip around your cheeks slowly relaxing before moving to grip at your chin to prevent you from looking away once again. “Thank me again.”

You nearly refuse, this had gone on far enough. But the burning of your latest mistake still echoing from your thigh is enough to make you reconsider your initial first reaction.

“Thank you, Scaramouche.”

“For?”

“For saving me, for keeping me, for loving me.” You recite, having been at the receiving end of this lecture many a time before. Still. You had never said it before, but it seemed to flow out of you like a river. “Thank you for forgiving me.” You add at the end, noticing his hand slowly lowering out of sight from the corner of your eye.

You let out a small sound of protest when suddenly his lips are on yours, pressing firmly with no intent of pulling away. You don’t dare to move a muscle, waiting for him to break away. At the small nip to your bottom lip, you open your mouth enough for his tongue to roughly enter. You don’t respond to his attempts to pull you into this forced, supposedly passionate kiss, instead you wait patiently for him to stop so you can continue your night as per whatever perverted ritual he had determined the evening to follow.

“Good pup.” Archons, you want to punch that smirk right off his face when he pulls away. The condescending pat against your face causes your cheeks to burn in frustration as he sits back. Dinner is served and he automatically goes to start telling you about his day, complaining about a certain Traveller who seemed to be always getting in the way. You, as always, stayed the silent witness to his complaints.

As the storm outside rages on, you were grateful that it seems, at least for tonight, you had managed to prevent another from occurring within your elaborate jail cell.

Part 2 >>>

[eunoiaflow3r]

hard 2 face reality // spencer reid x fem!reader

spencer reid x reader

aaron hotchner x reader

part one - part three

a/n: a lot of people asked for part 2 to “not ur friend.” omg i didn’t expect it to blow up like it did. sorry this isnt the fluff conclusion you guys wanted...but i’m willing to make this a series maybe? idk it’s up to you guys. thank you for your feedback and support. (see notes at end)

also i tagged all the people who commented on part one.

warning(s): language. angst. not proofread. will be mistakes.

word count: 2.9k wow.

request(ed): yes. very requested. thank you @yeah-just-ignore-me-thanks for this idea.

summary: after hearing something she shouldn’t have, she has to deal with explanations and tough decisions.

hard 2 face reality by poo bear ft. justin beiber and jay electronics.

—————————————&————————————

sometimes it’s hard to face reality...even though you might get mad at me.

It’s ironic sometimes.

The twists and turns of life and the paths it puts you down. Sometimes you believed in fate but right now it only felt like a pain in the ass. Whoever was controlling your strings you hoped they would just give you a break, but no. There was always something more.

Last night, you had a dream. There was a memory within the dream. You and Spencer were cuddling on the couch watching a movie and his fingers were combing through your hair. From where you were, it was more like you were witnessing it instead of actually living it. You were just watching yourself fall harder for the man behind you. You were content. Happy even. You forgot all about your issues and problems and conflicts. You forgot about what Spencer said and the things he had done. You just forgot.

You watched as he took his fingers out of your hair and pushed you away. The you that you were watching was confused and so were you. Why would he do that? What was wrong with him? This wasn’t the memory.

Dream Spencer got up, put his shoes on, grabbed his bag, and was halfway out the door. Before he left completely he said, “We’re just friends. You’re not enough for me. You never will be.”

Dream you just sat there and stared blankly.

Your eyes opened and you stared up at your ceiling in sorrow. The tears just kept coming and you tried to keep yourself quiet but it was so hard, and you were so tired. You hated to admit it but you were in love with him. You were in love with a man who didn’t feel the same way. A man who did nothing but play you and pretend you were nothing. A man who lied.

How did this happen?

How did you end up in a position where you were in a cold bed crying about a man who was unphased? Someone who didn’t find anything wrong with their actions? How could you love someone who would never find the way to love you back and treat you right no matter how hard you wished? No matter how hard you hoped?

How could you do this to yourself?

And to think - in a few hours you’d have to wake up and see him again. After everything you realized and have come to terms with you’d have to see the man who was responsible for the ache in your heart.

————————————&———————————

When Spencer woke up the first thing he thought about was work. How he didn’t really want to go but he knows he has to. He thought about how heart wrenching the case he’s been on for the last week has been. He thought about how today he might actually be able to solve it...and then he thought about you.

He’d be seeing you.

Hotch invited you to help with the case. He figured your skill set would be exactly what they needed to solve it.

And yeah, you there definitely was for the better of the case but was it for the better of him?

He had no idea what to do. You were mad at him. You weren’t answering his phone calls or his texts and he figured out that you heard the conversation and he gets that maybe calling you a grandmother was wrong, but really what did he do?

He knew he missed you. He missed being able to rant to you, and you consoling him. He missed the movie days you guys had...but he could watch them on his own...right? He could figure out his own problems...he didn’t need anyone to help him. Especially not you. Not someone getting upset about the smallest of things.

That was so rude of you. Why would you ignore him? Why wouldn’t you reply to his texts are calls?

He thought that that was pretty selfish of you.

And yeah sure, maybe calling you clingy was a lie but was that really something to ignore him over? To throw it all away for?

Should've been adjusted to my life, had the opportunity to stay away for the last time...now you’re standin’ right in front of me. It hurts me to know that I lied. Tryna protect your feelings... you read in between the lines
Hope your heart has started healing

You arrived.

He saw you, bag over your shoulder, going straight towards Hotch’s office and ignoring him.

Not even a hello? Not a good morning? You hadn’t even looked at Emily or Morgan either. What had they done? What had he done?

From what he could tell you had been crying, but you covered it well. If it was anyone but him they wouldn’t have been able to tell but he could. Did you miss him too? Were you hurting?

———————————-&————————————

“Is something going on between you and Reid?”

Hotch was looking at you expecting an answer but you didn’t know what to tell him. According to Reid nothing had ever been going on.

“No. I’m really just trying to focus here.”

Hotch nodded. “Good.”

Truth is, it was very hard to ignore Spencer. He seemed so oblivious that it made you feel sorry for him. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t feel sorry for him. He wasn’t the one crying his eyes out at night and cussing out rom coms when they came on the television.

And you could tell he didn’t feel the same. He didn’t look how you felt. He looked conflicted, but he didn’t look sorry or hurt. His normalcy pained you. Had you really meant that little? Maybe you were over exaggerating things. No. You deserved an explanation - but you weren’t ready to hear it.

A while ago...

“Okay Y/N cover your eyes!”

You giggled. “No, Spencer why?”

“Just do it! I promise you’ll like it.”

You were sat criss crossed on the couch and Spencer was behind you with something in his hands. Before you could look at it he told you to close your eyes and he hid it behind his back. You smiled and closed your eyes waiting for whatever the surprise was.

You felt his fingers move your hair out of the way and you felt a coolness along your neck.

A necklace.

“Okay open.”

You could feel him grinning. You opened your eyes and looked down at your chest. You nearly gasped. On the end of the necklace was a miniature glass sculpture. When you met at the museum you told him that they were your favorite.

He remembered.

You held it in your hand and turned around to kiss him. He was a bit surprised but held your face in his hands and kissed you back.

“L/N!” You were snapped out of your head. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry.”

The necklace. You can’t believe you were still wearing it. It felt like the only thing holding you together which was strange since glass was so fragile. The metal necklace part felt like it was burning you. The happy memory burned you. You took the necklace from under your sweater and ripped it off your neck. You couldn’t wear it anymore. It hurt you, but you couldn’t hold on.

Reality is kinda hard to face, like actual facts is for flat-earthers. Rains a requirement for flowers to grow, and pains a requirement for power to grow. It’s a miracle how one can change, from one what was just hours ago.

When you got home that day you were happy and running on adrenaline. Yeah, you had to see Spencer...but you helped solve a case. You helped save someone. It was tiring, and gruesome just like what Spencer said but the feeling you get after helping someone? Unexplainable.

After changing out of your work clothes and into some jeans and a shirt, you’d thought you’d treat yourself to dinner. Maybe that would help you forget. Forget and move on. Besides, it was a nice little diner and you used to be a regular. You had wanted to bring Spencer but he never wanted to go. He never wanted to go out.

His loss.

When you got there the familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through. You had missed this. When everything was so simple and uncomplicated. When you could be you. Not wondering if today was the day Spencer would decide to come over or not. Or to even call. You could finally breathe. You weren’t in your stuffy apartment. You weren’t in a Spence filled work place. You were where you considered home in a city away from it.

“Y/N, hey!” Em the waitress called you over. You would consider her a friend. You two had always talked when you came through.

“Hey!” She went in for a hug and you hugged her back.

“Where have you been?”

You sighed. “Busy.”

She nodded. She understood. From there she asked you where you wanted to sit. You were just going to request the counter since you were alone, but when a little boy came up to you yelling your name, and wrapped his arms around you...you didn’t have the time to answer. It was little Jack.

“Hey buddy!” You hugged him back.

You looked around for Hotch. What a coincidence. He smiled and waved you over. You and Jack walked over to the booth and Hotch stood and hugged you. “I’m so sorry about Jack.”

“Oh no, it’s fine!”

About two years ago Hotch hired you to babysit Jack every once in a while. You needed the money. You were making enough from the paintings you sold but you needed more to finish college and save up. You weren’t going to some big expensive college or anything but still.

A little while later you met Spencer and it just became and inside joke.

“Would you like to eat with us?” Hotch asked.

“I don’t want to intrude Hotch...”

“Aaron.” He corrected while smiling. “Please, join us.”

And you did. You ate dinner with Aaron and Jack and you were having fun. This past month you had been moping around feeling sorry for yourself but you were actually happy. There was still that pain in your chest, and a part of you that longed to call Spencer and talk to him - but you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

After dinner Em invited you to go clubbing with her on Saturday. At first you were going to turn her down but you thought...why not? You didn’t have to stay up waiting for Spencer to call anymore. You didn’t have to cook or plan to order in in case Spencer decided to stop by. You didn’t have any plans.

“Sure Em, I’ll be there.”

“Great.”

She walked behind the counter and looked from you to Hotch. Like a suggestive look. Like a “ask him too!” look. And you weren’t ready for anything, and wasn’t even sure if you liked Aaron that way, and you still were in a gray area with Spencer...but you thought it’d be rude not to ask.

“Aaron...”

He nodded, urging you to go on.

“Do you want to go with me Saturday? I mean...I don’t really want to be alone..Em has a girlfriend and it might be fun.”

He laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “Yes Y/N I’ll go.”

When you got home and ready for bed you had this weight in your stomach. There was a lump in your throat, and your fingers tensed. You thought about Hotch and it made you feel like you were cheating on Spencer. But you weren’t. You and Spencer weren’t together. There was no need to feel guilty.

He didn’t.

———————————-&————————————

That Saturday came soon enough and you weren’t sure if you were ready. Physically yeah, you showered and got ready...but emotionally? Mentally? Was this a date? Had you asked Aaron out? Were you ready for that? Had you moved on from Spencer? No, of course not. But Aaron wasn’t a distraction either. You could never do that to him no matter how bad you felt. Never.

Your doorbell rang and when you opened it you were surprised to see Hotch...not in a suit. It fit him and you could admit it...he looked...really good.

“You clean up nice.” You said laughing a bit to yourself.

He looked you up and down. “So do you.”

He looked a bit taken aback and you could see he was a bit flushed and that made you a bit happy. You liked giving people that kind of reaction. It gave you just a bit of confidence you needed. Especially tonight, where you’d try not to think about Spencer.

When you got there you were glad it wasn’t too busy. The music wasn’t that loud either and you were glad because then you got to dance without immediately getting a headache. Your first dance was with Hotch but then he saw one of his friends from college (he’s a lawyer now) and then started talking to him. You didn’t mind. You actually kind of liked being alone. It gave you you time to think. But not about Spencer.

No. Not tonight you wouldn’t.

You wasted too many tears on him to be thinking of him while you were supposed to be having fun. He didn’t deserve your thoughts. He didn’t deserve your tears. He didn’t deserve movie nights, or cuddles, or sex, or kisses, or waiting, he didn’t deserve -

Spencer.

Spencer Reid.

You thought you were dreaming, but you weren’t. He was just a little bit away from you with JJ on his arm. “Just coworkers.” You wanted to say it didn’t hurt you, you did, but your heart broke. In a million little pieces. Had he not want to get serious with you because he was in love with her. It makes sense, everything about that makes sense but it didn’t hurt any less. It didn’t make the tears in your eyes stop, it didn’t make the ache in your chest dim but at least it made sense.

Know it hurts to see the truth in your face, circumstances bring you down to your knees. Go on and cry an ocean, but don’t drown in it. Enough to put your heart at ease. Oh don’t lose your self esteem. I apologize for being a man. It’s way harder than what it seems.

You grabbed your bag from Hotch and told him you needed to go outside for a minute. He asked you if you wanted him to go with you but you needed to be alone. You wanted to be by yourself to fight these tears. You couldn’t cry in front of him.

He gave you his coat which was much too big but still appreciated.

Once you were outside you took your phone out to check your face. Your nose was red but the few tears hadn’t ruined anything. You were fine. You were going to be okay. Everything was alright.

Until it wasn’t .

“Y/N?”

Fucking Spencer.

You turned around to see Spencer Reid walking towards you with a confused look on his face.

“Hey.” he said. Hey? Hey?? What the hell were you supposed to say to that? Hey?

He cleared his throat. “Things are weird, right?”

“Weird?” you scoffed.

“Y/N, it’s been a month! I don’t understand what I did! You just stopped talking to me even after I tried to apologize! What more can I do?”

He stopped for a second, “Is that Hotch’s jacket?” He stepped forward to take a look at it but you flinched away. “Don’t tell me that’s Hotch’s -“

“You were hiding me Spencer. You said the equivalent to hanging out with me was of visiting a grandmother. You never wanted to hang out unless it was on your terms and you called me clingy and suffocating when I NEVER asked you for more. I NEVER went out of my way to ask you for anything and you treat me like this? Like I’m replaceable? After everything we’ve been through? After all we’ve talked about and experienced? What’s your excuse for that Spencer? What could you possibly have to say that would explain that?”

He opened his mouth and closed it again.

“If I were to have called you and said ‘Yup, everything is fine Spence we can go back to normal.’ It would have gone back to normal! YOUR normal! A normal where I’m hidden like a side chick but you get to be in public with JJ on your arm! Fucking JJ! And yeah, we never put a label on it but YOU made it clear that we weren’t to fuck other people. That was YOUR decision! She was the girl you said I didn’t have to worry about and here we are.”

Spencer was silent. He looked to the floor, and said nothing. His fingers ran through his disheveled hair and his lip was quivering.

“So this is because of JJ?” he asked.

“Fuck you.”

————————————&———————————

He watched as you walked into the club and back out again with Hotch. Before you went in his car though you walked over to Spencer and put the necklace into his hand. Silently you walked over to Hotch and got in the passenger seat.

Spencer didn’t know what to do.

This was your necklace. He gave it to you. It was yours to keep. Yours to wear, cherish, and hold. Why would you give it back? It was supposed to make you happy and help you remember him. Instead it was in his hands unworn but the girl he had hurt. What was he supposed to do?

JJ found him outside but he said nothing to her the whole ride when he took her home. He was thinking about you. He was thinking about what you said. You were right.

When he got home he looked at the box of things you gave him. There were polaroid pictures of the two of you and he started shaking as he cried. What had he done? How could he have been so selfish?

You were right.

You were right.

Truth was he did like JJ, and he had been hiding you. He had been treating you unfairly. He had been a jerk and he had done every single thing you said he did.

He was all of the names you were calling him in your head.

Every single one.

He held the glass sculpture necklace in his hands and could feel his tears running down his face falling on it.

Even though he fucked up, and had something weird with JJ, he realized...he was in love with you.

Sometimes it's hard to face reality.

—————————————-&————————————-

literally wtf is this. what in the love triangles - anyway. ik you guys wanted fluff so...part 3? idk. should reader have a thing with hotch? should she choose hotch or reid?

feedback always appreciated. it pushed me to write this.

taglist: @hotchsbabygirl @pinkdiamond1016 @thefemalestorywriter @sizzlingclamturtlesludge @samyilf123

comment tag list: @peculiarinsomniac @mgg-theprettiestboy @187-reid @realalpacorn @wooya1224 @minami97 @studywithrosie01 @yeah-just-ignore-me-thanks @meowiemari @thedaughterofhotchniss @reniescarlett @lovelyspencerreid @ashwarren32 @fantastic-fans @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @psych0crybaby @drreidsconverse @castbyfox

[rayshippouuchiha]

naruto moves into the forest of death bc loving that place is in his blood

I see this, I love this, it begins a long time before Naruto is born and it goes a little bit like this:

Hashirama never fully recovers from the fight with Madara.  Not really, not fully, not in the ways that truly matter for a man and a shinobi.

He keeps a strong presence for the village and those who would seek to do Konoha harm but to those closest to him, to those who know the man behind the titles and the legend, the differences are stark and grim.

Hashirama spends more and more time in the forest, spends days and nights out amongst the trees and the flowers and the sprawling roots, pouring more and more of himself into all of it as he goes.

Tobirama argues with him about his distraction, about his distance, about his decision to pass the mantle of Hokage onto Tobirama who never really wanted it but wears it now because he must, because Hashirama asked.  Because Tobirama has always done all he could do to make whatever Hashirama wanted into a reality.

Hurt and hurting Tobirama’s words and accusations are cold and cutting, because that is what a life of too much war and too little peace has made him in moments like this, when fear and love rides him hard, and unlike Hashirama he’s never been able to slip more than a fraction of that mantle.  But, most of all, Tobirama is desperate not to let his beloved elder brother slip through his fingers like so many others have in the past.

They built the village Hashirama and Madara dreamed of to stop the death and the suffering so why is Tobirama’s beautiful and lively brother seemingly so determined to fade away.  To go where Tobirama cannot follow?

He doesn’t understand and if there’s one thing Tobirama truly hates in this life it is not knowing.

But Hashirama just smiles at him, reaches up to pull him down so he can press a kiss to Tobirama’s forehead, and then drifts away back into the trees.

Mito watches her husband just as closely and sees what Tobirama, her brother in all the ways that matter, sees.

Hashirama, once so vibrant and alive, is ... diminished.  Fading bit by bit.

But, unlike Tobirama, Mito keeps her silence.  Words have not been necessary between her and Hashirama for years now.

Instead she follows him into the forest when time and her duties will permit it, sometimes even when they do not.  She watches him breathe new life into a forest that already teems with it.  Watches him eradicate sickness from saplings, watches him push them to grow until they are towering monoliths with bark as hard as iron.  She watches him run calloused, battle worn fingertips over flower petals and leaves with the gentle sort of reverence that he’s always touched her with in their quieter moments, in the times when passion and lust and heat were not necessary. When only love was.

She loves him all the more in those moments, in these moments of fading light, even when she knows that he is leaving her.  Going somewhere she cannot follow, not with her duties, not with what she carries.  Not yet.  Likely not for decades to come.

“Mito,” Hashirama sighs to her one night when the fireflies are thick and the trees sway down to meet the both of them.  “My beloved Mito.”

“Husband,” Mito murmurs back as she always does, one hand smoothing over his hair where his head is resting in her lap.  “My foolish husband.”

“I cannot give you back the sea,” Hashirama whispers once the silence has grown thick and heavy around them.  “I cannot return you to the whirlpools and the eddies.”

“You took neither from me so they are not yours to return,” Mito tells him sternly, lovingly.  “My choices were and are my own, you wood brained idiot.  They have never been yours to carry.  If I wanted the ocean I would simple go to it.  But Konoha is my home now.”

“My fierce fire-pearl,” Hashirama smiles then, soft and small.  “My beloved ocean rose.  I would bring the very sea here to meet you if I could.  Or I’d pester Tobirama into doing it for me.  But instead I give you this, an ocean of trees, a sea of leaves and flowers as wild and untamed as Uzushio’s itself.  Here you will always be safe, here you will always find me.”

“I will never need to find you,” Mito tells him, the hand laid atop his chest clenching just a bit in the battle silk above his heart.  “You will not go where I cannot follow you, you know better by now.”

“Of course, dear,” Hashirama smiles.

They both know it for the lie that it is.

They both know he’s already leaving.

And when he loves her there, pressed down onto a bed of soft clover and surrounded by trees that seem to sing, Mito tangles her hands in his hair, raises her hips to meet his own as steadily as the tide, and weeps.

~~~

Mito is a widow no more than a month later.

~~~

Tobirama does not weep but the skies do it for him, monsoon like rain washing over Konoha the moment he feels Hashirama’s living and present chakra signal fade away into nothing.

For three days and nights there is only rain, water rushing down streets and swelling the rivers and lakes.

The villagers pray for sun.

Tobirama mourns.

The trees of the forest sway and sing.

~~~

Years pass and Mito wanders the forest in her free moments, hands trailing over tree trunks and vines alike, fingertips ghosting over flower petals and slowly unfurling buds.

As she walks she whispers or rants or sometimes sings, telling the forest her days, her nights, her triumphs and her failures.

And always, always, the trees hum and sway and sing back to her in welcome, in safety.

In love.

~~~

Tobirama wanders the forest in his free moments, leaving streams and ponds in his wake as he goes.  He pulls fresh water to the surface, cleanses stagnation where he finds it and ensures that it does not return.

‘Refuge,’ Tobirama thinks as he pulls water from the air and the ground as he breathes his own form of life into the forest his brother had loved and nurtured like a child.  The forest he had tried and failed to hate in his grief.  ‘Let this be a refuge, let this be a place of peace.’

He does not speak to the trees that feel so like his brother and yet not.  Does not talk or argue or scream or rage or beg.  He keeps his silence now as he had not then.

But the trees sing back regardless.

Hashirama had always known all of the things Tobirama could never bring himself to say.  Had always been able to read beneath and between and around whatever Tobirama did.

His forest is no different.

~~~

Far too soon Tobirama is gone as well and Mito is alone in a way that has far too little to do with the number of people around her and everything to do with her heart.

More years pass and her isolation, her loneliness, only grows.

She is one of last of a quickly dying breed, one of the few who truly remembers life before the villages.

She aches for her husband, for her brother, for her family.

Sometimes, in her darker moments, she even aches for the burden she knows she will pass onto another.

And now she aches for the Clan she has lived long enough to see destroyed.

When Uzushio falls Mito takes to the forest as she always does these days.  As she has for years and years now.

She does not rage.

She does not weep.

Instead, kunai in hand, she bleeds.

Uzumaki blood and life force flow out onto rich dark soil, is pressed onto iron bark tree trunks and splattered over flowing vines and unfurled leaves.

Seals flow from her bloody finger tips, are pressed into the ground with every whisper quiet step she takes.

“Shelter,” Mito half begs, half demands to the forest that has been her companion for so long now.  “Uzushio has fallen.  Hashirama, my love, my people are slaughtered and scattered and lost.  You said you would give me the sea if you could, you said this forest was built for me as much as it was for the village.  So let this be a shelter. Let this be a place of safety for those who truly need it.  Let the Uzumaki blood find home and hope beneath these branches as I long have.  Let them know your love as I do.  Should they come, let them stay.”

And all around her the forest hums and sways and sings.

Mito, bloody hands pressed against the trunk of the colossal tree that Hashirama had once made love to her under, laughs.

And then, finally, she weeps.

~~~

Time passes, the village moves forward, and so many, too many, forget things that should never be forgotten.

The forest grows darker, the trees, with their tunneling roots, grow more imposing, the animals more vicious and wild.

The trees stop singing.

Instead they rattle and shake and hum in what some would swear is anger.

~~~

Naruto has always liked plants.

Has always liked the green and growing things that can be found almost everywhere around the village.

Trees and flowers and vines don’t hurt him.  They don’t call him names, or throw things at him, or spit and stare and hit.

Plants are kind. Plants are safe.

And there’s far too few things or places or people in the village that Naruto can truly call safe.  Not for him.

Chest aching, Naruto swipes at the mess of blood and tears smeared across his face as he pushes himself to go faster, to run harder.

He just wants to be away.  Away from the name calling and the hitting.  Away from the hurt.

He barely even pauses when he hits the fence littered with warning signs he can only half read, just scrambles up and over it without even breaking his stride.

Naruto might not be good at or for much of anything but he’s always been good at this.  At running and climbing and finding his own way.  It’s not much but it’s all he has.

The forest is dark and gets darker the deeper he runs.  The trees grow thicker and taller as he goes too, grow bigger than anything Naruto has ever seen besides the Hokage Mountain.

He runs until he can’t anymore, until he collapses at the base of a tree even bigger than the others he’s seen in the forest.

Chest heaving, tears welling up in his eyes again, Naruto presses his bloody hands and face against the thick bark and cries.

Around him to forest goes still, goes quiet.

“Please,” Naruto whispers, unsure of why he feels the need to talk to trees when not even people want to listen to him. “Please help.  It hurts. It hurts so much.  I don’t want to go back.  Please.”

And even as exhaustion rips and claws at him, forcing black in around the edges of his vision, Naruto swears that, for a split second, the tree he’s leaning against almost seems to sing.

[voidcat]

– it's you (it's always been you)

characters: tachihara michizou, you

genre & wc: (implied) childhood friends to strangers, angst:) – 1.5k

Tachihara Michizou is an organized man.

For different days and events required, he has his clothing divided.

His life is divided.

There is an order to everything he does, plans and acts on; a harmony and set of rules within themselves that only make sense to him. It saves him the trouble of having his cover blown and efforts wasted.

A phone for work and another for personal affairs is what he would normally do. But there is nothing normal to the situation he is in.

And it helps that he doesn’t have such a personal life – saves him the trouble of acquiring a third phone. One for the mafia, another for the hunting dogs.

Tachihara Michizou is at a bar on a Tuesday night, the clock nearing two in the morning.

At a table not too far in the back but his back to the wall, the doors in his line of sight, nothing in this crooked up space can be of interest to him. Despite his eyes lazily wandering around, he is not here to socialize, not one bit. And the last thing he expects to see is your form slouched over your drink, and an empty bottle by your hand.

It takes a second to recognize you, you have changed.

But it’s the eyes that give you away.

Despite the emotion he cannot quite name that is in your eyes, it is still you.

And before long your eyes meet his, recognition passes your face.

How are you, how have you been? It’s been so long since…

One conversation rolls to another, one drink becomes two, becomes several.

Tachihara wasn’t expecting to see an old face when he decided to pay a visit to the bar, but then again he had no expectations at all.

That is the thing with life, as he has come to learn too many times, it’s always the unexpected, the unseen that comes and grabs you by the shoulders.

If someone told him when he was just a child that he would end up in a situation, a delicate mission, such as the one he is in right now, he would have just ignored them and walked away.

It is confusing enough as it is already, and the last thing he needs on his plate is a huge pile of worries – as if he doesn’t have his fair share of them plenty, for appetizer, on the go and more to be cooked and served for later.

Even so, if there is another thing Tachihara Michizou knows for sure, it is that he must be the universe’s very own personal punching bag.

It has been a while since he has lost count of the drinks, and a little longer since he last checked time.

As unexpected as life keeps on proving and universe never stops throwing one thing after another, maybe it is tonight that he could never see coming.

His view blackens after a while, all the voices around have blurred out.

It is only fitting for a night like this to end in the same fashion.

When he stepped inside the bar tonight, there were many things he couldn’t have guessed to see or live, yet none of them would catch them off guard like this.

The sun rises, the new day has already started, the sounds of the people and vehicles outside make their way through the window, waking him up, feeling warmer than usual.

When Tachihara Michizou was just a child, he could never expect the tragedy that is war occurring upon his family and himself. Descending down like a rain of flames, that’s how it feels in time.

He grows and grows, improves and proves himself; and no matter how strong he has become, he wouldn’t expect that side of the past to haunt him afterwards, the pain becoming only worse in time, growing with him, surrounding him.

He grows and works hard, harder, push himself as much as he can; he never thought he would be tasked with such a mission, asked to infiltrate that organization, out of everything else.

Just as he hadn’t seen that, he doesn’t expect to rise the ranks like that, gain respect and trust, fit in – but not quite.

Until tonight, the bar wasn’t even on his mind.

The warmth only increases and takes over until it becomes unbearable and that is when he opens his eyes.

Out of everything life has thrown at him so far, Tachihara Michizou sure as hell didn’t expect to wake up to your face buried into his chest this morning, or any other morning, if he might be honest.

Life has never been gentle or predictable, he waits for this to end right then and there.

Yet comes another surprise and your presence lingers. You stay in the bed, in his arms for as long as the two of you can ignore awakening life outside.

Once it’s time to get up and leave, you don’t leave permanently.

In the next few days Tachirara finds himself staring at his phone, waiting for it to be lightened up with your name on the screen. Couple days later, he regrets not investing in that third phone sooner.

What you decide on at first, has him worried.

You weren’t supposed to find him, weren’t supposed to enter his life and bring the sunlight in, you weren’t supposed to give him hope, hold his hands, gaze into his eyes and lean your head against his chest.

Getting you tangled with this… side of his life, the risks of you getting harmed just because of your ties have him worried, it’s heavy on his chest.

But then you muse, he thinks to himself, if it is not a relationship exactly, where does the risk lie? It’s just a deal, you’re just two people who happen to be at the same place at the same time, going to one’s place or the other’s.

Nothing is official, there are no risks – yet this happens to be the very same fact that grabs at his heart and squeezes it.

Soon he finds himself wishing you hadn’t needed to meet over drinks, that you wouldn’t come all those nights with that same look and same slouch.

Oh how he wishes things were different; how would it feel to hold you, stroke your hair, cup your cheeks; no ‘It’ll be alright.’s in the air.

He spends his idle times imagining how you’d look at him as you share the same breath, he wants more than anything to wipe that emotion off your eyes, to have your gaze on him and him only, fingers roaming his body, nails digging into his flesh; he would welcome anything if it comes from your hands.

Daydreams turn into dust one by one. Tachihara knows by now that dreams have never helped me achieve anything.

And isn’t it ironic actually? That the very same reasons that get you upset in the first place are the sole reasons you dial him at odd hours of the day.

It’s all a ruse, an excuse – you must be pent up, you must be upset.

It’s nothing more than just a way to relieve that stress.

Comes another night later a long time later.

The bed is cold, left untouched.

Your question falls on deaf ears, there is a ringing in his ears.

Has he be yelling all this time?

Tachihara never intended to make you cry.

To be the sole reason you’re feeling like this, looking like this; no this isn’t him, that cannot be him – he is supposed to make you happy, make you forget.

And yet, in the end, that’s what has gotten the two of you to this exact place.

He can hear his words echoing in his skull still, ‘I am sick of being the rebound guy, being a number to call whenever you have another failure coming up.’

He wants to hold it in, not make the pain worse than it already is. Yet the words leave his mouth before he can think.

He should’ve been suspecting from the start, with how quick you start dating and have another failure blown up into your face again.

After all, what does he know? He never had the honor to date you, only to exist as a secret, a pocket bad boy to run back to whenever a heartbreak was present.

It’s only the ragged breathes he can hear now, but the tune is off.

Everything feels wrong, perhaps everything is wrong. You should’ve never asked for his number that night, you shouldn’t have raised your chin against the universe and be an element of surprise he desired.

You shouldn’t have entered back into his life, handling over the same drops of hope he came to see a little too late when he was a kid. You should’ve never kissed him, never slept in his arms, spent the night and listened to his heartbeat.

“Maybe all those relationships failed because even they noticed it was you I sought in them.” Your voice comes barely in a whisper, (is the ringing of his ears still happening?), you sniff once and turn around.

Before Tachihara can raise a hand to reach out, to hold, to touch, to have any sort of contact; you’re gone.

[danishmiilk]

when thunder splits the sky - na jaemin

au || royalty!au, soulmates!au

genre || angst, fluff, slight crack

warnings || swearing, death mentioned, almost deathly sickness, a lot of stress on jaemin and y/n’s part, throwing up.

summary || soulmates. the source of happiness, the source of sickness. you’re shocked that your best friend (and the second prince) is your soulmate, but it shouldn’t be too bad. after all, you’re best friends, right? you know each other better than anyone else in the world. but when jaemin refuses to realise his love, shit hits the fan.

word count || ~10k

note || this is a collaboration piece with @astroboy-lele​ for @k-dinernet​‘s dance off event!

you and jaemin were close, closer than a commoner and a prince should be. but since you were the main cook’s daughter, it wasn’t too uncommon to see the two of you running around with bright smiles lighting up your faces. then studies took over for jaemin. he was constantly studying to become a better king than his dad, which was slightly unfair since he wasn’t even the crown prince. but accidents could happen, so jaemin had to be prepared. so you were left to your own devices most of the time, fiddling with things in the kitchen, or helping clean the monstrous castle jaemin called home. 

“jaem!” you giggled happily when jaemin emerged from the library’s study. he looked tired. more tired than a 17 year old should be. dark circles contrasted his pale skin, and your hand automatically came up to rub at his slim cheeks. “you should get more rest.” you chided him.

“can’t.” jaemin responded curtly, removing your hands from his face. “i need to study.” 

"but you're always studying," you sighed. it shouldn't be this hard to spend time with your best friend, but you supposed it was one of the cons of befriending the second prince of your kingdom. 

"you don't understand, y/n! how could you? it's my duty to my family and my country to keep studying in case, heaven forbid, anything happens to doyoung hyung!" he snapped sharply at you, and though you knew he was clearly overstretched and stressed beyond anything you'd ever seen him (or didn't see him, he was always in the library nowadays anyway), you still took a step back and flinched away, hurt. jaemin stepped forward, mouth trying to form apologies. you shook your head, eyes glassy.

“don’t.” your voice was softer than expected. “i’ll.. i’ll leave you to it.” you ran off before jaemin could even react, wiping at your eyes. 

jaemin watched you go. he watched you leave, back retreating into the dark hallways. he felt bad, of course he did - jaemin would never snap at you for no good reason. the last time he actually wanted to hurt someone was when you came to him sobbing, one year ago. the memory was still fresh in jaemin’s mind. 

you supposed it could be you being too sensitive, but it was the toll the absence of jaemin took on you. sure, absence made the heart grow fonder, but it also did make cracks emerge in a friendship. you couldn’t see your cracks yet, but they’d emerge soon enough - it was the first time in so long you’d managed to talk to jaemin, and he’d just brushed you away brusquely. your hand raised to your eyes to wipe away the stray tears that had fallen. 

without looking where you were running, you’d bumped into something very solid. something very human. roughly, you placed your hands on said solid thing and pushed yourself away, speeding around the obstacle to the forest, tears still filling up your eyes. you didn’t blink them back - if you’d blinked, they were sure to have fallen out.

“y/n?” the very confused crown prince shouted out from somewhere behind you, “what’s going on?” and unbeknownst to you, his brother was soon to follow, brushing past him like he was invisible (last he checked, he wasn’t.) “jaemin?” the pair of you had left long before there was a chance to provide the prince with any of his requested answers, leaving a very confused doyoung standing in the middle of the hallway. sighing, doyoung brushed off his clothes. sometimes he didn’t know what he put up with you for. 

once you set foot into the forest, immediate regret almost washed over you. it started raining. not gently either, it came down in harsh droplets, hammering into your clothes, thoroughly soaking you to the bone. you shivered, rubbing your hands up and down your arms, trying to bring warmth to yourself. it didn’t work, so you settled with standing under a tree in an attempt to stay out of the storm. you gazed up at the sky, wincing as thunder rumbled in the distance, reminding you of your fears. you wished with all your might that the storm would stop. it didn’t. of course it didn’t. why would it, it was nature, and nature didn’t listen to common people, only the gods above. “y/n? y/n! oh my god, y/n!” you heard a shout echo through the forest, and you shivered again. “there you are, do you know how long i’ve been looking for you?” jaemin accused, hands grabbing at your shoulders. you glared back, though it wasn’t threatening as you were shaking and shivering, teeth chattering. “you know it’s the rainy season and almost winter! what the fuck were you thinking?” jaemin huffed, but shrugged off his coat and draped it around your shoulders gently, concern making his eyebrows knit together.

“it was sunny before.” you protested, and jaemin exhaled, shaking his head with disappointment at your naive actions. 

“you should know the weather changes quickly,” jaemin retorted, and that shut you up. you knew the weather changed fast, but emotions took over you, just wanting to escape the castle jaemin called home. “we should find some shelter. i know there’s an old cottage somewhere, i just don’t know where.” jaemin sighed. 

you raised your eyebrows at him, “what, it wouldn’t be some strange warped hansel and gretel remix going on, would it? because we’re not smart enough to push witches into ovens.” jaemin smiled widely, chuckling at your small jab at yourself and him.

“no, it’s completely safe.” he assured you, grabbing your hand. jaemin nervously cleared his throat. “uh… i, i should apologize for earlier. it wasn’t right for me to snap at you.” you squeezed his hand gently.

“i know you’re stressed, it’s okay. i really should be more lenient.” you sighed, slightly disappointed in yourself for not understanding your best friend’s struggles. his hair was sticking to his forehead, yours similarly sticking you your arms and neck. 

“it’s just the expectations, you know. of my parents, of the people… of the country.” jaemin’s eyes widened in horror and fear, an expression that would be almost comical under different circumstances and whispered, “what if i have to rule the country one day?”

your friend blanched and you sighed, tightening your hold around him to anchor him to reality, “look, i’m not saying you’re incapable of doing it, but it’s really quite impossible that something were to happen to doyoung, so i don’t think you really have to worry about that too much. still, being royalty is probably way harder than i could imagine.”

his voice wistful, jaemin’s eyes shined with tears - or perhaps it was just the rain creating illusions. “sometimes i wish i were never born into royalty. but you know what, there’s pros and cons to everything, that’s just how life is. we get privileges, but we can’t have the best of both worlds. still,” he looked down at the wet ground, “every time i see children running about or playing with their friends in courtyards or in the streets, it makes me wish i had a childhood. makes me wish i had friends, and was allowed to play with them, to live a normal life. normal. what a beautiful word, really, and how ironic that millions of people would give anything to be a member of the royal family, while the second prince would do anything to get out of being one.”

there wasn’t very much to say, you thought, considering jaemin very rarely went into long, emotional speeches like this one. you’d never be able to understand, and you weren’t about to try. softly, so very softly, you whispered, “but you have me.” jaemin smiled softly, and slightly proudly at you. 

“yeah. yeah, i do.” and he did. he’s always had you, from the first day he sneaked into the kitchen for a taste of his birthday cake before he was supposed to, until- well, there isn’t an until if you’ll have his back forever, is there?

a cottage was beginning to come into view in the distance, a quaint little thing fit for no more than one person (or perhaps seven dwarves, no reference to snow white intended). the rain blurred your vision and wind whipped through your hair, but it was shelter, and so hand in hand, you ran towards it.

“to what honour do i owe the presence of the second prince at my humble abode?” a boy’s voice, sweet and melodic, came from behind you.

you jumped. “jaemin! i thought you said it was safe.” you hissed, clutching at jaemins arms. jaemin just shrugged. you sighed, keeping an eye on the strange boy. jaemin gripped your hand tighter, however.  

jaemin gestured vaguely around, staring at the auburn-haired boy with no small amount of skepticism, “i thought you’d be… older. like, an old lady.”

the boy scoffed. “who’s to say i’m not? witches don’t always have to be middle aged ladies with no fashion sense and even less hair. i’m donghyuck, by the way. come on in.” jaemin was still looking the boy up and down in curiosity, finally blurting out, “witches use umbrellas?”

“no, we’re waterproof,” donghyuck deadpanned, sarcasm filling his words.

“jaemin,” you frowned, “do you know him?” a quick shake of his head confirmed your suspicions. “then why,” you half-screeched into his ear, “do you assume he’s safe?”

“i’m not. i could turn you into a frog, if you want.” the boy suggested, waving a hand, making you flinch and jaemin move your smaller frame behind him. donghyuck moved a shoulder evenly up and down, “joking.” 

“that wasn’t funny!” you gasped. donghyuck moved his other shoulder up and down, doing a strange half-shrug again, “nobody gets my humour.” 

you followed him into the house, dripping water all over his doormat and the wooden planks of his floor, but not daring to move any further than that. donghyuck waved his hand, slamming the wooden door shut behind you and lighting the fire, “will the two of you stop looking so shocked? it’s not like i’m going to cook you for dinner, so why are you acting like you’ve never seen a witch before?”

“because we haven’t,” the note of childlike curiosity reappeared in jaemin’s voice, and you were glad his mind was taken off of his royal duties, “they were outlawed a long time ago.” “right,” donghyuck levitated a couple mugs of cocoa over to you, “i forgot, sorry.”

“so your existence is basically illegal, and yet you’re serving the prince of your kingdom hot chocolate in the middle of the thunderstorm like nothing’s wrong?” you sputtered in disbelief, though you didn’t actually splutter, of course; that was rather an expression authors liked using. “all in a day’s work,” donghyuck glanced at you again, “come in and stop dripping water on the mat. would you believe it, magically drying the mat is harder than magically drying the wood.” very honestly, you didn’t know what to make of that boy. 

you stood awkwardly, pressing yourself into jaemin’s side as you watched donghyuck bustle around his house, ironically not unlike an old lady. “so, ummm, could you show us some magic or something?”

“like drying our clothes,” jaemin added, motioning to the soaked fabric draped over his body.

“they’ll dry, just sit by the fireplace. in the meantime, i can show you a soulmate spell if you’d like to see it. it’s one of the easier and prettier spells, so i think you’d enjoy it, even if it’s highly unlikely it would work. soulmates are rare things, and even rarer are soulmates who discover each other and the fact that they are soulmates. so i’ll do it, but if you two don’t turn out to be soulmates, don’t be disappointed. if you do, there isn’t going to be a flash of golden light and a shower of sequins either, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“you’re saying like what would happen is one of us would die and suddenly come back to life.” you sarcastically commented, but eyes growing wide as the moon above when donghyuck looked around nervously. 

“well…” he started, but you held up a hand. 

“excuse me, what. come again?”

“let me just show you.” donghyuck sighed, and got up, grabbing a book from the large shelf pushed against the wall. he flipped through a few pages carefully, and let out a satisfied “ah,” when he found the correct page in the yellowing book. “the concept of soulmates hath been the strongest bond known to man since the beginnings of time. for the true blossoming of true love takes place when the eyes of soulmates transform into colours of the fall. time and time again, history older than anything thou or i could ever imagine hast proven that soulmates are rare, ones who know about them even more so. for thee, the pair who is reading this, thou art soulmates. it would be an insult to fate and everyone who cannot experience such a connection to not realise your feelings. thou hath one month to realize feelings or one half of the pair will be fated to a cruel ending. as mere mortals, we do not make the rules. nobody can help thee except the other, but fear not. you are soulmates. you have a bond. said bond shalt be enough, if thou realises it.” haechan read, rubbing the thin, old pages of the book between careful fingers. you glanced over at jaemin who was shifting his weight back and forth, not knowing where to put his feet. “so, basically,” donghyuck started, ignoring jaemin’s nervous state. “if your soulmate doesn’t acknowledge their feelings for you, or you don’t, one of you would basically die.” he shrugged. your mouth dropped open. how in the world was he so calm about it? “what the fuck? they could die?” jaemin seemed to share your sentiment.

“what is a fuck?” donghyuck furrowed his eyebrows together, evidently confused as to what this strange new word meant. jaemin faltered, taken aback, “wait, dude, you look like you’re, what, seventeen, and you have no idea what fuck means?” donghyuck looked at jaemin like he was an idiot, “never gotten the chance to interact with a lot of other seventeen year olds.” jaemin nodded solemnly, “can relate. only got this loser for a friend.” jaemin hooked a thumb in your direction. you rolled your eyes. 

“let us begin the spell! i feel like i’m conducting a child gender reveal party,” he exclaimed happily, rubbing his hands together with glee. you held up your hand.

“hold the fuck up, you’re not performing this spell! one of us could DIE!” you exclaimed.

“there’s the word fuck again. kinda catchy.” donghyuck tested it out under his breath. “any other new words?” he asked. jaemin opened his mouth, no doubt to actually teach donghyuck how to swear, and well, you weren’t exactly opposed to letting him, but not dying came higher than teaching people you just met how to swear on your priority list.

“don’t worry. there’s only a slight chance that you’re soulmates anyway, and it’s better to know than to remain in oblivion. i’m not kidding.” “ignorance is bliss?” you suggested, desperate to stop donghyuck. “no, y/n. i think… if we indeed are soulmates, we deserve to know. i want to at least know why i died if i do suddenly die.”

“i have heard of that saying, y/n, was it? say, can fuck be used as a noun, a verb or an adjective?” “any way you want,” jaemin grinned, “reality can be anything you wish it to be!” “sweet,” donghyuck plonked a cauldron of unknown origin onto the table, “i like that word already.”

pulling a ladle out of seemingly nowhere, donghyuck pointed said ladle at you, “what’s your favourite flower?” you stared at him blankly, “you need that for the spell? i don’t really have a preference.” donghyuck rolled his eyes, “no, i was just curious. if you’re interested, your aura says daisy and jaemin’s absolutely screams carnations. for the record, i have zero idea what those flowers mean, but who cares?” he waved an arm over the cauldron which then proceeded to bubble, pushing dandelions and carnations to the surface. white. all white. “pretty enough, i suppose. i don’t usually give my services discounted, so you can just teach me some new words and it’s a deal.”

as you thought back, you did have a small memory of making flower crowns with jaemin. you often made daisy crowns, while jaemin’s were, as far as you knew, carnations. they were always given to you, all his carnation-based flower accessories: crowns, necklaces, bracelets. 

you were jerked back to the present and away from distant memories as jaemin helpfully, or not so helpfully, instructed donghyuck on how to swear, “so, motherfucker is a noun. the verb equivalent is motherfucking, but that’s usually used as an adjective anyway. can also be shortened to mf. bitch is a more female-specific curse word since its original meaning was something along the lines of female dog.”

“i thought dogs were nice,” donghyuck pointed a finger aggressively at the bubbling liquid inside the cauldron, flowers obscuring most of its contents, “this always takes way too fucking long to boil so i can’t do anything. how perfectly bitchy of it.” jaemin’s face lit up with that mischievous smile you were so used to, “you’re a natural!” “why, thank you.” you had to be imagining things. either that, or your ears were waterlogged. shaking your head wildly, all you got was a headache, so no, your ears weren’t waterlogged. and so the two boys before you were complimenting each other casually on their ability to swear, even as one’s existence was against the law and the other was the prince of your kingdom. because that was not… strange. not strange at all.

“why don’t you teach him things like crap, hell and damn? why… fuck and bitch?” donghyuck had settled into an armchair by the fire, snapping his fingers every minute or so to keep the cauldron’s contents boiling, “you want to learn the interesting shit. like, you know, if i can learn shit and motherfucker then why am i learning crap and hell and damn? they sound lame compared to bitch, fuck and shit.” donghyuck shrugged, you sighed, and jaemin nodded like he’d birthed and raised donghyuck for seventeen years just for this moment. 

“i mean, my parents don’t let me curse, but it’s fun to see them mad sometimes.” jaemin shrugged. you shook your head at the boy next to you (we shall omit the fact that he learnt half his curse words from you, and the other half from the legendary crown prince’s speech in which he accidentally swore half a dozen times in front of the whole nation. doyoung got grounded, but it made jaemin, and by extension you, developed a heck of a lot more respect for him.) you watched quietly as the two boys exchanged details about their lives and excitedly swore together. unconsciously, you started shivering again, your clothes still not quite dry. jaemin noticed, and picked up the blanket laid across his lap, wrapping it around your shoulders, making sure the blanket was secure around you before turning back to donghyuck. you learnt he also liked to be called haechan or hyuck, lived out here all his life, and didn’t know much about the kingdom from having to stay hidden from the world. jaemin’s expression held a hint of guilt, knowing that he was a member of the family that had caused huyck's plight.

“ooh! the spell is done!” hyuck clapped, and scrambled to his feet, once again doing the weird shrug thing, skipping over to the cauldron. his hair bounced and jaemin snickered while you quieted him. you shrank back into the couch as the sounds from the caldron became louder and donghyuck’s eyes started to sparkle. jaemin grabbed your hand, palms slightly sweaty. donghyuck peered into the large metal bowl, and smiled. his smile made you a bit uneasy. 

“ready?” he asked the two of you, and jaemin nodded while you hesitated. 

“yes.” 

nothing happened for a moment and haechan waved his hands over the flower-filled water, mumbling some ancient words. you watched, eyes wide, as the water came out in a stream, winding around the circumference of the small cottage, and then around you and jaemin’s hands. you gasped, as the water was ice cold though it was boiling just moments ago. a daisy settled on jaemins wrist, wrapping around it tightly. a carnation wrapped around your finger, like it’s own special promise to you. jaemin frowned.

“is that supposed to mean something?” he asked, tugging at the flower. it didn’t move or tear. haechan eyes doubled in size as his eyes zeroed in on the flowers. 

“you’re… you’re soulmates.” 

jaemin stood there in shock, and shook his head. “no way. we’re best friends.” he protested. your heart was slightly crushed, as you liked him for a few months now. who wouldn’t? “we can’t be soulmates. no way.” he shook his head again, as if to clear away the water clogging his ears. you let go of jaemin’s hand. your heart was hammering, matching the raindrops that pelted to the ground.

“are.. are you sure?” you asked, voice wavering. haechan nodded. your hands were shaking now, and jaemin was ignoring you. “can i… may i lie down?” you asked, twirling a finger around your long strands of hair. donghyuck nodded, pointing you to what you assumed to be his room. as you slipped off, you heard jaemin and donghyuck whisper something together.

the next few days you didn’t see much of jaemin, only when he came out of the library to get food. even those days were rare, as he often ate in there, or brought his lunch in during the morning. and each day, jaemins face looked more and more pale. the flowers had vanished, though they left marks on where they rested just a week ago. you cast a glance down the empty hallway to the library, feet hesitating. you made up your mind, pushing open the large oak doors and… found jaemin passed out on the ground. 

you gasped, rushing over and checking his temperature. it was abnormally normal, though he was sweating. you called a maid over, and soon you found yourself in the hospital wing. how were you going to break it to his parents that their younger son was sick because you two were soulmates. the thought itself was ridiculous.

“is jaemin okay?” well, fuck you, he’s obviously not. an undertone of worry was detected from the trained calmness of doyoung’s voice. the king and queen had yet to arrive, and doyoung stood behind you, hand resting on your shoulder in a slightly failed attempt to calm you. quick breaths left you, panic filling your mind and cluttering your lungs. the crown prince patted at your shoulder awkwardly, turning to leave as he couldn’t really do much. besides, it was fairly obvious the two of you needed to be alone.

as the day faded into night, jaemin was still, not moving as you watched him, hands grasping at your hair. this was all your fault. no, it was that bitch of a witch named donghyuck. he cast the spell. you wanted to blame jaemin for not accepting that you were soulmates, and now he was going to die because of it. 

obviously, you hadn’t had a soulmate before. but you could sense it, you knew that no matter what jaemin had done, you wouldn’t be able to stay mad at him. to love so hard you’re falling, but you know you’re flying. you’re not there yet, definitely not. there was an inkling of the possibility of that happening, though. you barely blamed jaemin for everything (which was mostly his fault anyway), and staring at the pale complexion of the boy in front of you, you couldn’t bring yourself to stay angry. you slipped your hand into his (see? can’t help it. this was all because you were soulmates, and totally not because you just wanted to.), and as storybook-esque as it was, it felt so right. a maid brought you dinner, but you couldn’t bring yourself to scoop the rice and noodles into your mouth. your stomach was protesting, but you didn’t care, resting your head on your arm, you clutched jaemin’s hand tightly. tears pricked at your eyes, and this time, you didn’t stop them. 

doyoung came by again in the morning and found you awake, dark blue and purple eyebags obnoxiously present. “have you been here the whole night?” you stretched, not letting go of jaemins limp hand, back aching from the uncomfortable position you were in for the whole night.

“is there a wrong answer?” you asked, yawning as you spoke. doyoung sighed, rubbing at his temples. 

“he’ll survive, y/n. it’s just sickness. we have the best doctor-”

“it’s not just a sickness!” you snapped, fire igniting in your stomach, the need to protect haechan slowly shrinking. you found yourself telling the oldest prince everything from getting caught in the rain, jaemin having a breakdown, the walk in the woods, to finding the cottage, and even the witch you encountered, though his existence was very much illegal. doyoung listened. he listened to every word, and nodded along, though his eyes were slowly going from panicked to angry.

“so, you found a witch, donghyuck, was it?” you nodded in confirmation, death gripping jaemin’'s hand. if he ever woke up he would for sure scold you for making his dominant hand ache. “he cast a soulmate spell, and jaemin didn’t accept. so now the gods are punishing him?” you nodded again. doyoung sighed, rubbing at his temples again. you watched anxiously, worried for donghyuck’s safety.

“could you get donghyuck to come here?” doyoung asked. that is not what you were expecting. blinking nervously, you nodded. you remembered the path jaemin took, right? if not, you could just shout. 

“do you promise not to kill him? or like, arrest him? he’s an annoying motherfucker, but i think jaemin would be sad if you did,” you inhaled. doyoung nodded with a perfectly straight face. “he could turn you into a frog.” you added, deciding to trust him. doyoung looked a bit shocked, but you reluctantly stood up. “i’ll be back.” you whispered to jaemin, leaving doyoung to look after his brother. 

setting off in the woods alone was scarier than you thought. shivering, you really wished you had jaemin in that moment. really wished. the sooner you got to donghyuck, the sooner he would be better, right? wrong.

“what do you mean you can’t remove the spell?” you shrieked, panic filling you once again. donghyuck looked sorrowful, and doyoung was standing with his arms crossed off in the corner. 

“i can’t, i’m sorry, y/n. jaemin has to realize he loves you for the sickness to go away. and either way, all my spell did was prove that the two of you were soulmates. the sickness stems from the heavens” 

“i have to what?” jaemin’s voice cracked slightly from not using it for the past few days. “jaemin!” you practically sobbed, hand clenching around his fingers from where you’d reached for them unknowingly. he squeezed back weakly, coughing. “what do i have to do?” 

“realize you love y/n.” haechan said simply. 

“i don’t think it works like that!” your voice came out slightly higher than usual, laughing nervously to stop jaemin from feeling uncomfortable. he had to, love didn’t work as such. you just didn’t decide to go, ‘okay today i have decided i love y/n!’ jaemin looked at donghyuck with visible confusion. all haechan offered was a half shrug in return. 

“what happens if i don’t?” jaemin whispered. haechan glanced at doyoung, nervous that someone so high and regal was standing in the same room as him - jaemin didn’t count, seeing as he’d spent the first hour of knowing hyuck teaching him to swear, and he wasn’t the crown prince anyway - if he did or said the wrong thing, he would definitely get executed. 

“we’ll get there when we get there. how long does he have?” doyoung asked. you gripped jaemin’s hand tighter, nervous of the answer. “it… depends?” donghyuck offered. doyoung scowled. “very helpful.” “i’m sorry, i’ve never had to deal with this kind of fuckery before,” donghyuck waved his hands around, “okay, swear i’m not doing magic, but i really didn’t cause any of this. okay. maybe a bit. but it would have happened anyways.” your eyebrow lifted. 

“what do you mean, anyways?” jaemin asked, frowning.

“the soulmate spell only helps the soulmates find each other. and gets the show on quicker, but a year from now, the same thing would’ve happened.” haechan explained, still waving a hand. doyoung’s eyebrows knitted together. “so, jaemin and y/n should spend as much time together as they can.” hyuck concluded. 

“and die faster?” jaemin snarled. haechan shook his head quickly, eyes straying to the other royal member in the room.

“no, if you spend more time together, then it’ll slow down until you realise you’re in love. usually, you get only a week, but if you spend every day together, it’s up to… a month?” haechan shrugged, letting the slightest hint of resentment slip into his voice, “maybe i’d know better if i actually could come out of hiding to be taught by more experienced witches. my work here seems to be done anyway, adios!” it was like donghyuck was born to be a showman. he ripped the curtains off and disappeared under them with a flash, letting the rich fabric settle slowly to the ground. doyoung sighed. 

“well, you guys heard what he said. spend as much time together as you can.” doyoung shrugged. “and jaemin, try not to die.” doyoung added, a small smile playing at his lips, like he knew something you didn’t. jaemin nodded, head thrown back onto the plush pillows. you frowned, jaemin usually loved to hang out with you. something definitely changed over the last few weeks.

try not to die, he said. well, you were definitely dying inside. and jaemin wasn’t getting any better, coughing, occasional throwing up, and sneezing. he barely could keep his food down, let alone sit up without any help. it worried you. it worried you a lot more than you let on. to say things were awkward was putting it lightly. everyone avoided the two of you, seeing the tension held over your and jaemin’s heads. you started to get fed up after a few days. 

“what happened? aren’t you supposed to be with jaemin?” doyoung asked as you stormed downstairs. 

“he’s not talking to me. what’s the harm in taking a small break?” you exhaled, running a hand through your now messy hair. doyoung frowned, the worry lines creasing his forehead. “don’t worry, i’m going back to the ward in half an hour. it’s just so… infuriating.” you ranted to the crown prince, resting your head on the stairwell railing. doyoung had stopped you half way down the stairs. “we’re soulmates for god's sake! can’t he just… talk to me? when did he start to see me as a bother? when did he… start to hate me? it’s like we never were friends. i miss him, doyoung. i miss my best friend. i miss his smile, his laugh, his weird antics, i miss my jaemin.” you whimpered, tears pricking your eyes for the third time today. jaemin being sick and ignoring you while, quite literally, on his deathbed did not help. especially since you two were soulmates. 

“when did you start to fall in love with him?” doyoung questioned softly. you thought for a moment. when did you truely start to love jaemin? not in the rain. not when you had your first fight when you saw him. no, it started a while ago. when jaemin started to grow up. when you stopped making flower jewelry and when he started to give you real gems. when? you weren’t exactly sure. maybe you always loved him. maybe he always loved you. but when would he figure that out? doyoung just nodded, understanding your confused gaze, unfocused and misty-eyed. he stood up, brushing his black slacks and deep red shirt. “give him a bit. jaemin is a bit slow with these kinds of things.” you only nodded in response, mindlessly walking back to the ward jaemin was residing in. 

jaemin still was not getting any better the next few days. he still refused to talk to you, only nodding or rolling his eyes as a response to you trying to start to converse. you were starting to lose hope. 

you were surprised to see him lying on the cold tiled ground. 

“jaemin, why are you on the ground? you should be in bed. it’s cold out.” you scolded, moving towards him. jaemin held up a hand, draping his hands over his stomach.

“the floor is nice and cold,” he uttered, sighing with relief as the tile cooled his sweaty body down. you frowned, huffing. jaemin, once again, did not listen.

“the ground is dirty. i can turn down the heat-” jaemin cut you off. 

“shut up! i’m dying, i don’t care if the ground is dirty!” jaemin hissed, and you backed up, saddened by his tone. jaemin didn’t notice, too busy coughing into his elbow to notice your state.

“you’re not going to die,” you whispered, and jaemin moved his elbow away. “you’re not. i refuse to let you. i don’t care if you don’t love me right now, but you’re my soulmate, jaemin. soulmate. do you know how many people wish to have soulmates? jaemin, i’ve been by your side since we were in diapers. we played in the mud together. we got in trouble together. we did everything together,  jaemin. i watched you grow up. i watched you become more responsible. i watched, and i waited for you to confess. but you never did, so now you’re sick, and it’s all your fault. don’t push the blame on me, on donghyuck, or on anyone. this is on you. if you want to sit here and wallow in your self-pity, go ahead. i’m tired, jaemin. i tried to give you time, but you only have three weeks left. i don’t…” you choked on your words. “i don’t know what i’ll do if you ever die suddenly.” you whispered, backing out of the door. jaemin struggled to his feet, but you were already gone, ends of your hair and dress flowing behind you. 

he stared at the empty spot where you’d been just moments before, feeling the same emptiness in his heart. bitterness welled up from within him. he wasn’t that dumb either, but love just didn’t work that way. just because some spell told you that you were soulmates didn’t necessarily mean that with a magical click of your fingers you’d stare into each others eyes and sappily declare your everlasting love.

doyoung stepped out from nowhere, looking around with a confused expression, “where’s y/n? i swear i saw her here just a few minutes ago.”

“hey, hyung.” doyoung hummed in response. jaemin sat up with some difficulty, holding a hand up to stop doyoung from trying to help him, “what if this sickness has got nothing to do with the soulmate fuckery? what if i just, uh, have the plague or something?”

“have the plague or something,” doyoung drawled sarcastically, “the last time the plague was going around was, like, a hundred years ago.” jaemin winced.

“or maybe i have cancer.”

“or maybe,” doyoung narrowed his eyes at his brother, “you’re just being a fatheaded dick who can’t come to terms with the fact that you’re soulmates with your best friend, and have to realise your love for each other so you don’t suddenly stop breathing!” doyoung stalked out of the room without a single word, pausing to seemingly contemplate whether slamming the (very heavy) oak door would help prove his point. he very intelligently settled on just stamping his foot. it made him look like a child, but jaemin hadn’t seen doyoung this upset in a while. and frankly, it got him thinking a bit. 

you walked into the hospital wing as usual without greeting jaemin. it wasn’t like you got a reply anyway. “hey,” the prince offered as you took up your usual spot by his bed with a book, a clear indication that you didn’t want conversation. 

your eyebrows twitched a little. granted, you weren’t expecting him to say anything, but it must be a testament to your friendship if your little blow up had at least gotten jaemin to think a little. you stared pointedly down at the book you didn’t even know the title of.

“y/n.” still no response. “you’re holding the book upside down,” jaemin sighed.

furious with yourself, you flipped the book the right side up again, “you don’t want to talk to me. stop forcing yourself to.”

“i do want to talk to you, okay? i don’t particularly want to die either, the soulmates idea is just hard to stomach.”

“what, does loving me sound so bad? am i so unlovable?” you slammed your book closed, trying not to choke on the shower of dust that came with it. logically, you shouldn’t be getting mad. jaemin was just trying to make things better, but he sounded so forced. “you sound so forced to do this, jaemin.”

“oh, are you getting mad at me now? you were sad because i wasn’t talking to you, and now you’re mad because i am! what the fuck am i supposed to do?” jaemin glared at you from underneath the covers, “i’m trying, okay? i thought you said you didn’t want me to die!”

“i don’t want you to die!” you hissed back at him, tears springing to your eyes again.

“are you crying again? if every time we talk you get that sad, then maybe you should just let me die!”

you dusted yourself off and ran out of the room, not even bothering to give jaemin an answer. why didn’t he get it? it’s not that hard to understand! (when else but) on your way out, you bumped into (who else but) doyoung, crying (what else but) angry tears. again. you really had to stop doing that.

to nobody in particular, doyoung whispered, “why are they so angsty?”

“we need to talk,” doyoung declared the moment he walked into the room in one of the pockets of time that you weren’t in it. jaemin looked up from the extremely interesting loose thread on his blanket and nodded, “what about?”

“y/n.”

jaemin’s expression darkened in a nanosecond. “no,” he practically growled, “not her again. i can figure this out myself, doyoung hyung! you don’t have to help me.”

“if you can figure this out yourself, the two of you wouldn’t be the embodiment of every sad angsty book ever written.”

“it’s our way of coping with things.” the words sounded fake even to jaemin’s own ears.

“no,” doyoung deadpanned, “don’t fuck around with me.” he hissed, “you know she cries every time you give her unwanted insults. let’s count how many times i ran into her, sometimes quite literally, in the hallway with her crying. one, the day you two got lost in the woods. two, when you were passed out and unresponsive, three, a few days after you woke up and weren’t talking to her, four, literally yesterday after you basically told her she was unlovable.” doyoung held up his fingers mockingly and it felt like jaemin had just been slapped in the face. “four times, na jaemin. four times you fucked up, four times y/n felt worthless, four times more than needed. four times. thats more than anything that happened in the last 16 years of your friendship. four times in less than a month. get your shit together, jaemin.” doyoung snapped, and spun around on his heel. jaemin felt like everyone was against him at this point. 

a week passes and hey, what did you know? some improvement was showing. you and jaemin could hold, an (albeit very awkward, but still) a conversation. it was a relief to you, but you were slightly suspicious of him. jaemin still couldn’t look you in the eyes, glancing away or inspecting his nails. but you couldn’t ask anymore of him, he went from straight out ignoring you, to asking how your day went. jaemin sent you a small smile, fiddling in his seat. 

“how… how are you?” jaemin asked, glancing at your features shyly. you smiled, though it felt more forced than genuine. 

“i’m good. have you been getting better?”

“well, you know. not really,” jaemin shrugged, not looking at you, “it hasn’t been getting worse either, though.”

you ignored the way jaemin was pointedly avoiding your gaze and offered a half smile you didn't really mean, “the weather isn’t very good today, is it?” the weather hadn’t been really good for the past week or so. even if you weren’t spending every waking (and sleeping) moment by jaemin’s side, you wouldn’t have been able to go out of the castle. the relentless rain pouring down on the windows made sure of that.

“y/n, i still think we have to talk.” jaemin’s expression turned serious, “i know i’ve been a dick these few weeks, and i’m not even going to try excusing myself for that. but i want you to know that no matter what, i still treasure you a lot as my best friend. i think i just need time - okay, admittedly we haven’t got very much of that left, about a week and a half or so, but i struggle with feelings. i really struggle a lot and it’s overwhelming and i miss you so much, i miss talking to you not-awkwardly and i want our old relationship back.”

you promised yourself you weren’t going to cry again, because god knows you’ve cried too much. “okay then,” you laughed lightly, “if you’re going to make this a deep sentimental talk, just know that i’m willing to wait for you for as long as you need. sadly this isn’t up to me.”

jaemin remained silent for a bit, taking in what you just said. when he spoke again, you were shocked. “do you think i love you?”

you cocked your head, “what i think doesn’t matter. the question is what do you think?”

“i want to know what you think.”

knowing he wasn’t going to let you go until you told him so, you sighed, “i think you do.”

“platonically or romantically?”

“my father wants my help in the kitchens, your highness. i’ll see you later.”

it was raining again, and you didn’t show up in his room like normal. jaemin was worried, and he got out of his bed clumsily, grabbing a cane, which he winced at. he looked like an old man with it. drawing back the heavy velvet curtains, the glass of his widow was covered in water droplets, all racing to the window sill. jaemin spotted you running around the courtyard, mouth open with a muted laugh and eyes sparkling even though you were soaked to the skin. jaemin found himself smiling, watching you with fond eyes. his senses kicked in, and he realized. he was truly, and utterly, with every fiber of his being, every cell in his body, in love with you. with his best friend. with the person who stuck by him all these years. who loved all his flaws and imperfections. he, na jaemin, second prince in line, never to sit on the throne (he didn’t mind that part), was in love with you. a cook's daughter, a commoner, but most importantly, his soulmate. 

when you came inside, your teeth were chattering and you were shivering all over, but it was the happiest you’d felt in a while. nothing was better than dancing in the rain, really, except dancing in the rain with jaemin. that now… that was a hundred times better, but na jaemin was sick, so you’d have to forgo that. practically waltzing into jaemin’s room, you grinned at him, your good mood making you forget all the awkwardness. he was just your best friend, your best friend of so many years. awkwardness who?

“jaems!” it might have been the prior realization of love making jaemin completely disregard any tension that might have been between the two of you earlier, but he grinned back at you just as happily as you’d greeted him, “y/n!” he frowned, pretending he hadn’t been watching you from his window just a few minutes prior because that was borderline creepy, “why are you all wet?”

“i danced in the rain. oh god, jaemin, do you remember that time when we were dancing together in the rain and then decided to use a banana leaf as an umbrella but we got wet anyway? and then-” 

“and then,” jaemin picked up seamlessly from where you left off, the grin not disappearing, “doyoung hyung came to check on us because he was scared we’d catch colds from running around in the rain all day. then we slipped and fell into the mud, splashing him all over.”

you laughed, a light tinkling sound that reminded jaemin again of why he loved you, “i swear the mud mask made his skin better.”

jaemin practically screeched with laughter, “you mean you’ve been looking at my brother’s skin?”

the overwhelming love and affection you felt for your best friend in that moment, both platonically and romantically, made you throw your arms around him, instantly soaking him through with your wet clothes. somehow, the two of you ended up sprawled on his bed. 

“you know what? i love you.” jaemin sighed, snuggling into your embrace. your ears burned red. 

“you.. you what?” you asked timidly. you really hoped jaemin said what you thought he said. jaemin smiled, leaning back more, adjusting the position the two of you were in. you now were snuggled into his chest, sighing as you felt your eyelids droop. jaemin chuckled lowly, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“i’ll be here when you wake up.” he whispered softly. you fell asleep, mind calm for once. 

“jaemin- okay, you can explain why y/n’s soaking your bedsheets through and the both of you are completely drenched in rainwater first,” doyoung arched an eyebrow, “have y’all finally gotten your shit together?”

“i think i love her, hyung,” jaemin’s arm curled protectively around you, “really.”

doyoung clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disapproval, “you think? be sure of it, jaems. i’ve practically raised the two of you and watched you grow up, and now you say you only think you love her?”

“i love her.” jaemin struggled to hold back the laugh that was threatening to spill out of his chest. “i love her!” he repeated again, louder this time. seeing the finger doyoung had to his lips, he quietened down to prevent waking you up, “thank you, hyung. for knocking some sense into me.”

doyoung smiled, “anytime. it’s my job, after all. now, i think you two need some alone time. see you at dinner, i truly doubt you’ll still be sick.”

you were awakened by the sound of the door closing. rubbing your eyes tiredly, you looked around, disoriented, “did someone come in?”

“it’s nothing, y/n. just a servant. sleep, i love you.”

you yawned, “i love you too.” and you snuggled back under the covers with him, acting like it was the most natural thing to do in the world.

“hey,” jaemin whispered in your ear, waking you up gently, “i hate to have to wake you up, but dinner’s in a few. my parents want to see you too, apparently.”

you blinked the sleep away from your eyes, looking at his smiling face. waking up to jaemin’s smile was something you could get used to, you thought. “what?”

“i said, we have to go get ready for dinner. you too, yes, main banquet hall, my parents want to see you.”

your mouth dropped open, all thoughts of sleep gone, “i don’t have clothes suitable for a fancy dinner!”

“oh yes you do. wear that yellow dress with the sunflowers.”

“is that formal enough?”

“y/n, like, you’ve literally talked to my parents so many times. they watched you grow up. they’re not so different from doyoung and i.”

“but this is the first time meeting them as your girlfriend!” oh god, did you really just say that? you cringed inwardly. you hadn’t even put a label on the relationship yet. rushing to make amends, you stuttered out, “soulmate. i mean soulmate.”

“you’ve always been my soulmate. as for girlfriend, well, you can be if you want to, but we have explaining to do. now move! the entire bed is wet!”

with strength a sick person shouldn’t possess, jaemin threw you out of his bed playfully. you looked up in shock and happiness, “you’re well again! you’re not sick anymore!”

jaemin grinned down at you from his bed, “we realised our love. see you in twenty, adios, au revoir, zaijian, sayonara!” yelling at the top of his lungs, he pushed you out of his room and slammed the door, and you honestly couldn’t care less. you were flying (figuratively, of course), drunk on the sentiments of finally realising your feelings for your best friend and soulmate.

growing up in the castle had taught you some things about manners, especially when the queen insisted you attend some etiquette lessons together with jaemin (to keep him in check, she’d said). dropping into a deep curtsey in front of the royal family, you rose again when the king placed a warm hand on your shoulder, “get up, y/n. we’re all family here, there’s not need for such formalities. you never really did those before either.”

“i was eight and didn’t know much about manners,” you protested lightly as he steered you into your seat beside jaemin, then taking his own at the head of the table - the king’s seat.

you ate in silence and as fast as you could without being rude. nobody made a move to break the silence, so you sat and waited until the last of the plates had been cleared away by the servants, then leaned forward, “if it isn’t rude to ask, may i know why i’ve suddenly been called here for dinner?”

the queen smiled kindly at you, “of course not, dear. well, today we have two announcements to make, one of which concerns you.” she glanced at the king, who inclined his head at her with a smile as if to say “the floor is all yours, dear.” the queen turned back to you, and seeing the dying rays of last light hit her face, you were again reminded of how beautiful the queen was. “firstly, about doyoung. now, we all know that my dear son here is turning twenty one in a month’s time and has finished his education. and so, doyoung, my son, your father has decided to pass on the kingdom to you. the announcement to the people will happen in a few days’ time, if you agree, and the coronation shall be held on your birthday. you are a much beloved crown prince, and i am sure the news of your coronation will delight the kingdom. i do hope you accept. so,” she practically glowed with pride, staring at the shell-shocked prince, “do you?”

“it would be an honor, mother. but didn’t father say he enjoyed being king?” doyoung, the rightful heir to the throne and the one who’d been trained for this his entire life, looked shocked, to say the least. you couldn’t blame him; it must’ve felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

“your mother and i have long been dreaming of a proper honeymoon in the carribean. away from the eyes of the public,” his father’s voice boomed encouragingly.

“then yes, i accept,” doyoung’s eyes were shining with tears and you really hoped he wasn’t about to cry. knowing him, once he started crying, he wouldn’t stop and that would really… kill the mood. 

“cheers to king doyoung,” jaemin raised his glass of juice (seventeen is not of a legal age to consume alcohol) to the sky, looking elated for his brother, “and for heaven’s sake, king doyoung, don’t cry!”

doyoung sniffled a little, holding his own goblet of wine to his brother’s, “i won’t cry! thank you so much!”

“congratulations,” you grinned at doyoung, who’d been just as much your elder brother all these years as he’d been jaemin’s. just in the past month, he’d slapped the two of you so hard to get your shit together, and he should honestly be crowned fairy godmother of the year. except that he wasn’t old, didn’t have white hair pulled up into a bun, and (sadly) didn’t own wings.

“now for our second announcement. doyoung’s explained everything to us already, i hope you don’t mind.” doyoung grinned guiltily at you over the table - honestly! like he’d done anything wrong! “you’re obviously too young for marriage, but y/n, your parents, whom i’ve just talked to, and us - we give you all our blessings. let this relationship prosper!”

jaemin squeezed your hand in his assuringly with a victorious smile like he’d known all along that this would’ve happened. you choked back a sob of your own, “thank you! thank you so much.”

“we’ve never known that soulmates existed, but now that we do know, there isn’t a truer pair than you and y/n,” she addressed jaemin, “treat her well.”

“i swear, mother, you love her more than you love me,” jaemin half-groaned, ignoring his mother’s angelic smile and reply (“i do not! i merely prefer to be around her.”)

“to the new king and couple!” jaemin’s father raised his goblet for another cheer, and you downed your drink in one gulp. tilting your head to grin at jaemin, you thought there really couldn’t be any happier moment in the world.

©danishmiilk, 2020. ©astroboy-lele, 2020.

[headinthestaticsky]

Thumping Footsteps and Skipping Heartbeats, RE2!Leon x Reader: Prologue

A/N: I mean... of course I was going to start writing for Leon first haha. He is my favorite character in the series and is in some of my favorite games.

Also, there may be some grammar errors or some misspelled words... I tried to catch them all but they sometimes slip by me. I apologize!

Lines and dialogue from the game will be present in this story. IT DOES NOT BELONG TO ME! All rights go to Capcom and all those involved in the making of the game!

I ran sporadically throughout the alleyways, the strong wind whipped my Y/C hair behind me. I didn't know where I was going in the current situation. My knowledge of the city I had been living in flew out the window the second I heard the groans and moans of the undead surrounding me.

I had just started working at the RPD a month ago. My assignments were mostly based on researching the disappearances that had been occurring in the mountains not far from here. Just as I thought I was getting somewhere in my research The chief of police, Chief Irons said I seemed overworked and I needed to take a break. Something in my gut told me there was an ulterior motive behind this request but, I didn't question it.

I never once thought the end of my vacation would be riddled with the undead. It was as if I was in a dream, an alternative reality that had begun to crumble around me. The only thing that was grounding me to the cold wet streets was the burning in my lungs and the skipping of my heartbeat. Each heavy drop of rain that fell on my skin cemented me more and more into the reality that was around me.

"Damn it," I muttered to myself. "How do I breathe again? Just in and out... in and out, that's all there is to it. So, why is it getting harder with each step I take?"

"Attention all citizens. Due to the citywide outbreak, you are advised to take shelter at the Raccoon City police station. Free food and medical supplies will be provided to everyone in need." I heard a male voice say from the speakers afar.

Suddenly, the sound of screeching tires with glass crashing and hitting the concrete echoed a second later. I quickly turned the corner of the dark alleyway I was in, I finally was met with the main streets of the city. A cop car had been rear-ended by a semi-truck.

"Is anyone there!? Do you need help!?" I called out, I heard a pained groan emanate from the car. A man fell out of the severely dented car, he crawled out away from it. I ran over to him, eager to see someone whose skin wasn't rotting. He jumped when I touched his arm but calmed down when he saw I wasn't trying to attack him.

"Are you hurt at al-" My sentence was interrupted by a bright and violent explosion. My ears rang and my eyes were stuck in a blinded state. They slowly got back to normal, I staggered trying to stand up. The man stumbled in his place as he yelled out.

"Claire, are you alright!?"

We could only hear the sound of the flames for a few seconds before a shaky voice replied.

"Yeah, I'm okay! How bout you!? I tensed as I could hear the sound of groans growing louder.

"It's not safe here! I'll meet you at the station!"

"I'll be there!" She yelled back.

The man turned back to me, his eyes filled with urgency.

"We need to get out of here now!" He grabbed my arm and began to run up the street.

September 29th, 1998: Monsters have riddled the streets, chaos surrounds me where ever I turn...

So far, I am still alive.

[milenadaniels]

Still Waters, 7k - Buck/Eddie, post s4 (AO3)

As Eddie lays on the hot pavement bleeding out, his eyes locked on Buck’s bloody face, his hand reaching out towards him, what washes over him isn’t his hard-earned stillness nor is it shock.

It’s clarity, edging slowly into focus from off-stage.

And when he wakes up in the hospital bed and registers a soft, slim hand in his, he thinks, "no, that’s not it.”

----

Or, Five Ways Eddie's Body Feels Different After the Shooting

Eddie takes comfort in living with a certain stillness. 

Being an army medic means walking into gunfire without being able to shoot back. It takes a steadiness that’s hard to train and while the army did help him grow into the man he is today, they couldn’t teach him that. That stillness, that restraint and level-headedness — he showed up to basic training with it. It makes him a good medic, a good firefighter, and it’s what makes him a good son. (If he’d countered his parents’ yelling with his own, if he’d let loose the caustic retorts he has tucked away, it wouldn’t be long until they were out of his life for good.)

He lost that stillness after Shannon died and he nearly lost everything else he’d worked so hard for because of it. So he built that restraint back up brick by brick until he was safe again. It was a little harder to breathe sometimes, but it was a familiar kind of pressure. Like a jacket you’ve grown out of but still love the look of enough to wear out sometimes.

And then he gets shot, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t react at all. But it’s not his stillness kicking in.

It’s having a bullet tear through his body on a sunny afternoon in L.A., thousands of miles away from where this should have been a hazard of the job. 

It’s hearing the bullet go off before registering the pain, but seeing the blood spray across Buck’s face before any of that. 

It’s falling and Buck — open, emotional Buck — not reacting at all. 

It’s collapsing on the street and smelling iron and finally putting together all these pieces and understanding why it’s so hard to breathe.

It’s not stillness, it’s just shock. Pure and simple.

But after that moment passes, as Eddie lays on the hot pavement bleeding out, his eyes locked on Buck’s bloody face, his hand reaching out towards him, the stillness that washes over him isn’t his hard-earned restraint nor is it the shock. 

It’s clarity, edging slowly into focus from off-stage. 

Clarity like he had in Afghanistan as the bullets rained down around him and he bled out in the sand, the clarity that nothing in the world mattered to him more than Christopher and nothing would ever keep him from his kid again. Not the army, not his problems with Shannon, not his parents.

This clarity, this epiphany, is seeping slowly into his consciousness and he grasps at it, tries to pull it in closer to understand. But just as it starts to trickle into him, Buck screams for him, his voice breaking, terrified, and a strong hand lands on his arm. Anything else his mind was trying to tell him is drowned out by his own screams.

When he wakes up in the hospital bed, lights too bright and his throat sore from the extubation, he feels...strange. He feels a stillness take hold of him, but it’s not a familiar one. His body and mind are calm, but anticipating something. He feels like he’s woken up from an important dream he can’t remember. Like he’s late for something but doesn’t know where to go. Like he was mid-conversation when the other person vanished.

Then he registers a soft, slim hand in his and thinks, no, that’s not it.

Eddie’s skin feels different after the shooting. 

He knows that from the moment his mind and body reconnect and half-asleep he tries to pull his hand out of Ana’s, but he doesn’t get the extent of it until his welcome home party where he tries to lean in for a kiss but diverts himself to her cheek, lingering there longer out of guilt. Her skin is as soft as always, warm from the heat of the house, but that small thrill of learning intimacy with someone new is gone and he’s not close enough to her to feel the deeper, warmer rightness he feels when he kisses Christopher’s forehead or Abuela’s cheek. 

Carla’s comment has been rattling around in his head since before the shooting, trying to find the unfinished puzzle inside him it could match up to. Ana sidles up to him at the party, lacing their fingers together and a faint rush of no crawls up his arm. He squeezes her fingers to compensate and smiles, blaming its weakness on fatigue. He looks at her, so beautiful, kind, and patient, and suddenly he hears Buck’s voice in his head saying, “Overcorrecting” as the puzzle piece slides into place. 

Eddie’s parents were wrong about Christopher, about Eddie as a father, and he will forever be angry that they made him feel like nothing, like worse than a deadbeat dad when he was already at his lowest. But he still loves them, still understands they were trying to do the best they could for Christopher, and in that their values will always align. He knows that if the day comes that he needs their help, they’ll be on a plane in a heartbeat. 

They’re family.

So he can’t dislodge the seed of hurt buried deep in his gut when they tell him he’s failing in their eyes. And they weren’t wrong in their accusations, really. He works crazy hours, the extended family doesn’t live here, and every other week with a specialist or new consultation makes him feel like he’s playing catch-up on what his son needs to be healthy and happy. 

And then Ana was placed in his path. A schoolteacher turned vice-principal with a Ph.D, who could cook, and who was kind, beautiful, Latina, and worked almost exactly the same hours Christopher would be in school for. And so, just like he had with the skateboarding, Eddie had overcorrected and tried to make up for his deficiencies.

Eddie breaks up with her over coffee during her lunch break while Christopher is at school and Buck is at work. She’s as understanding as she has been since they started this little courtship and he’s grateful to have known her, to have tried this, even though it didn’t work. She squeezes his hand on the table as she gets up to leave and he smiles politely, stretching his fingers in and out only once she’s completely out of sight.

He passes out on the couch when he gets home, grateful to have the excuse of recovering from a major injury to do absolutely nothing but blank out for a bit, and is woken up by warmth cupping his shoulder. He opens his eyes to find blue eyes and an amused smile tugging at full lips.

“Hey, dinner’s on,” Buck says. There’s a question written across his face, a hint of worry creasing in the corners of his eyes, but Eddie smiles back tiredly and the shadows on Buck’s face clear. Mostly.

“We’re having ziti!” Christopher yells from the dining room, and Eddie is not surprised. Buck has been staying with them for three days and they’ve had foods easy to eat one-handed for those three days. 

“We are having ziti,” Buck echoes with raised eyebrows to convey the nonexistent significance of having ziti.

“Well I’m definitely getting up for ziti.”

Unexpectedly, Buck’s hand slips into his good one and his other hand goes to support Eddie’s shoulder to help him upright on the couch. He backs away once he’s sure Eddie isn’t listing sideways and shoots him a smile with a cocked head before hopping back to the dining room to supervise. Eddie takes an extra moment on the couch opening and closing his fist, letting himself revel in the electric tingle racing up and down his arms, and the feeling of sweat prickling along his skin where Buck’s slid.

Eddie's hearing things differently after the shooting.

Between being a young, single parent and his military training, Eddie has mastered the art of sleeping lightly to keep alert to any sounds in the night. He’s so good at it that when they first moved into this house, he only lasted 3 weeks before he had to get his toolset out, take Christopher’s bed apart and reassemble it with a copious applicable of WD-40 to stop the one damn metal slat squeaking just loud enough for him to hear all the way from his own bedroom every single goddamn night.

He thought he’d naturally start sleeping more soundly as Christopher got older and more independent, but then Shannon died, and the tsunami happened, and being able to spring up at the first hint of a cry overrode any other instinct his body could manifest.

And now he’s recovering from an injury, which never lends itself to a deep sleep, which works out well because Christopher is processing his father getting shot at work and Eddie needs to be ready to reassure him that he hasn’t lost both his parents when the nightmares come. 

So when he wakes to Christopher shaking his arm and whispering, “Daddy”, he immediately springs awake, his hands already reaching for his crying son….who isn’t crying. Which Eddie can see clearly by the strong light of the sun filling the room. 

“Mijo?” Trying to blink himself into alertness.

“Are you awake?” Christopher asks, a crooked smile on his face. “It’s breakfast time.”

“Yeah, yes, I’m awake,” he says, though his mind is trying to tell him otherwise. “Breakfast? What time is it?”

“Breakfast time!” Christopher repeats, shaking his arm again for good measure. “It’s gonna get cold!”

“I’m coming,” he says, but grunts as he actually tries to lever himself up.

“Hey, hey, you were only supposed to see if he was awake, not actually wake him up,” Buck admonishes as he rushes the room. He pokes Christopher in the side a few times as punishment until the boy is shrieking with laughter. Then he moves into Eddie’s space to slip a strong arm under his back and practically lifts him up into a seated position without Eddie’s help. 

Eddie blinks against a small rush of dizziness and Buck’s hands stay on his shoulders until he nods that he’s okay. The feeling of them stays on his skin like tattoos long after.

They make it to the table and Eddie finds himself still disoriented as he takes in the impressive spread on the dining room table. Buck is many things but he is not a quiet man, especially not while cooking and this is a minimum of a half hour’s work. Probably closer to an hour judging by the very uneven shapes of the hashbrowns pointing to Christopher’s appointment as sous-chef. 

He didn’t hear any of it.

But the biggest blow comes ten minutes into the meal when Christopher, who’d been all energy until he got to the table, suddenly seems to have lost his appetite and slumps into his chair as he plays with his food instead.

Eddie’s hand comes up automatically to check for a fever despite the lack of redness in his cheeks but Buck catches his eye and shakes his head, assuaging that concern. Buck, Eddie now notices, is sporting quite the bruises under his own eyes.

“Nightmares,” Buck mouths silently, tipping his head towards Christopher.

And for a moment, Eddie’s parents stand in front of him, telling him he couldn’t even be there for his son when he needed him and the guilt and shame curls between his ribs and suffocates him. 

But then Buck negotiates Christopher into eating one half of a banana in exchange for two more squirts of ketchup for his eggs and Eddie lets the guilt wash into him, through him, and then away. 

He wasn’t there for Christopher, but Buck was. And would forever be. Eddie has had nearly a year to come to terms with that fact, to grapple with what little doubts he had that Buck would pass on the responsibility — not because he didn’t want it, but because he’d forever find someone else more worthy of it — and yet he’s still caught off-guard every time he’s reminded he isn’t alone in this anymore.

Still, he feels the need to be there himself for Christopher if he’s needed, so he tries to train his mind to stay alert while he sleeps that night.

He lets himself drift, cataloguing the sounds of nighttime. The periodic hum of the fridge, the air conditioning kicking in, the crickets outside. He slips away at some point, pulled into darkness by a healing body and a tired mind, but he’s gratified to find himself waking suddenly at 1:13am at the sound of murmuring voices down the hallway.

Buck is up with Christopher again.

Eddie’s stomach muscles make a valiant effort to try to get him up but the rest of his body and mind are unconcerned. He tries to flare up some adrenaline, something to tell his body to respond to his child who’s in distress, but all he gets is the molasses-heavy pull back to sleep. He knows he should be bothered, should be scared that he can’t do this. But he’s just not. Because Buck’s got this.

A month ago, footsteps in his hallway at night would have him waking up tense and alert, ready to respond to the intruder, until he remembered that Buck stayed over, or Tía Pepa came in early and he would slowly, consciously release the tension in his muscles until he was calm again.

Tonight, the sound of heavy footsteps going back to the living room doesn’t even pass into conscious thought. Before it can even get to his higher thinking, it’s interpreted as safe.

Eddie’s seeing things differently after the shooting.

Eddie’s back to work a week after the shooting, on light duties, and while he hates not being able to jump in the truck and watch his team’s back on calls, he doesn’t hate taking it easy. Just for a little while anyway.

Today, however, they’re all taking it easy. It’s a slow day, and they have an open house for several local high schools’ career day. The firefighters of the 118 are spread out, some leading tour groups, some recounting PG versions of intense calls, some handing out snacks and pamphlets. Civilians are milling about as though this is a museum and not a functioning firehouse that could get a call any minute, but he’s not stressing about it. That’s Bobby’s job. 

He does raise an eyebrow at whichever parents feel it’s okay to let their toddler toddle off in a strange place full of dangerous equipment though. Eddie sees the tyke waddle past him and almost moves to block her path when he sees her destination. 

Later, he’ll remember this moment as time slowing down to a crawl just for him, but what really happens is his heart realizes something just moments before the rest of him does and his brain has to pump the brakes to align everything back up. 

What happens is Buck crouches down to the level of the little girl whose pudgy arms are reaching up for him, like she recognizes the safest place in this whole new, strange environment. He puts his hands around her — his fingers spanning from her hips to underneath her arms —  and lifts her up high above his head in one quick swoop that has her shrieking with delight. And the people drop away, the cacophony dies down until all Eddie can see is Buck and the little girl backlit by the sun pouring in from the open bay doors. And at the crest of the arc the little girl makes in the air, everything stills and something in Eddie’s chest just cracks right open. Something deep and consuming. Something that resonates through him until he’s shuddering with it. Something that yells,

I want that.

It’s a picture of achingly beautiful contrasts — a child the size of a doll over the head of a towering form, taut biceps straining against his uniform short sleeves to hold her fragile body with just enough force to keep her safe in his hands, the dark masculine line of his uniform against her light purple princess tulle dress — but their beaming smiles are matched perfectly. 

And Eddie wants. He wants to the point of breathlessness and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He just knows he wants to be looking at this exact image again a couple of years down the road, but when it happens next he wants the little girl in Buck's hands to be his, and that is some fucking news to him. He’s never thought of having more kids. Well, he has, but in the same abstract way he thinks he might someday get a dog. It would be nice, but not in the cards for now, not something to spend time thinking about in realistic terms. 

But maybe that’s what his brain is straining to catch him up on. That he wants more kids. Like a biological alarm clock coming to life. He could deal with that. He could.

Only Buck is putting the little girl down and she’s walking away with her parents and Eddie can’t pull his eyes away from Buck’s deep dimples and the whites of his teeth, and that warm pressure in Eddie’s chest sinks down into his abdomen and curls into something hot and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears, and he thinks wildly that it may not be about the little girl at all. But it may be that if there is a little girl in his future, he’d want her to be theirs, like —

Like Christopher is.

His mind supplies him with the image of Buck carrying Christopher to bed last night — in those same strong arms, tenderly removing his glasses and tucking him in — and just like that this kernel of panic that had been building in his sternum bursts like an overfilled balloon whose contents are unexpectedly soft because they rain down over all the fear and anxiety until all he can feel is a bone-deep calm. 

Eddie wants that. And maybe that’s okay.

“You okay, Eddie?” Asks Bobby, coming to stand next to him.

Time is winding back up to normal speeds, and the sun framing Buck is slowly lowering back down to the brightness of a regular sunny day, but Eddie is still staring.

“Yeah,” he says in a voice he barely recognizes as his own.

“You sure?” 

Buck is saying something to a parent, then asks them to wait, running behind a truck for something and finally releasing Eddie’s gaze.

He takes a deep breath and sits with the feelings pulsing through his veins before turning to Bobby, his eyes maybe a touch wide if the captain’s concern is anything to go by. He wants to say something, wants to blurt it all out, wants to be that person who wears their whole heart on his sleeve...but he’s not that person yet. 

“We had a conversation not long ago,” Eddie begins, sounding as shell shocked as he feels, “about focussing on the wrong thing. Missing out on something.”

Bobby is quiet and when Eddie finally turns his head he finds the man looking past him, to where Buck has returned.

Bobby’s lips into a small, satisfied smile. “Yes, we did. Found something to focus on?”

“Yeah,” Eddie admits. “I think so.”

Bobby claps him on the back, and leaves his hand just long enough to feel like a blessing.

Eddie’s breathing is different after the shooting.

He wishes he could blame the bullet but the same kind of luck that had gotten him out of the well had somehow seen him come out of a sniper attack with mostly muscle damage and a cleanly fractured scapula that should heal if it's kept immobile. His ribs, collarbone, and lungs have all gotten off without injury.

And blaming the bullet was always going to be a hard sell when his breath only hitches and constricts when Buck lets himself into his house at the end of his shifts. When he toes his boots off and hangs his jacket up in the closet like he means to stay. When his socked feet bump into Eddie’s under the breakfast table because they’re both too damn long in the legs to be sitting across from each other. When their shoulders brush when putting the leftovers away. When Buck is the one to let Abuela into the house and chats with her easily as Christopher gets ready to leave. When — 

Suffice it to say proximity may be more a factor than the bullet. Though Eddie can understand how Buck’s gotten it wrong.

“Don’t tell me you’re not hurting, tough guy” Buck chastises him later that night with a knowing glimmer in his eyes as his fingers reach out for his shoulder, “I’ve been listening to you flinch for three days straight.”

It has been three days since the open house. He doesn’t know if he should be grateful Buck waited until Christopher was at Abuela’s to bring this up or terrified he’s lost his child-buffer.

“Buck, it’s fine,” Eddie protests even as he holds still for Buck to palpate the area gently. “I am a medic, in case you forgot. I know what to look out for in healing wounds.” The warmth leaves his shoulder and he misses it instantly.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but apparently doctors make the worst patients,” Buck informs him, hands on his hips which pitch forward in a way Eddie desperately tries not to interpret as suggestive. This is just Buck peacocking to drop some knowledge. “There’s a reason docs aren’t allowed to diagnose or prescribe themselves anything. Meds and beds, Eds!” he decrees sunnily like the dork he is.

Buck slides one of the pain pills out of the child-and-shoulder-injury-proof bottle and Eddie takes it because breathing issues aside, he did overextend himself in physical therapy today and he’s not going to get any sleep without it. 

“Come on, let’s go.” Buck tips his chin imperiously towards the hallway, expecting Eddie to lead the way to his bedroom where he’ll take off his shirt for Buck to inspect both sides of the wound, clean it, and redress it, like they’ve done nearly a dozen times before. He’s dodged it for the past few days in deference to his sanity but he’s not getting out of it tonight.

Eddie gets up and leads the way, telling himself he’s only doing it as a pretense to turn away so the heat crawling up his neck isn’t be on full display but as he gets closer to his bedroom, his mind lifts the image of Buck’s large hands from the little girl’s waist, and the electric warmth of his touch on the couch, and drops it onto the image of Eddie’s bare, shirt-and-bandage-off skin and now his feet are just following orders from higher up the chain.

Eddie sits gingerly on the edge of his bed and forces himself to breathe normally as his eyes track Buck’s easy familiarity with the inside of his bedroom. Buck turns the bedside lamp on, then crosses to the dresser to pull a fresh shirt for bed which he chucks at Eddie’s head (only once he’s sure Eddie’s aware it’s coming), then ducks into the bathroom quickly to grab the dollar store basket with everything he’ll need.

Then Buck is helping him out of his sling and shirt and stepping closer until Eddie’s field of view narrows to a broad chest and flat stomach covered only by a thin, soft-looking dark red henley. Buck inches closer still as he concentrates on carefully pulling off the old gauze and his thighs press into the inside of Eddie’s knees.

His breath hitches.

“Sorry, sorry,” Buck mumbles.

Eddie doesn’t correct him.

This close, the heat from Buck’s body is slowly seeping into Eddie’s space, the skin on the inside of his knees already past the point of overheating, much like his face, neck and chest are. 

Buck’s hands are light as the pads of two fingers press around the skin around the stitching. “It’s...actually looking really good,” he says, puzzled but pleased. “Not red, no sign of infection. You do feel a little warm though.” 

No shit.

Buck shifts, moving one leg outside of Eddie’s knees to better look at the back of the wound and he says something but all Eddie can focus on is the 5 inches keeping Buck from essentially riding his thigh.

“Eds? Hey.” Buck calls for what sounds like the second or third time. “What’s hurting? Where are you feeli—” 

Buck is leaning back to better look at him and Eddie doesn’t know what his face is saying but no part of his body is less than overheating and thinks his eyes may be communicating this.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Eddie manages to get out.

“But…” Buck looks down, his body becoming tense with uncertainty. “You keep—”

“Yeah,” Eddie interrupts and he wants to blame the pain pill like he wanted to blame the bullet but Tylenol 3 barely makes people drowsy, it sure as hell isn’t responsible for people feeling up their best friends. And yet that’s what’s happening, apparently.

They both look down and watch as Eddie’s good hand slowly reaches out and settles on Buck’s hip, under his henley, fingers curling too naturally around his leather belt, the backs of his fingers pressing into Buck’s warm skin. Not only does Buck not reject the touch but he leans forward into it, his hands rising towards him but not landing. Eddie’s heart aches at the aborted motion and recognizes it for uncertainty. Buck’s not fully sure what’s happening but he’s willing to go along with whatever Eddie wants to do. 

Eddie doesn’t want that.

He uses the hand on Buck’s hip to move him back just far enough to leverage himself up so they’re on equal footing, though only one of them is half-naked.

“Eddie,” Buck begins, though it’s obvious he doesn’t know what words were meant to follow. He swallows convulsively and narrows his wide blue eyes to roam over his face. Eddie doesn’t miss the naked hope filtering into his expression, nor does he miss the anxious self-doubt behind it.

“Buck,” Eddie murmurs so reverently he’ll be embarrassed about it later. He lets go of Buck’s belt, and lays his hand flat on his ribs before slowly sliding it up to the crook of Buck’s neck in a move that leaves nothing to interpretation. Buck breaks out in a full-body shiver and he laughs breathlessly, embarrassed.

Eddie keeps his hand soft, careful, on Buck’s shoulder, his thumb brushing against his collarbone and Buck’s eyes are glued to its motion, his mouth parted slightly.

“Are—” Eddie clears his throat quietly. He doesn’t think he’s misreading but he has to know. “Are you into this?”

Instantly, Buck’s eyes snap up to his, vulnerable until he properly processes the question, then all traces of doubt clear in a blink and he’s treated to the laser focus of Buck’s hyperfixation dragging down his face to his mouth and Eddie’s breath hitches again. This time, Buck looks up with a cocksure grin tugging at his lips as he comes to understand what Eddie’s problem’s been these past few days.

Then the statue of Evan Buckley explodes into motion — his hands split their focus, one gliding across the bare skin of Eddie’s waist and gripping, the other carefully cupping his head a moment before his lips follow, landing just in front of his thumb on Eddie’s cheekbone and for a moment Eddie’s upset to have gotten this far and not have Buck’s lips on his. But then he realizes Buck is just as wound up as he is, and a wound up Buck is an aggressive force of passion looking for safe outlets who probably needs a moment and Eddie’s heart constricts tightly in his chest.

Finally, the wet drag of lips against his cheek veers downward and across, and Eddie’s mouth is engulfed in softness and heat. He’s pressing up into it, pushing up from the balls of his feet with his hand on Buck as leverage, pressing up and forward into Buck who takes it without moving an inch. He’s never had to reach up to kiss someone before, never felt evening stubble brushing against his and he’s keenly grateful to have this with Buck, something so different to mark this as not just another kiss, but a kiss with Buck. No ordinary thing.

One of them is making a noise but he can’t focus on that when he needs to get closer, needs to press in and through, needs to turn them and get Buck on the bed so he can—

“Ah!” Eddie gasps.

Buck’s lips are wrenched away, though his hands remain like hot brands on his skin. His eyes are wild and unfocused, his lips red and bruised and he’s panting, but his face is puckered with concern.

“Okay, that one was definitely pain,” Buck gasps, blinking back to some kind of lucidity.

Eddie winces, unable to deny the agony tearing through his shoulder.  “My fault,” he hisses. 

Buck frowns and only then realizes that the arm that should be in a sling is out of place because Eddie’s hand has gone rogue and reached out to hook into Buck’s pants pocket to pull him closer.

Buck winces in sympathy, though he’s not able to fully erase the laughter from his eyes or from the corner of his lips. He takes pity on Eddie though, and drops his hands to gently untangle Eddie’s clamped fingers and guide it back across Eddie’s body where the sling would be keeping it.

Once it’s back in its healing position, Eddie releases the breath he’d been holding and settles back into the familiar ache. Instead of releasing him, however, Buck covers the hand laying on Eddie’s ribs with his own, pressing enough to convey the command: don’t move, before leaning back in slowly to capture Eddie’s lips in a kiss achingly sweeter than before. It’s little more than their lips resting against each other but Eddie’s heart goes wild in his chest, matching whatever the hell butterflies are wreaking havoc in his stomach. 

Buck leans back for a split second, just long enough for them to open their eyes and check in before he’s swaying back in for a short kiss once, twice, and one final time before properly moving away and leaving Eddie cold.

“Meds and beds, Eds,” Buck orders with finality, softened by a rueful smile.

And Eddie, who’s never had a single positive thought about Abby Clark, thinks of her fleetingly as some kind of saint because somehow she resisted Buck — kissing him, touching him, even seeing him — for months on end and if Eddie wasn’t suddenly struck with a physically deep fatigue borne of pain and emotional epiphanies, he thinks he would be on his knees begging for Buck to come back into his arms right now. 

As it is, he studies Buck’s boyish grin and the fear in his eyes that his stopping this is a problem, and Eddie is filled with a helpless love that steals his breath again. Buck catches the hitch, understands it for what it is, and the tension leaks out of his shoulders.

He lets Buck help him put the night shirt and sling back on, his mouth curling into a smile with every gratuitous touch Buck allows himself, and catches that errant hand as it leaves his body, squeezing once before dropping into his pillows and giving in to sleep.

Eddie’s heart is definitely not working the same after the shooting.

He had a heart scare in high school that freaked him and his parents out. It benched him from the football team for nearly half a season until the doctors said it was something called premature ventricular contractions. It was supposedly benign and something most people will have at least once in their lives. It didn’t feel benign. It felt like his heart was stopping suddenly, then pressure building up in his chest before the next beat came and overcompensated by beating three times as hard as normal like a goddamn punch in the chest. It had kept him up at night, not from anxiety or anything, just because it was so disruptive, as if your head jerked on its own just as you were falling asleep. 

But he’d grown out of it after a few months and never really thought of it again until he got shot, realized he was in love with his best friend, and his heart started going out of whack again.

He was fairly sure it wasn’t PVC. Much like the breathing, there seemed to be a clear and defined trigger.

Such as Buck pressing a kiss to Christopher’s curls at the dining table as he geared up to leave for a Saturday shift. Then turning to Eddie waiting at the door, his eyes a lot darker than they’d been a moment ago, and pressing a lingering kiss to his cheekbone, in the very same spot as he had two days ago in his bedroom.

“Be good,” Buck murmurs, tugging lightly on Eddie’s sling strap before straightening out to pick up his bag.

Eddie wants nothing more than to catch his hand and pull him back in, hold him close so he can’t leave, and he’s pretty sure all that is painted clear as day on his face if the regret and longing that washes over Buck’s face is anything to go by. 

It’s a problem.

Eddie’s been trying to reign himself back in. Trying to find that stillness so he stops feeling like he’s going to buzz out of his damn skin. 

But then Buck is back from his shift and locking the door to Eddie’s bedroom, assuring him it’s “just so we have time to get some clothes back on if he needs us,” with a rakish grin and fuck if it doesn’t feel exactly like PVC - a sudden pausing of his heart as he tries to deal with all these emotions before they crash into him on the next beat. 

And he’d worry about it but Buck’s laying him out, pressing his hot mouth on every inch of skin he can uncover, setting his nerves off like electric pulses until all Eddie can hear is their panting and the rushing of blood in his ears. His heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest by the time Buck’s divested him of his sweats and boxers. But then Buck pauses and looks up for permission before continuing, and Eddie gets to look down and take in his best friend’s darkened blue eyes and ruddy cheeks and what his heart does is definitely not sex-related. Not only sex-related.

He nods helplessly and Buck grins with delight before taking Eddie’s dick into his mouth and if he thought his body felt different before, it’s nothing compared to being suddenly engulfed in the velvet heat of Buck’s mouth. Eddie’s good hand slaps down on the mattress and grips the sheets tightly. He’s about to bring up his fist to his mouth to do something, he doesn’t know what, when Buck anticipates danger and his strong fingers are gripping his other hand, forcing it to stay in place on his ribs. Eddie laughs breathlessly — the man can multitask. 

Eddie twists his fingers until they’re threading between Buck’s, who catches on and properly holds his hand as he takes Eddie apart. 

And Eddie...Eddie hasn’t had sex in a really long time, and he hasn’t been so fucking in love during sex in an even longer time so he’s not surprised when it’s only minutes later that he’s squeezing at Buck’s hand and gasping. “Buck...I’m gonna—” and he’s somehow not surprised when Buck hums his acknowledgement and presses himself closer and closer in until Eddie’s toes curl and his back bends and he’s shooting down Buck’s throat who stays in place until Eddie’s hissing from overstimulation. 

“Oh fuck,” Eddie says helplessly, his heart galloping, and another small laugh escaping him as he brings his good hand up to his forehead.

Buck climbs his way back up his body, sitting lightly right over his spent dick and he knows he shouldn’t torture himself but Eddie looks down and lets himself commit the image to memory until they can do that properly. Then he drags his eyes up and over Buck’s straining erection, his panting chest and up to that pleased goddamn smile. 

“Good?” Buck asks, cocky as he’s ever been.

“Good,” he laughs sarcastically. “I think you broke me. Dios, I think I need an ECG.”

Buck actually looks mildly concerned so Eddie reaches for him and Buck lets himself be pulled down by the nape until Eddie can lick into his mouth, going a little nuts over the taste of himself on Buck’s tongue. 

Eddie pulls his hand away from his nape to reach down for Buck’s dick, but Buck takes that as direction to sit up so Eddie pulls him back in until their lips are barely touching. He squeezes Buck’s nape, says firmly, “Stay,” and marvels when Buck’s eyes go wide, his face slackening, and a shiver running down his back. Fuck.

When Eddie pulls his hand away again, Buck stays, pressing his elbows on either side of Eddie’s head to keep himself in place until he catches onto Eddie’s plan.

“You don’t ha—”

“I still have one good arm,” Eddie retorts. “As it happens, I’ve gotten a lot of practice out of this one.”

Then his fingers curl around hot flesh and Buck jerks like he’s been struck.

“Easy,” Eddie soothes, craning up to remind Buck what he’s supposed to be doing. To his credit, it only takes the soft press of their lips to get him refocused, then Buck’s tongue is in his mouth while he pushes helplessly into Eddie’s hand. It’s dry because they didn’t plan this out beyond a heated look in the living room, but Buck’s leaking enough to provide at least some lubrication. In the end, he’s got about as much stamina as Eddie did and a few minutes of rutting into Eddie’s fist and attacking Eddie’s mouth is enough to set him off, his cum spilling over Eddie’s stomach in long pulses.

Eddie’s hand uncurls and smooths over the skin of Buck’s side, making long passes from hip to shoulder as Buck comes down from his high. On the fourth sweep, he trails his hand inward, over Buck’s waist and back up his ribs and chest in a move reminiscent of the night of their first kiss, but this time he stops in the middle, in the dip between his pecs.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who needs an ECG,” he grins.

Buck huffs with a grin that grows to overtake his face. “Less of a concern for young guys like me. You should probably get checked out though.” He leans back in to occupy Eddie’s mouth before he can think of a retort, but as the kiss devolves from heat and passion into sweet and lazy explorations, Eddie feels a distinctive disruption of rhythm in Buck’s chest and smiles.

Later, Buck gets up and gets them cleaned up with kleenex, except for the drops of cum caught on Eddie’s fingers. Those he takes into his mouth to clean thoroughly until Eddie feels himself getting hard again and has to call uncle. Buck dresses himself perfunctorily and helps Eddie back into his boxers before reaching for the sling and carefully threading it over Eddie’s arm and neck, squeezing his fingers before pausing and looking unsure.

“Should I—” He looks towards the door, beyond which is the hallway and living room where he’s been bunking down because Christopher’s in the house and they haven’t had time to talk about all this yet.

Instinctively, Eddie’s good hand reaches for his hip and grips gently but firmly. 

“Stay,” he says again, watching with clear eyes now how Buck’s eyes grow wider and his throat convulse. They’re definitely going to be exploring that in the future.

For now, Buck nods absently before smiling. He moves to the door only to unlock it and crack it open before returning to the bed and the domesticity of it twists Eddie’s heart one last time before he’s folded into Buck’s arms and succumbing to the darkness more easily than he can ever remember doing so before.

Eddie suffered a near-death experience on the job. Christopher almost lost his father. Buck almost lost his best friend. Getting shot again aggravated his PTSD. The bullet created cracks not only in his bones but in the shell casing he built around himself, the effects of which he’ll probably carry his entire life.

But he survived, he came home to his son. He’ll learn to be okay with loud, sudden noises again. He’ll learn to deal with the nightmares if they come back. He’s in physical therapy for the pain. And in the end, he can’t find it in himself to wish it had never happened. 

Not when he wakes up to Buck’s arms pressed against his bare skin, sharing his heat and feeling that electricity coursing softly just under his skin.

Not when he hears Christopher inching the door open in the morning and Buck beckoning him in while whispering, “We gotta be quiet, your dad’s still sleeping.”

Not when he loses his breath at Buck’s casual parental love as he twists to grab Christopher by the waist and heave him into the bed between them, causing the boy to giggle way too loud. 

Not when he paints an unimpressed smile on his face before rolling over dramatically, finding two too-innocent faces smiling back at him and he's struck dumb for just a second at the picture they paint, eyes wide and curls askew. 

Not when Christopher throws Buck under the bus, giggling “it was him!” and Buck takes his revenge in the form of tickles until they’re both pink-cheeked and laughing and the bed is shaking like it may not support them, and Eddie’s heart is so fucking full it may not even be able to beat anymore. 

Eventually, Eddie does feel a stillness rebuilding within him after the shooting, but it doesn’t feel like walls, it feels like love. It feels like peace.