#its almost faster than inking ..

[malacandrax]

Every few months I'm like oh yeah! I can paint! Some hurt/comfort speedpaints >:)

[colleendoran]

How Do I Do Stuff

The question was phrased a little strangely, and I don't want to embarrass the person by posting exactly what was said, but I'll answer it and hope this clears everything up.

I do almost all of my drawing by hand. No, I don't trace in Photoshop. Not a judgment on those who do, but I come from a generation of artists who did not use Poser programs or other digital tools. We learned to draw using a technique called the Sight Size method. I know a lot of people assume everyone - including the old masters - traced everything using optical tools, but while it is true some people did, it is just as true that most didn't, and you can draw with great accuracy if you learned how to draw the old fashioned way.

Sight Size breaks everything down into its barest components of geometric shapes and you build from there. Once you learn it, you never forget, and it applies to everything you will ever draw.

I learned it using a set of Famous Artist Course books my mom had since she was a kid, and they are still the gold standard. They're often on ebay. If I were you, I'd buy them.

I actually find using figure reference really annoying because I like exaggerations and modifications from reality in my final work.

This page from Neil Gaiman's Chivalry was drawn and painted without figure reference of any kind.

I don't know why people assume I trace all the time. If you were to try to use photographs to replicate these figures, you would find they are slightly off. There is no tracing here.

This is not to say I never use reference. This page, for example, was referenced from a photo of my mother. Isn't she pretty.

But this page of Sir Galaad was drawn and painted without reference.

He's pretty, too.

If he were real, I'm sure a lot of people would be very happy about it. But he's not. And had I reference, the art would have gone a lot faster. I had a time trying to nail this face that is very alive in my head but doesn't really exist.

Back in the ancient days, all cartoonists had to learn to draw and paint extemporaneously because reference was limited and digital tools didn't exist. While some high end artists had photography studios and professional models with costume and sets on hand, small fry like me were limited to what was in the house or available at my small local library, which was no bigger than a few rooms of my current house.

Artists kept extensive "morgue files" or "swipe files" which were collected from magazine clippings and photographs so we would have as much of what we might need on hand for quick reference. These ephemera collections could get unwieldy. I have thousands of photographs I've simply never sorted. I finally dumped most of my files this past year.

Have I ever traced anything? Of course, especially if I have to re-use a shot or setting over and over. Making extra work for myself is just silly. It's my job to make pictures, not to perform magical feats, like copying one shot after another over and over without making a mistake.

However, for almost 15 years of my career, I refused to copy or trace anything, and did not even own a lightbox. On the one hand, that forced me to learn to carefully examine what I saw. On the other hand, it was a stupid hill on which many deadlines died.

Only after I realized many professional artists had lightboxes and overhead projectors did I finally break down and get one.

The one thing I use my lightbox for more than anything is for tracing my thumbnail sketches to the final drawing paper. Instead of trying to capture the liveliness of the original sketch by copying what I see - only bigger - I blow the thumbnail up to the size I want the final art to be, then I trace over the thumbnail using a lightbox onto the final drawing paper.

Here's a look at thumbnails from the graphic novel Neil Gaiman's Snow, Glass, Apples.

I enlarged these on my computer to fit onto 11"x14" paper, and traced the thumbs before finishing the art which was drawn in pen and ink and colored in Photoshop.

While I obviously made some changes, the essence of the thumbs is there in the final work. Tracing my thumbs retains some of the looseness of the original sketches, which is often lost otherwise.

So, there is a valid purpose to tracing at times, though in my opinion, too much tracing can weaken drawing ability, substitute for developing skills, and make the work kind of stiff.

If you want to, I'm not your judge. But it's weird to me that people think I must be faking my skills in some way.

Ironically, the word cartoon comes from the Italian word cartone, which is a large heavy sheet of paper - also, the origin of the word carton.

Preparatory sketches were made on this paper which was then transferred to the final work surface via either tracing or by stamping little holes in the paper through which dust was sprinkled, recreating the contours of the drawing for the artist to follow.

So the origin of the word cartoon comes from a process often used...for tracing.

[davosmymaster]

No Time To Die

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, no explicit smut but sexual themes, whump, a lot of angst, blood, graphic wounds and procedures (?) probably not medically accurate, could be almost gore if you squint, hurt/comfort, two dorks in love, canon-typical violence, near-death experiences. Not based on the game, I don’t know anything about the game and I don’t want spoilers please.

PAIRINGS - Joel Miller x fem!reader

WORD COUNT -  9.6k.

SUMMARY - The main difficulty of being Joel’s closest friend is not falling in love with him, but you still do. Those feelings are buried until you join him on a mission to trade supplies with Bill and Frank. With your life now hanging by a thread, Joel is determined to get you to safety, but the clock is ticking faster than he can run.

A/N - I honestly don’t know what this is. I tried to look for angsty and whumpy fics and couldn’t find any that hit the spot just right; so I wrote my own. This story is set in some time between 2010 and 2020, or so. Bill and Frank are still very much alive. The only warning apart the amount of blood in this, it’s my own knowledge of the English language.

'Breathe'

 With a shiver, you try to comply with your own command. The action itself confuses you, and you don't know where exactly in your mind that thought came from; or why. All you know is that a moment ago you were nothing, absolutely nothing, not even human. You forgot your own existence in a still ocean made of black thick ink. The ink is now backtracking, though, but the remnants of it stay in your foggy mind, clouding it as your consciousness comes back in waves.

 Waking up from a dream is easy, you just come back into yourself from a nice trip to your own imagination. Regaining consciousness, however, is a little more difficult. Instead of going somewhere, you go inwards into yourself. Your overworked mind, already tired and busy with keeping you alive, doesn't care much about bringing you to any other place so you can die peacefully. No. And the awakening is not as it should be either.

Coming back into yourself is your body crawling its way to the land of the living, with your flesh drenched in tears, blood and sweat; and nails digging firmly into the dirt. At least that's how it feels as you go back and forth between the two worlds, rocked violently by the waves threatening to drown you in its heavy never-ending dream.

 You wake up tired, and cold. The first sense that returns is touch; and with it, a pulsing pain radiates from under the right side of your collarbone and all the way down to your chest and back. The —obvious— wound is warmer than the rest of your body. It's like you've grown a second heart right at the borders of the wound; it throbs relentlessly. The second is taste. Your mouth tastes like salt and melted butter; despite not having eaten either in at least three days. Around the dryness of your tongue you feel a sticky liquid swirling around in your mouth, plastered to your gums.

 Whatever it is, you cough it out of your mouth. The old blackened blood splatters on the wooden planks below your mouth. Then, a second later, you feel a sprawled hand on your back; and the rest of your consciousness returns with it.

 He calls your name. And he, whose presence you'd have recognized even blindfolded, even miles away from there, doesn't appear in your mind for a few seconds. But even half-conscious and at death's gates, his name leaves your mouth with a sigh of relief.

 Joel.

 "I'm here," he says, his palm now pressing a bit harder into your back, trying to comfort you somehow. If you had been fully aware, you'd have been embarrassed at the relieved groan that had escaped your lips while saying his name. "How are you feeling?"

 His voice sounds less muffled now, but the pulsing pain intensifies the closer you are to the surface. A second groan escapes your mouth as the warmth under your collarbone becomes impossible to ignore.

 "I know, I know" he says.

 Your eyes flutter open. From your point of view there's not much to see except torn wallpaper, your blood stains, and the shadow of a window. You're on the floor, your cheek pressed against the dusty carpet, your body very still laying on them, and Joel rubbing your back.

 The room is dark. His fingers enter your field of vision, they dip on the wet blood stains and turn around so Joel can see the sticky fluid staining his fingers. He takes a breath, a gasp, really.

 "Goddamnit," he mutters under his breath. His hand stops rubbing your back, and as black stains crawl from the corners of your vision, trying to take you under the waves again, he talks to you:

 "I need to turn you around..." he says with a gentle voice. It's like the icing on top of a sour and burnt cake; he's trying to sound caring, but that doesn't change the fact that it's going to hurt like a bitch. "You hear me?" he says, and his voice breaks for a second. Your ears ring, the next thing he says your brain doesn't process it, your vision has been clouded by darkness again...

 A scream tores your throat as a shooting pain lights your body on fire. It feels like lightning going through your backbone. Suddenly, the waves are very far away and you're feeling way too conscious for your liking. Despite your pain, Joel is still as careful as he can as he lays you on the floor, now facing the ceiling instead.

 The throbbing pain continues, and you blink to get rid of the tears that distort Joel's face. His hand wipes the tears from your face.

 "I know," he says. He has a crease between his seemingly angry eyebrows that you had never seen before.

 Both hands are roaming your ribs now, before you can even say anything. His warm hands give you shivers as he touches your naked skin. The pain is so unbearable that all you can do to mitigate it is hold your breath. If you could move, you'd be right now curled on the floor like a pretzel. You are not crying anymore, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't close.

 "Can you breathe?" he asks then, when he doesn't find any cracks in your ribs by touch alone. You don't respond because you can't find your own voice, and he sounds desperate at this point. "You coughed blood, I need to know if any of your lungs are collapsing."

 "It-it hurts..." you wheeze, your eyes tightly shut. For a split second, you wish you were back to being nothing. Being nothing sounds way better than having a gunshot wound in your chest. The bandages, tight over your bones and shoulder, don't mitigate the pain either. If anything, they worsen it. It feels like a tight sock over a painful pustule on your heel.

 Worst part is you know all this pain is for nothing; you know you won't make it. If you go back to the QZ, you will be executed. If not, there's nobody to help you except Joel. But even if there were doctors or hospitals, you highly doubted you could find the necessary tools to extract a bullet and stitch the wound. That is, if you manage not to die of blood loss.

 "Where?" Joel asks. Even beyond all this concern and well-hidden panic, he seems to cling to an ounce of hope. "Tell me where it hurts."

 Your fingers gently trace your skin until they reach the area under your collarbone, and you sign to your back too. There's a bandage there, but nothing else, and that's when you notice you don't have a shirt on, just your blood-soaked bra.

 "Is it bad?"

 "Not that bad. The bullet went through," he said. That explains the pain on both sides of your body; you have a literal hole in your chest. "And it clotted soon enough to stop the bleeding, but you lost too much blood anyway... Anywhere else?"

 Your whole body hurts and this abandoned house suddenly feels like penance, but you don't want to scare him further, so you shake your head no very slowly.

 "Alright," he mumbles. Joel nods once, and it looks like he is reassuring himself. His eyes betray him, he looks like he is very far away from here, very buried under all the scenes playing on his mind; but despite his stillness, his lower lip quivers.

 You can't move your right arm at all, but with the other hand, your fingers lightly touch his knuckles still resting on your stomach. He winces, and your fingers are wet with his blood too. He must have beaten to death whoever shot you, that you are certain about.

 Your voice, little more than a weak breath, whispers:

 "I-I want you to do it."

 The crease between his eyebrows deepens. He seems confused rather than angry; the reaction you were hoping for. You take a breath to repeat your own words, but he squeezes your hand.

 "Don't," he says.

 "Joel..."

 "Don't even think about it," he snarls. "You are perfectly fine, don't be dramatic."

 You don't know what hurts more; his pain or yours, but his denial makes your eyes wet with tears again. This is already hard, but he is making it even harder. All he will achieve by trying to keep you alive is either prolonging his pain or getting himself killed. You both know this is no world for the injured and the sick, not out of the QZ, at least. And in most cases, not inside either.

 All you ask of him is to not leave you for the infected to find. Is that too much to ask?

 You want to insist, but you know he won't have it. Joel has lost so much already that the thought of losing what little left he has is not even going to cross his mind. Not until it's too late, at least. Also, you don't want your last moments with him to be a fight. You are tired of fighting, of swimming against the current. You just want to let go for once, give in to the external forces, close your eyes and peacefully breathe.

 What's more, you should have already known that he wouldn't do you that favor. He is too selfish for that.

 He pats your cheeks gently with his large hands, and your eyes, already rolling back into your skull, get focused on him again with a few blinks. You breathe slowly, trying to focus on him, on the world around you slowly twisting and turning.

 "...that's it," he says, it doesn't sound like his first sentence, so you guess he's been talking to you before. When you look back at him, his breathing is shallow, and you know he is trying to take a hold of himself too, trying not to give in to panic. "Good girl, that's it. Keep your eyes on me."

 Exhausted and hurting as you are, keeping your eyes open it's like asking you not to drop a weight that you cannot, in fact, handle; but you try nonetheless. It's your fault, really, for letting yourself go, for trying to give up on your fight earlier than you should. Joel is here trying to keep you alive, mending all your broken ends and stitching them together —he has always been good at that— while you're just trying to give up on him —you are really good at that too—.

 Giving up on Joel has been one of the hardest things you've ever had to do; and now you're letting him go for the last time. Part of you is glad you don't have to keep watching how he chooses Theresa over and over again. You are even relieved that fate —or whatever there is out there— is forcing you out of the equation. After all, you would never have given up fully on him.

 He refuses to kill you, what he doesn't know is that you've been dead for a long while now. Him being your executioner would be the kindest act he could have with you, the most intimate thing you'd ever share; your last moments. You want it to be him, you want him to free you from this torment.

 He refuses, though; and it feels like a punch to the pit of your stomach. You shiver.

 He gets up from his place on the floor, where you are lying just over the carpet. You follow him with your eyes and see a fire cracking up in a fucked-up chimney. He stokes the fire, throws some more wood on it and then comes back to you, covering you with his jacket, the very same jacket you had on before he turned you around. It's warm, his, and you have to stop yourself from sinking your nose into the collar.

 "I had to take off your shirt to patch you up," he says, but he doesn't say sorry. Ever. So you guess it's his way of apologizing.

 You simply nod, aware that you had wished for this very moment to happen many times before. You had dreamt of his rough hands over your naked flesh, caressing the sides of your body. You had dreamt of him watching you with those chocolate eyes as you took your shirt off, deep black pupils spreading over the brown as he watched the lace fall like a helpless witness.

 But now the bra was covered in blood and he was watching you anywhere but the lace. He had a frightened and concerned look on his face, rather than aroused. A look that would have made you feel guilty and ashamed if it had happened in the other scenario. And instead of undressing you, he was covering your body with his jacket as if you were his child.

 "What's wrong?" he is asking now, instead of whispering 'I want you' and it hurts all the same to know he's not ever going to say it, and that Tess now will have all those words for however long their lives are.

 You guess they were made for each other. And it makes all the sense, really, no one like Joel would ever look at you twice. You were grateful that he even allowed you to be his friend.

 "Nothing," you respond.

 It's always 'nothing' when it comes to Joel. It's always that nothing whenever he notices you are under the weather. It's always nothing when you are hurt, when someone tries to rob you and they leave an angry black eye on your face. It's always nothing; and he never believes you.

 "I don't make promises, you know that," he says, taking your left hand in his. "but you will be fine, I swear."

 You don't know what to say, how to explain that you are not scared of death, that you are just scared of not seeing him again. But you can't, so you say nothing and just nod.

 Does he want to hurt himself? Okay. You can't do much while lying on the floor anyway.

 After that, both of you stay silent. Joel seems to be avoiding looking at you. His eyes are stuck in the fire creaking in the chimney, but they are too restless to be present and conscious of the yellow and orange haze.

 Your palm lands on his thigh, your fingers gently brushing the denim. You want to comfort him somehow, but, at the same time, you are scared he will reject your touch and reassurance. That's all you can do for him: no words, no further touching, just a featherlight touch that indicates you are still present. There, with him.

 "I thought we couldn't make a fire."

 "Don't be dumb. The windows are all broken, it's winter and you are in shock. How else would you heat up?"

 "Got it. You're not in a talking mood," you huff. "Alright."

 Silence settles between both of you. However, one of his big, rough hands travels to where your fingertips are gently brushing his thigh. At the touch, even if you don't want to let go, your fingers begin to back off. He's not in a good mood, and you seem to be pushing his boundaries a little too much. Except that, instead of letting you go, he catches your hand in his and puts it back over his jean. This time, it's him who brushes his thumb over your knuckles.

 For a minute, the only sound in the living room are both your breathing patterns, the flames licking the air and the wind rushing through the broken windows.

 "I'm sorry..." you start. And immediately, his brown eyes are all over you again. Your voice sounds exhausted, more than you'd have liked. "...I fucked up the mission. I know-"

 "You haven't fucked up anything," he interrupts. That's Joel, all stoic, swallowing his feelings and denying everything that it is not up to his standards. "Would you mind to just rest-"

 Your eyes well with tears.

 "Joel, for once... Just for once, don't lecture me, don't ignore what I'm trying to say just because you don't want to hear it," you tell him. Then, he thankfully presses his lips together in a pained grimace, but stays silent nonetheless. "I fucked up the mission getting injured. I know it isn't my fault, but it doesn't matter whose fault it is. If you wanna go on without me, I won't blame you."

 His fingers are now squeezing yours, but you know he is not even conscious of that. He leans in a little, his cheeks now reddened in anger. He looks like he is about to spit on your face.

 "I'm not leaving you anywhere," he says. He looks offended that you even thought he was capable of that. "You and I are gonna get to Lincoln, either if you like it or not. There, Bill and Frank will help you. We have traded all kinds of things with them, and I know they are very well supplied."

 "Why would they help me?"

 "They are not just people we trade with," he says. His fingertips brush a strand of hair out of your face. "I know they will."

 "What if they changed their minds?"

 His pupils lock into your own, his jawline swells as he grits his teeth.

 "I'm persistent."

 The mission was supposed to be an easy one. Walk out of the QZ undetected, walk fifteen miles to the town of Lincoln, just outside Boston, get our things and come back. Our cargo were the two last spools of aluminum that Joel had promised to trade with them and two packets of seeds. Theirs? Two pounds of rolling tobacco and a gun. Tess couldn't make it, she had appointments with other smugglers, probably the ones who snuck the drugs in; which was more than half of their business. If it wasn't that important, she wouldn't have stayed in the QZ for anything in the world. But Bill and Frank were also important, and Joel couldn't go alone.

 The two of you should be home by now, and you wondered if Tess was regretting her decision of asking you to go with him. Last night you had both snuck out of the Boston QZ; and it usually didn't take more than six hours to get to Lincoln. But just outside the city you had bumped into raiders; and a stray bullet had hit you. Now you were stranded in a small cabin lost in the woods, about seven miles away from Lincoln; and unable to walk a single step.

 And to top it all off, Joel was enraged and neurotic.

 Still with the same expression, he takes your wrist and squeezes two fingers into it. Even if you had preferred him not to, knowing that your heartbeat got wild whenever he was around. You let him check on you, hoping that if your symptoms got better he would let you have a quick nap. Your nervousness, however, doesn't improve despite your efforts of trying to calm yourself down.

 "Since when are you a doctor?"

 He lets your wrist go, then gets back on his feet and gets his rifle.

 "You should rest. You'lll need it," he says, now heading to the entrance. He's gonna be standing on guard all night, you are sure of that. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."

 That is when you lose it. You can't believe he is that blind, that caught up in his own world.

 "I know in your perfect fantasy this is just a scratch, but I truly can't move, Joel. Even laying here awake is hard. How am I supposed to follow...? Joel!"

 But he's out of the house before you even finish the sentence.

  [***]

  Joel doesn't keep his word.

 A few hours later, not even near dawn yet, you get pulled back from a dream. Your eyes take a few minutes to register your surroundings; again. And the memories gallop back to your mind in a rush; accompanied by the burning and piercing pain on the upper right side of your chest. Your eyes shut tight, and you inhale a shallow breath. Even breathing hurts.

 "We need to go," Joel whispers. His voice sounds muffled, especially over the sound of your beating heart. "C'mon, wake up."

 He is once again rocking you rather than shaking you awake. Just to be able to fall asleep you had rolled back into your chest, cheek once again firmly pressed against that twenty-year-old dusty carpet. When he came back from checking the perimeter, not even five minutes after your argument, he placed his backpack right under your stomach so your right side was elevated. You wouldn't have been able to fall asleep if it wasn't for that. The pain was maddening, atrociously painful. Joel had found you gritting your teeth even in your sleep.

 He had said you'd leave the next day, but you felt like not even minutes had passed.

 "Morning," you complained, half a grunt accompanying your words. Joel shook you gently again when he saw you relax a second time, and your voice came back. "Y-you said...mor-"

 "I know what I said but we can't wait any longer," he answered. "I'm gonna sit you up."

 Fear pumped enough adrenaline into your system to wake you up. The ache from before rushed back into your mind, and your 'please' and 'wait' left your mouth like a prayer.

 "I can do it," you said, but it sounded more like begging than an affirmation.

 "I know you can," he lied. As your eyes opened and you saw his expression —eyes focused on you, trembling hands, half of his face hidden in the shadows, the other half gently licked by the orange-like haze of the dying fire— you understood that you had to be in a really bad condition for him to look at you that way, and feel the need to lie to make you feel better. But then, a second right after that, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes fluttered between your face and the surface of his jacket over your shoulders. His stoic mask was back on. "I'm just gonna help you, okay? But you do it."

 He did not, in fact, let you do it.

 You had managed to lift yourself barely an inch over the carpet, using all the strength left in your healthy arm, when both his hands curled around your side and pulled you up to his chest. Clenching your jaw, you allowed him to drag you a few feet back and into a seating position against the wall; your whole weight over the left side of your body.

 "Don't lean on the other side, your shoulder blade is broken."

 "Oh..." you almost chuckled. "Great."

 For a second, Joel looks at you as if you were completely insane. He reaches for his backpack, crouching on the place where you were lying just seconds prior. Then takes his flask and doubts when passing it on.

 "I'm not that desperate for water," you respond, reaching for the flask and drinking a gulp of the liquid. You swallow despite the soreness in your throat. "Next thing you'll do is spit food into my mouth."

 "Not even getting shot shuts your fucking mouth, does it?" he says, grossed out at your comment. However, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Relaxing him has a calming effect on you too.

 You try to pass him the flask again, but he refuses.

 "No," he says. "Drink it all. You'll need it."

 You look at him with narrowed eyes, confused. It's hard to keep a single thought in your head other than the throbbing pain in your chest and back, but you still try. Rather than asking him how you are supposed to walk seven miles, with the aluminum and his pack, you try to approach the matter another way.

 "What's the plan?"

 He takes a deep breath.

 "You're not gonna like it," he says, his deep voice almost slurring the words. It's barely a whisper. He looks into your eyes, then. "I'm gonna carry you."

 "What?"

 "You heard me."

 There's not an ounce of doubt in his eyes. Joel has that look of determination, the one you only really see when he has his eyes set on something really fucking important for him; most times that includes his own brother or not talking about the times before the outbreak. And with that look on his face, you know there's nothing you could possibly say or do to make him reconsider his own words. He's stubborn like that.

 You still try.

 "It's seven miles, Joel..." you tell him on a thready voice, a whisper. And Joel sighs through his nose —as if he had forgotten. "And we have to carry..."

 "We leave everything here," he says. "Come back for it later."

 "They won't let us in empty-handed."

 "You don't know them."

 For Joel to be so certain about it, certain enough as to put both your life and his on the hands of strangers; you understand that their relationship goes beyond trading. Joel had told you about them, about their situation and the first time Tess and him had shared dinner with Bill and Frank. Still, you were suspicious of them, and you thought that he was too; up until now, at least.

 "It's still seven miles," you tell him, and you know him, you know he's about to stop talking to you and leave the room if you don't, at least, partly give in to his reasoning. "...are you sure you wanna do it?"

 His pleading brown eyes engulf you, then, with an emotion he had never showed before. His gaze diverts for a second to your wound, to the bandages that, as you look at them, you find they are once again covered in blood. They are soaked in it, the skin surrounding it has a large black bruise —internal bleeding, you guess. And when you try to take a full deep breath, you find yourself unable to, at least not at full capacity.

 The understanding hits you, then. You don't have much time left.

 "I don't have any other choice," Joel says, but what he means is 'I don't want to lose you'.

 "Okay."

 Not even a full second has passed from your reluctant acceptance, but he is already on his feet. Joel walks to the only table in the room, takes your gun and puts it in his hip, right inside the jean. The only other thing he takes apart from ammo is another set of bandages —and he silently thanks whatever it is out there that he put those there a month ago—. He doesn't have anything to clean the wound, though; and one of his biggest fears is that it might already be infected. Even bandaged it looks bad.

 He approaches you, crouches down so he is facing the wound.

 "I'm going to tighten the bandage, and I have to keep the pressure," he says, loosening the knot. His fingers are once again stained with you blood, and he has to fight the images of him pressing on your wound from a few hours ago, when he had found you and, with trembling hands, had tried to stop the bleeding coming out in waves. He looks at you, trying to forget the awful picture of your eyes closed, your body limp on the ground. "Bite something."

 You reach for the sleeve of his jacket, the one hanging from your shoulders; and put the padded cuff of his jacket into your mouth.

 Joel doesn't give you a warning; and you're not sure if that's a good or bad thing, either. He presses the heel of his hand right over the covered hole in your chest, with such strength that you wonder if he will end up breaking your clavicle in half. As he presses your body against the wall, you can almost feel the cracked bones in your back smashing against each other.

 Needless to say, the pain is blinding. The view of the room, the feeling of his heat around you, the scent of him under your nose... all gone in a matter of seconds. Your vision turns white, all your senses stop functioning. Over the scream that falls from your lips, muffled by the jacket, you hear him say:

 "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

 He lets go, and your vision immediately darkens, the shadows flowing from the corners of the room quick to reach you. With your last grip on reality you feel yourself melting against the wall, slowly slipping to the side. Joel catches you before you hit the floor.

 Cold water is what brings you back. Your breathing quickens at the coldness of it, and the next thing you feel are his wet hands palming your cheeks, throwing water from his flask all over your face.

 "C'mon," he mumbles. "I need you awake."

 Your eyes flutter open, your whole body relaxed now that he's not applying pressure; but alert enough that your unfocused eyes make a single shape out of him.

 While coming back into yourself, Joel does not have any time to lose. He takes his jacket over your shoulders and slips your left arm inside the sleeve, the other, where the wound is, he decides to leave it as it is; and buttons it over your chest so you're not exposed.

 "You good?"

 In any other situation you'd have said some joke, or just something to piss him off. But as of right now, nothing comes to your clouded mind; and even if something did come, you're too exhausted to even do the mental effort to say it. So you just nod.

 "Okay," he nods too, talking to himself inside his head, then takes your face in his hands and looks into your eyes. "You're fine, you hear me? I'm gonna carry you and you're gonna be on my back; so I need you talking all the damn time, alright?

 You nod again.

 "Starting now."

 "Y-yes... okay."

 "Good," he says. His hand crawls to the back of your neck, and he joins both your foreheads. He takes quick breaths. He's terrified when he whispers. "You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."

 "Y-you... are?"

 "Mm-hmm," he says. And as his words settle into your brain, you feel your chest warm. When you open your eyes and he separates, there's a tear on his cheek, but he's quick to wipe it off. "I'm gonna open the front door."

 It's just an excuse, you both know it, but neither dares to say anything. None of you wants to talk about the elephant in the room, the fact that your chances are slim even if this works.

 Joel returns quickly, with his lashes wet and reddened eyes. It makes you speechless, to know that all this effort and tears are for you. You'd have never, in a million years, thought you'd ever see Joel Miller cry; let alone for you. He had always been so quiet, so detached from everyone, even from Tess.

 Without a word, his hands get hooked on the underside of your thighs. He lifts you up, seemingly effortlessly, and your inner thighs surround his hips. You take a deep breath, again —or at least try to— as you try not to blush and show those feelings you buried long ago. This is not the time, nor the place; so you allow your head to follow his range of motion; forwards. Soon, your nose is pressed against the lapels of his denim shirt. With your good arm, you grab one of his broad shoulders. The other falls limp, and even that little movement hurts like hell.

 He freezes, his shoulders now stiff under your hand. His beard grazes your jaw as he tries to look at you, so still in his arms.

 "You okay?"

 "Yeah..."

 Better than okay, you want to respond. Better than I've been in a long time. But you don't.

 He leaves you on the table, on the edge, with your legs dangling.  His eyes waver for a second as he leaves you there, his hands squeeze your knees in such a brief movement that you wonder if he was even conscious of that. He looks like he wants to say something, but he can't think of what, so he turns around and bends his knees a little to get you to a good height.

 "I need you to push yourself up with your good arm," he instructs. "and keep the other still, okay?"

 "Okay," you respond, fighting the urge to just nod instead.

 Not even following his instructions to a t saves you from the pain. The effort, even with your arm limp in the air, makes your body shudder and an agonizing stab runs through your whole spine. The scream that tores from the depths of your throat is so intense that Joel hesitates to put you back on the table, his back trembles for a second as his body shivers in distress. But, in the end, he has you in the air with a good hold.

 He waits, but doesn't hear anything except shallow breaths, doesn't feel anything but the weight of your head over his shoulder.

 "You with me?" he asks. He is seconds away from aborting the mission.

 "Y-yeah..."

 Your arm surrounds his neck loosely. Your fist is closed tightly, grabbing the other shoulder, and he wishes he could touch you, give you some kind of comfort, but he can't let go from his grip under your knees.

 Joel does not have the privilege of time, every second is precious, so not even giving it a try, he starts walking as if you weighted nothing. He crosses the front door and the freezing cold wind of the East Coast cuts your cheeks. If he notices —and you know that he has, wearing just his shirt in the middle of the night— he doesn't react.

 "Remember what I told you?" he asks.

 In less than a minute he has crossed the space from the cabin to the highway, where you were surprised by raiders. You look around, see the bodies of five men sprawled on the floor; lifeless, drowning in a pool of their own blood. One of them has his face mauled to nothing. The sight is so sickening —or maybe you are getting so ill— that a sudden dizziness takes hold of your shivering body.

 "Hey..."

 "I'm sorry..." you start, teeth chattering from the cold. "I'm sorry I screamed into your ear earlier."

 A sound, half a relieved sigh and half a chuckle, leaves his mouth.

 "I'm half deaf from that ear anyway."

 A light chuckle falls from your lips too. Joel keeps walking west through the highway, and you keep yourself desperately clinging to him for dear life. The moon is your only other companion; without her, you both would be completely blind in the darkness of the night.

  [***]

  Joel probably hadn't thought about the possibility of taking breaks along the way. That's why, fourty-five minutes later, and under a beautiful sunrise of orange tones, he's struggling to keep going. His knees are screaming for him to stop, his biceps and hands tired of walking with a person's weight over his shoulders. And for the first time in years he remembers the times before the outbreak, when he was capable of lifting and moving huge pieces of furniture; often times on his own, other times with just Tommy.

 He might have overestimated his own strength, assuming he was as strong as before. But it seems that not only his mental health has deteriorated after Sarah's death, no. All of him has become older and darker and more broken since then. He hardly recognizes himself in the mirror anymore.

 "Joel?"

 "Yeah..." he gasps, out of air. "Sorry, I got distracted. You were saying...?"

 It is in moments like this that he hates not to be that same person he was before. He wonders if he is, finally, paying for his past sins, for all the people, infected or not, that he has killed.

It is unfair, the fact that you're paying for his piper.

 "You should stop for a while," you tell him, your voice low like a whisper. The warm air from your mouth slithers across his skin, up his neck, over his ear, and almost sends a shiver down his spine.

 "No."

 "Joel..." you huff. Before speaking again, you take a big gulp of air. "We are not getting anywhere if you don't take breaks. You'll just wear yourself off before we reach the halfway mark."

 His mind refuses to agree, but it's as if his body takes a relieved breath when he hears the words. Little by little, his body starts to listen to you before his mind does. His thighs are screaming, sore from the pain of exertion; and before he acknowledges, even, his body has stopped moving.

 "Okay," he gasps, quick tired breaths quickly entering and leaving his lungs. "...but just a minute, we don't have time for this bullshit."

 "Okay," you say, in the same tone he used earlier with you; when he lied and said he knew you could sit up on your own. "Just a minute."

 He pulls to the side of the road, and with the last of his strength he kneels down and tries to lay you on the ground as carefully as possible. You fall on your ass on the wet ground, but at least you don't hurt yourself on the spot. He asks you for the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours if you are okay.

 "I think I'm doing better than you," you respond, but your voice is so exhausted that Joel would love to just lay next to you and lull you to sleep.

 He turns around, his whole weight sitting on the grass as he takes gulps of oxygen. His eyes shut tightly, he wipes off a tear of sweat from his temple and looks at you.

 Wide-open eyes stare back at you, but just for a split second. He gets closer, his thumb brushing the shoulder of the brown jacket, his brown jacket. His eyes pierce yours.

 "Are you sure?"

 "That bad do I look?"

 Joel doesn't look at you, not at your face getting paler by the second or the dark circles under your eyes, or your hair now dishevelled. He sees you on his memories and can barely recognize you; your skin and eyes always glowing under the sun, your hair always perfectly done. Your job was often to act as an HR for their clients, and very rarely took actual FEDRA jobs that stained your hands; you weren't like Joel, you didn't care about rations or money or whatever.

 Expert fingers gently tug at the buttons, unbuttoning them so he could take a look to the wound. He had barely a glimpse of it when your fingers stopped his hands. Joel looks at you with those puppy eyes, as if you were about to faint in the next second.

 "If you wanted to see me naked you didn't have to wait until I got shot, you know?"

 You had said it in a playful manner, kidding, as a joke; but he saw beyond that. Part of you had only expected him to laugh, the other was dying —not pun intended— for him to kiss you. You'd have never said it if you weren't in this position, you'd have never gotten in between Joel and Tess.

 However, he didn't laugh, didn't make any funny remark. The way he looked at you, from under his eyebrows, lit a spark of hope somewhere inside you. Deep, deeper than your conscious mind would have ever reached. Joel didn't say anything, not even chuckled. His eyes came back to the wound, and uncovered the full sight of it.

 He had to fight a shocked gasp. His eyes fluttered, while holding his breath, between your own face and the wound. The bandage was still soaked in blood, that he had expected, but not the large bruise growing into your neck; or your right hand slightly paler than the other. He lifted, with trembling fingers, a corner of the bandage, and his action caused a trickle of dark blood to gush out, as if he had crushed a piece of watermelon between his fingers and it was now running down his arm. He looked below, inside his jacket, and saw a trail of blood that landed right into your navel.

 This time, it was impossible for him not to react. Not only his face, but also his body. He tried to get back on his two feet again, but before he finished the action, your fist closed around his wrist.

 "Joel..." he heard you call.

 "We need to go, now."

 Pressing your lips in a sad smile, you pulled him to the ground and he sat, mesmerised on that face he had only yet seen once; that time when he got too drunk on a Friday night and told you about Sarah at three in the morning. He felt his pulse quicken, his heart beating at the ends of his fingertips.

 "It's okay," you told him. Your gentle touch brushed his palm, danced around over his tan skin. "You can rest."

 Joel felt like he was in a fever dream. The setting certainly felt like it. You hadn't left the Boston QZ in a long while, and he had never pictured you out of those big silver walls either. He had not agreed to Tess' idea either, the dangers beyond the walls were almost impossible to escape. Still, Tess and him knew the city, they could get out fairly easily, had done that for a couple years to share stories over dinner with Bill and Frank. And Joel had loved the idea of seeing you sitting at that dinner table next to him, surrounded by a garden full of flowers, going through the dresses in the boutique that Tess had sworn you'd love.

 He had not signed up for this.

 "We need to go, please..." he tried a second time, but you just shook your head. He understood, somehow, what you meant.

 "A minute won't make a difference," you told him. In reality, you wanted to tell him that you'd be dead when he got the both of you to Lincoln, anyway. "If you are tired we will never get there."

 Useless and powerless as he felt, his only option was waiting. He took your hand, intertwined his fingers with yours and took a deep breath. You had never seen him so upset.

 "What are you so scared of?"

 At your words, his lower lip quivered slightly; it would almost have gone unnoticed if it wasn't because you had been watching him attentively for so many years. He looked at you, eyes barely half open, from under his eyelashes.

 "You're very important to me," he said. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, he seemed to be even more breathless than he was before. Joel had a hard time admitting his feelings, even to himself. "I don't know if you understand to what extent you're important to me."

 "I know..." you answered, nodding, your hand squeezed his for a second, trying to give him strength. "But you have Tess home, and your brother loves you... It will hurt for a while..."

 "Shut. Up."

 His eyes were tightly shut when he said it. It was a metaphor, almost, the way his eyes were closed not just to the physical world, but to the whole situation too that he couldn't escape from.

 The tip of your tongue wetted your lips.

 "What I'm trying to say is... it will pass..."

 His chest heaved, his gaps the only sound that filled the space between the two of you. And you continued:

 "People die all the time, Joel; and most times we can't do anything about it."

 His body rushed at you, his hands locked perfectly on both your cheeks, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally in place.

 "Not you, you hear me? Not you," he almost growled, his face a mixture of anger, determination, and grief. "Never you. You're not allowed to leave me. I will never forgive you."

 There was something hidden between the lines, something Joel wasn't saying. It was something you had denied yourself for a long time, for years, something you had insisted on not seeing because you didn't want to see it. Because, deep down, you were afraid that Joel would never love you back, that he would break your heart, that the only good man you'd ever known inside the walls of the Boston QZ would also be the one to abandon you to your luck.

 Joel had been your family for so long, and you had unconsciously protected yourself from seeing him as something else. But now there it was, clearly, latent in his confession. Your punishment for years of silence was now time, or rather, the lack of it.

 "I'm not giving up," he said. "and I need you not to give up either."

 He's close. His hot breath smells sweet -so instinctively Joel- and it's all around your face. His flesh is warm over the freezing skin of your cheeks. His body around you is shelter, is home.

 Joel is soon leaning in. He's all erratic breathing, rapid heartbeat and trembling hands; and as you close your eyes to allow his presence to swallow you like a black hole, he closes his eyes too.

 He doesn't let go, not just yet. He breathes in into your quick breaths the same way you revel in his.

 "I need an answer," he whispers over your mouth.

 "I won't, either."

 At first it's like a collision. He kisses you angrily for a split second, demanding and impatient; then, once he knows this is really happening, once he does understand that this is —finally— not a dream, he relaxes into your touch, your fingers delineating his jawline, caressing the beard there.

 He's quick, quicker than you'd have expected him to be; definitely quicker then he would have liked. He separates, then; and looks down at his jacket and the drops of blood staining the insides of it. It's not enough blood to send you into shock again, but it means part of the wound is ripping. You need stitches, not just a couple of bandages.

 "Enough resting then," he says.

   [***]

 Seven miles is usually nothing for Joel. In the first few months trading with Bill and Frank, Tess and him usually walked the fifteen miles that separated the city and the town at least twice a month. But this is all the more difficult, not just carrying you there, but knowing that he is running out of time.

 And you seem hellbent on making the journey even more difficult.

 "So...Tess?"

 "Pass."

 You huff, and the warm air sends a shiver down his spine; but he says nothing.

 "Okay."

 Your voice sounds so disappointed that he feels a pang of guilt. You know him better than to insist, and he knows that too. The guilt increases, though; and now he's inhaling a big gulp of air while still walking as fast as he possibly can without hurting his own knees.

 "We fucked a few times, before," he says. "but that doesn't mean anything. She's my colleague. That's all."

 If he was better with words, and feelings, he could say that he didn't feel anything for her. He could say that their hookups were nothing, just a fun thing they used to do before, before he realized that the one who he really wanted was you. A few months back he had realized that it never actually satisfied him, that those moments with Tess weren't as fun and innocent as they seemed to be before. They had talked about it, of course. He didn't want to play with her feelings, and that had been the end of it. She was just as fine without him, anyway.

 "I thought you two were dating."

 "If selling drugs for a living is what you call dating, then yes."

 Without even looking at you, he knew you were smiling, he could almost feel your lips stretching over his shirt.

 "I..." you said, then he heard you take another deep breath before talking again. "I'm sorry I asked you," another breath. "I... ran out of things to say."

 His brow furrowed in confusion.

 "You can say anything," he says. "Anything you really like, even a story."

 Anything just to know you're there...

 "Well..." you started. Then, a wheezing noise filled the air, followed by a gasp. "I... liked rock music-" silence. "...back in the day."

 "You okay?"

 Your fist tightened around his shoulder, your forehead pressing against his trapezius. He heard that wheezing sound again, followed by a pant. His hands squeezed harder the tender flesh under her knees.

 Joel tried to look at her, but all he could see from his peripheral vision was the top of her head and one eye tightly closed. His throat turned into knots.

 "Baby..." that was the most gentle tone you had ever heard coming from his mouth. "C'mon baby. Hold on, we're almost there."

 His whole body felt paralyzed, and he had to force himself to keep walking.

 What he didn't know was that your lungs were burning. They felt like a pair of balloons squeezing against your ribs, trying to expand beyond its cage. And it made all the pain in your back, from the shot, double as painful. The air you tried to swallow so bad, sounded like a whistle, like the breeze through an almost closed window. You were suffocating.

 "Talk to me, c'mon."

 With a painful drag of air, you complied.

 "I can't..." your fist tightened around the fabric of his shirt. "I can't."

 "Goddamnit..." he was panicking now. "Okay, that's okay baby. Just hold on to me, don't let go."

 Unable to do anything else, you just nodded as best you could and kept on holding on to him. His eyes desperately looked for signs of the town, and far away, in the distance, the row of trees ended; and he walked faster, hoping that Bill had already seen the both of you through the cameras.

 "J-Joel"

 You struggled to find air, and, therefore, the words.

 "Easy, easy" he said. "Just a bit more. You can do it, I know you can."

 His words lingered in the air, unanswered, not even him fully believed them. Joel was starting to feel his own shirt wet with blood from your wound. The feeling made him sick, his own imagination as he pictured what Bill was watching through the cameras, made it all a hundred times worse.

 He kept hearing the panting, the wheezing, becoming more desperate by the second. He realized, with horror, that you were suffocating righ there, on his back; from a collapsing lung, he guessed.

 He shouted Bill's name as he saw the fence that separated them from the town. Joel wasn't sure if he could hear him, but tried anyway.

 He felt your grip on his shirt hesitate, and he had to fight the instinct to squeeze your hand; if he had done it, you'd have fallen from his own grip. He heard you try and say his name.

 "Save it," he responded, even if it came out not as reassuring as he would have liked. "Don't try to talk."

 Before he reached the fence, it was already opening. Bill came out running, yelling something that he was too distracted to distinguish, Frank came behind him. Joel felt his knees wobble once through the gate. And now kneeling on the floor, he called your name, tried to turn his head to take a glimpse of you.

 "You did it. We're here."

 He noticed, then, that everything seemed all too silent. Everything that happened after that, happened very quickly. The hand that had been gripping his shirt slipped, limp over his shoulder.

 His mind disconnected, completely unaware of the other two people approaching. He released you with all the care that a person could have had, and his arms immediately caught you in an embrace. The sight of your closed eyes made him panic, and not having even checked your pulse, he buried his face into your neck and sobbed.

 Trails of blood ran through his forearms, and he threw up all the words that passed through his mind; a string of 'please stay' and 'I'm sorry'.

 "Joel," Frank struggled with him, fingers digging into his shoulder. "Joel you have to let go. Let us help her."

 He was too far gone, so much so that once your body hit the floor, Frank didn't allow him to touch you again. He sobbed, and, for a second, Bill saw himself in him. He would have never thought he would see Joel in this state, but yet there he was. He kept pressure on the wound, and saw himself in Joel, and Frank in you; and promised he would never let this happen to the two of them.

 Never.

  [***]

  The sun comes out the next morning. As it always does, as it always has. Orange light and blue skies illuminate the room, the clouds shine a different color; and Joel blinks; absolutely exhausted, devastated.

 His body is heavy, even if he's not holding any of his weight. He's sitting on the cold tiles, on the floor, his sore knees and thighs in the space under the bed, his head lying on the mattress, his whole body is bent over and it feels like jelly. His eyes are the only thing moving, they look at the window and see the night sky turn into daylight.

 Joel couldn't possibly say that he slept in that position; because he didn't actually sleep. He hasn't had a second of sleep since you got shot two days ago. Lying on the bed, is you, dormant; and his thumb draws circles on the back of you hand even if he's not paying attention to it. It comforts him to a degree, at least.

 Suddenly, pretty much everything has lost its meaning. Frank opens the door an hour later, almost tripping with the tray of food and water that he left the night before for Joel. He hasn't touched any of it. In fact, he forgot about it, but if it bothers him, Frank doesn't say anything. He takes it in his hands so he can take it to the kitchen downstairs.

 "We played 'I will survive' in the radio" he whispers before leaving. "It's a 70s song, but Tess will get the meaning."

 "Thank you," he mutters, his mouth pasty from barely speaking in the last twenty-four hours. Funnily enough, the only word he's said to them is 'thank you'.

 "You're welcome, Joel," he says. After a few seconds, waiting, he makes a dissatisfied sound. Frank approaches Joel, his palm squeezing his shoulder. "You should eat something, at least. Is there anything you want?"

 Joel looks at him, lifting his cheek from the mattress for the first time. His eyes are blood-shot and black circles adorn his eyes.

 "Coffee."

 "Not coffee, you need sleep."

 He huffs, his eyes lost in the window again. Frank, knowing he won't get anything from him again, vanishes behind the door and into the kitchen. He will bring him warm food later, hoping the smell will make him eat something despite his unwillingness to listen to any signal of hunger from his own body.

 A few moments later, your hand slips from his. As he loses your touch, a pang hits the pit of his stomach. But then, as he lifts from the mattress again, your fingertips lightly touch his chin, your thumb lovingly brushing his beard.

 "Baby?"

 Maybe he lost his sense of time, because he didn't expect you to wake up yet. In any case, when he sees your eyes open he practically pounces on the bed. He sits on the edge, and swallows the image of you looking at him.

 "Morning."

 He smiles at your words, feels his strength coming back into his body.

 "You're here," he says.

 Even beaten up as you look, he thinks you are gorgeous. Your face has regained its usual color, the bruising is coming down, changing colors little by little, the wound is stitched and bandaged, and the blood flow seems to reach your fingertips normally once again. Joel has no idea how Bill fixed the collapsing lung, he had said something about medical knowledge being necessary in the field too, but he hadn't paid attention. He doesn't care about the details, though. He just cares that you're safe and sound, and despite the close call, that has seemed to be the end result to this whole dilemma.

 There's no blood in sight, not even in the bandages. Frank had washed the blood from your hair the day before, and Joel had helped with the rest. He wished he could have you like this everyday: happy, clean, safe...

 In the last few hours Joel had discovered he was jealous. He wished he had a town like Lincoln all to himself, just so he could see you picking flowers in the front garden.

 "I'm here," you told him. The words felt like strawberries in his mouth. "and I'm not giving up on you."

 He released a breath he didn't know he was holding, leaned in for both your foreheads to meet, and kissed you.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Musician Age Gap AU Pt 5

The shiny black car waiting for them at the curb is far more modest than Kara expects. Sure, the inside has a crystal decanter of something in the side console, but the outside at least is non-descript, almost subtle if not for its meticulously shined exterior.

Lena had thrown her hood up over her hair and placed oversized dark sunglasses on her nose when they exited the building, but they come off again as soon as the door shuts, enclosing them in the suddenly intimate space of the cab.

"So. Where to?" Lena asks.

"I thought you asked me on this date."

Lena's eyebrows rocket skyward, and Kara kicks herself at the slip. This isn't a date. But Lena responds before Kara can try to take it back.

"I don't get out much," comes Lena's blithe response. "And I'm technically a tourist, so. I figured a local like you would know the best joints in town."

Lena's smile is infectious, quickly pulling one to Kara's lips in turn. Kara thinks as the car pulls away from the curb, then leans forward to address the driver. "Can you take a left at the light and keep going until we hit 8th?"

The driver nods, and Kara sets herself to rummaging in her purse for her pen and something to write on. She finds the pen, but nothing so much as a receipt avails itself. With a huff of frustration, Kara thrusts first the pen, then her hand towards Lena.

"Write down your coffee order."

When Lena's lips turn down into a small frown, she continues.

"Noonan's is the best in National City, but the drawback is that everyone and their mother knows it. It's going to be packed. It'll be faster if I go in and order, and we take it elsewhere."

"Where?" Even as she asks, Lena takes the offered pen and starts to write on Kara's hand. Kara pretends that the touch of Lena's fingers on hers doesn't lift goosebumps to her skin.

"Maybe the park? It's nice out."

Lena smiles softly. "It is," she agrees. She caps the pen, but doesn't release Kara's hand. She instead dips her chin as though to kiss Kara's palm. Kara jumps when a stream of cool breath tickles her skin, drying the ink of Lena's order.

From the cheshire grin that flashes up at her, Lena knows exactly what she's doing.

"Sounds like a plan."

-‐-

The park is nice. The sun is warm on Kara's skin, though a breeze keeps it comfortable. And though its a little more crowded than Kara expected, Lena steps out of the car gamely. Up goes the hood, and on go the sunglasses.

It's not the best of disguises, Kara observes-- anyone would be able to spot that jawline from a mile away. But Lena seems to have made her choice as she retrieves her drink from the tray in Kara's hands. She also fishes a sticky bun from the paper bag Kara also holds.

"Oh my god," Lena moans as soon as the first bite hits her tongue. "This is amazing."

"You asked for the best," Kara reminds her with a hint of pride.

Lena hums again as she chews. "And by god did you deliver. Jeezus!"

Kara nibbles at her own treat, trying her best not to stare as the younger woman made short work of the sticky bun... and finished off by licking the sugary syrup left on her fingertips.

Catching her not-staring, Lena cocks another smile. "What?"

"What are we doing?"

Kara sets her bun down on the pastry bag on her lap, fidgeting in her seat. "I mean," she tries again. "Why me?"

Green eyes gaze at her, warm and engaged as Lena regards her. "Why not you?"

"I--" Kara stutters, suddenly unable to quantify her feelings of inadequacy. Her age is the first to spring to mind, but saying as much feels unnecessary-- Lena can perceive her age as well as anyone else, and clearly it hasn't deterred her.

What else could Kara say? That she's just an average private citizen, while Lena is the object of adoration for millions of people around the world?

That Kara feels like a nobody?

Or at least she did, until Lena started looking at her like *that*.

"You compel me."

Lena's voice is quiet, soft in the afternoon sun. Kara stares at her.

"Compel you? To do what?"

"To get to know you better," Lena replies. Her features smooth into an almost solemn expression. "When you stumbled in my dressing room last night, it was kind of refreshing, I guess."

Kara scoffs. "A random stranger tumbling into the room was refreshing?"

"No, that part was just surprising," Lena chuckles. Then her features soften. "But even after that... you didn't want anything from me."

Blinking in surprise, Kara's mouth opens to respond, but nothing comes out. Lena shrugs, her smile thinning a little.

"I love what I do and who I am, but... everyone wants something. My time, a picture, an autograph. An experience. You didn't."

Kara stares, still speechless. She hadn't given any thought to how she'd behaved that night. She'd just been frustrated and maybe a little mortified, and eager to get back to Esme. But from Lena's point of view she seemed almost... special.

"That," Lena continues, brightening once more, "and you're super hot."

Nearly choking on her own tongue, Kara coughs roughly in surprise before glaring at Lena.

"What?" the younger woman asks puckishly. "Is it truly that shocking? You've got mirrors, don't you?"

Kara takes a swig of her coffee to soothe her throat before responding. "That's not the word I usually hear."

"Oh?"

"More like... intimidating. Or tired. I get that one from my sister a lot."

Lena snorts. "Cowards the lot of them, then. Well, except for your sister. But rest are clearly too pussy to tell it like it is."

"Which would make you...?"

"Not chicken shit."

"Bold," Kara corrects her, but her tone lacks any real bite. It only makes Lena grin wider, which in turn sparks a smile of Kara's own.

Thankfully for Kara's fluttering heartbeat, Lena eases into a new topic. "So.... a sister, huh?"

Kara nods. "Esme's mom."

"Is it fun being the cool aunt?"

With a sigh, Kara shrugs. "Haven't had much time to be any kind of aunt, let alone a cool one."

"Well, you did take her to a super awesome show," Lena teases, tilting her head playfully.

"I did," Kara admits, but doesn't mention that it had been months since she'd last seen Esme prior. "But I got lucky that the performer was super nice about a whole lot of things."

A laugh answers her. "Happy to be of service."

A quiet moment passes between them. Soon, though, Kara realizes that Lena's features have turned pensive. She nudges the younger woman gently.

"What's on your mind?"

Lena blinks. "Oh. Um, I guess... I was thinking about my brother."

"I didn't know you had one," Kara says.

Okay, so mayyybe she had googled a little while waiting for Esme's phone to be delivered. She'd seen a bit of Lena's backstory-- signed to a label at age thirteen, managed by her mother, father passed when she was seven... but nothing about a brother.

Lena lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Half brother. Kind of."

Kara waits, giving Lena room to continue if she wanted to. After a moment, she does.

"I guess I kind of caught the performing bug from him. He was in a band before I could even walk. He even taught me how to play the piano. Our mom even managed them at one one point, but when she decided I had potential, she couldn't manage us both. So, she chose."

She chose Lena. To Kara, it makes perfect sense. Having seen her on stage, the joy and the skill and now the sheer presence of Lena... of course anyone would drop everything to be what she needed.

But she can only imagine how it would feel to be the person left behind.

"He left the day I signed with my first label. I tried for years to get in touch with him, and still try on his birthday, but... I've never heard from." Lena sighs, eyes flicking self-consciously towards Kara. "For all I know, I could be an aunt myself by now."

She sniffs, quickly scrubbing the corner of her eye with the heel of her hand. "Jeez. I didn't mean to get so serious on a first date."

Kara can't bring herself to counter the claim of a first date. Whether Lena means it playfully or genuinely, something about Lena's eyes still sparkling with unshed tears makes her wholly unassailable.

Before either of them can say anything more, Kara's phone rings in her purse, and Lena's chimes in a half a moment later. They both tense, then dissolve into giggles, the somber mood ruined by the return of real life.

"I should get back to the office," Kara says. A glance at her phone screen, she confirms that it's Eve calling, no doubt frantic with another call from Mrs. Jasper.

Lena sighs. "Yeah. My mom is probably apoplectic. I was supposed to be at a meeting an hour ago."

Kara starts. "What?! Lena..."

"What're they gonna do, fire me?" Lena drawls. Even so, she rises and offers a hand up to Kara. Kara takes it, and doesn't protest when Lena keeps hold of it on the way back to the car. "Besides, it was worth it."

"For the sticky bun?"

"That too."

At the curb of Kara's office, Lena finally passes over Esme's phone. When Kara reaches to take it, Lena leans in and presses her lips to Kara's cheek.

Too stunned to move, or even speak, Kara hears Lena's murmur right down to her bones.

"Have dinner with me."

Kara blinks. "When?"

Not no? Not what the fuck? When.

"Why not tonight?" Lena retreats just enough to meet Kara's gaze, searching. "Tell me you don't feel this too."

Oh, Kara feels it. Low in her belly, hungry and desperate and *scared*.

"Lena..."

"Give us tonight," Lena continues, a touch breathless. "I fly out in the morning. You won't have to see me again. If you don't want to."

Kara gears up to refuse it all. The supposition, the unmistakeable desire. But in the end, her shoulders slump.

"I don't think not-wanting will be the problem."

Lena beams. "So yes?"

Kara exhales slowly. She nods. "Yes."

She hears Lena's breath catch, before Lena settles back in her seat. "Text me your address? I can send a car."

"That's not necessary..." Kara trails off when Lena grimaces to the contrary.

"It'll be easier," she says. "Trust me."

Kara nods. "Okay."

"Dress code is fancy." Lena winks. "Whatever that means to you."

Kara huffs a soft laugh. "That's helpful." Then, "I look forward to it."

To her surprise, a faint blush climbs up Lena's neck, settling in her cheeks.

"Me too."

[writtenbymoonflower]

hi!!!! could you do polymarauders reacting to reader getting a tattoo (or multiple!) dedicated them? love u!!! 🧁

Thank you for requesting, lovely! gn!reader x poly!marauders.

cw: tattoo, swearing, Sirius being himself

681 words

You knew the secret was out when you had flinched away from James. He hadn’t done anything wrong, he just didn’t know. When his hand found its usual spot on your ribs as you were laying down on the couch with him, you couldn’t hide the discomfort you were feeling as his hand pressed into the tender flesh. James, of course, had no clue. 

“What’s that for, baby?” He looked a mix of concerned and amused. “Did that tickle?” He turned mischievous as he tried to worm his fingers into your side again. Remus flit his eyes to you both, stifling chuckle. You hissed, squirming away from your boyfriend's hands, no matter how gentle they were. 

“Ouch, Jamie.” You said before you could stop yourself. This made Remus drop his book. 

“What hurts, lovie?” His eyebrows rumpled, leaning closer to you and James. 

“Nothing, I’m fine.” You said, looking panicked. It seemed like Sirius could smell the trouble, because he stood up from where he sat at Remus’ feet, crawling over to you like a cat. 

“You hissed when Jamie touched you here, dolly.” He wriggled his fingers over your side, looking surprised when your shirt moved oddly slickly over your skin. You tried to bat his hands away, but he didn’t move. 

“Siri! Get away.” You tried to seem unsuspicious, but you mostly gave up on the act. 

“What’ve you got under here?” Sirius waggled his dark eyebrows at you, pulling your shirt up until your whole torso was exposed. You almost felt bashful at the realization that your whole chest was pretty much exposed, but they weren’t looking at it. Instead, they all looked varying levels of surprised. Remus moved faster than you’d ever seen him, crouching at your side next to Sirius. But it was James who spoke first. 

“Sweetheart! When did you get that?” He kept looking between your face and your ribs. Underneath the plastic cover was a small tattoo over your ribs. Lined up was little drawing of a moon, star and sun. 

“Well it was gon’ be a surprise.” You playfully scolded. “But I got it a week ago. It’s… it’s for you three.” You turned shy on the spot. You thought you would’ve had more time to get over the sliver of anxiety you felt. You had all been together for a long time, you all loved each other very much, you were all each other’s emergency contact even! But this was a big step, permanently marking them on your body. 

Sirius gently thumbed the skin next to the tattoo, looking in awe at your rib and leaning down to kiss over the plastic cover, being featherlight to not irritate you further. He knew from experience it was probably still sore. “I fucking love it.” He whispered against your skin. 

“Lemme see better.” Remus (gently) shoved Sirius out of the way, making him squawk offendedly. Remus didn’t care though, he looked entranced. James squeezed you tighter to him. 

“I can’t believe you did this and didn’t tell us! We would’ve gone with you, baby.” He trapped you in a kiss before you could respond, rubbing his thumb over your jaw gently. Sirius snickered at your dazed look when he pulled away. 

“Like I said,” trying to push away your flustered state. “It was a surprise.”

“Hell of a surprise.” Remus had nuzzled into your waist. “I’m gonna need one too.”

“Ooh, I like that.” James said at the same time that Sirius whistled.

“Oh yes fucking please.” He dramatically fanned himself. “You too Prongs,” He licked his lips looking at your boyfriend. James didn’t know whether to feel objectified or very flattered. (As how Sirius usually left people feeling). 

“I should, now that I’m the only un-inked one in this relationship.” He playfully jostled you. “You’ve abandoned me, lovely.”

“Don’t worry, honey.” You kissed his cheek. “I’ll pull you to the darkside with me.”

“Oooh, you minx. Thankfully I’d let you three corrupt me any day.” None of you would complain about that.

[tofics]

Out Of This World

Chapter 1

Masterlist

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x fem!Reader x Dean Winchester

Summary: You and the Mikaelsons are fighting a powerful witch that's trying to take over New Orleans. The only solution: banishment to another universe. However, the spell goes... wrong, and it's not the witch that ends up in another universe, but you. - At the same time, over a thousand miles away in a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, an alarm goes off: a rift has opened up. The Winchesters and their angel partners in crime decide to investigate. What will they find when they get to New Orleans?

Word count: 4949 words

Warnings: cursing, violence, murder, mention of blood, allusions of panic attacks.

You skidded around the corner, barely missing a stack of cardboard boxes by an inch. You jumped around it, almost flying past the pile. Your blood was rushing in your ears, your heart almost jumping out of your chest, pumping the adrenaline through your body. Behind you, you heard the evil snicker of your persecutor, hard on your heels. Before you knew it, you reached a wall that cut off your path abruptly. A dead end. You were cornered.

Slowly, you turned around. There she was, a sneer cutting across her face. Despite the few feet between you, you could see the glint in her dark eyes. Again, the witch laughed triumphantly.

"Really? An evil laugh for an evil witch? How terribly cliché," you pressed out between two wheezes. There was a sharp stitch on your right side. Running had never been your thing anyway. You leaned down and rested your hands on your knees while trying to catch your breath. Once this is over, you really have to get into better shape, you told yourself.

The witch was still sneering at you, taking her sweet time to make a move on you. You could imagine that she was enjoying this thoroughly. What started as a challenge for power, trying to dethrone Niklaus and his siblings as rulers of the French Quarter, had resulted in a bloody, messy, magical war. For months, she had been threatening the Mikaelsons and everyone that stood by them. Where threats didn't work, death followed. Quite a few of the Mikaelson's closest followers and allies had lost their lives to the woman in front of you, and yet, you were sure to rank high on her win list: as Elijah's girlfriend, she'd probably enjoy your death a lot more than any of her previous kills. This particular death would strike them hard. Shake them to the core. Possibly - hopefully - destabilize them to a point where they'd fall apart from within and she could easily pluck them apart, one by one, until all of the siblings where gone.

"Not even a true Mikaelson, and yet you're just as snarky as the rest of them. What an obnoxious trait. So full of yourself, all of you. It's a disease. But, not to worry. I'll have that cured in no time," the witch quipped back at you, with so much sweetness in her voice that it made you gag.

"Who's full of herself now?" you muttered to yourself. The sorceress in front of you tsk-ed at you and got into casting stance. She reached into her cloak and brought a fistful of something to her mouth before blowing into her closed fist. Black dust spewed out from between her fingers and hung in the air in front of her like black glitter. You straightened at the sight of her palms turning towards you, the first few words of a spell that was sure to bring you death (and a painful one at that) slowly meandering out from between her lips like a snake, inching itself towards its victim relentlessly.

Okay, feel free to intervene any second now, you thought, trying not to glance around for the rescue that you knew was coming. This plan had been weeks in the making and you weren't about to foil it by giving anything away by accident. Soft dark clouds, looking like droplets of black ink in water were forming around you, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Your eyes began to water as the dark vapor drifted closer and started to engulf you. It stung in your nose, giving off a terrible sulfur stench. You tried your best not to inhale it, but soon you were completely enveloped in the black mist. The first breath burned a straight trail down into your lungs and set them on fire. You began to cough, grasping at your throat, slowly choking on the dark magic the witch was blanketing you with.

Your lungs felt like they were on fire, both from the growing lack of oxygen and the vapor that was eating itself into you. Your legs started to give out underneath you and you fell to your knees as you gasped for air.

Any... second... now... you thought, every word feeling heavy in your brain, as if every word weighed a ton. Just as your vision started to flicker and blur, you registered movement out of the corner of your eye. Something whisked past you from behind you at top speed. You heard an "oomph", followed by the sound of a body being smacked to the ground. Almost instantaneously, the black vapor that surrounded you fizzled away and fresh air finally streamed into your lungs.

You wheezed and sputtered, now on your hands and knees as snot dripped out of your mouth and mixed with your tears and spit on the ground. You were relieved to finally be breathing oxygen again, your lungs however still felt like they were on fire and your throat was about as dry as sand paper.

While you were catching your breath, a lot of action was happening in front of you. Klaus had tackled the witch to the ground and Elijah had shackled her, rendering her immobilized. He grabbed her by her collar and dragged her up against the left wall of the alley. Meanwhile, Freya came out from behind the boxes you had almost run into, hands up and feverishly mumbling, casting the incantation that was supposed to free you all of the witch's evil.

You felt a hand on your back first, and then you were lifted to your feet. Hayley was on your left and Jackson was to your right; both of them had an arm slipped through yours to hold you steady. They shot you concerned looks as you were still struggling for breath. You weakly smiled back as a gesture of I'm okay, don't worry about me.

Freya continued casting in front of you. Her voice grew louder and stronger with each word. Despite clearly being outnumbered, the evil sorceress laughed, seemingly amused by Freya's casting.

"Silence." Elijah's eyes were dark with fury as he ordered the witch to quiet, but her laugh just turned shrill before Klaus struck her across the face. Her laugh briefly sputtered as she sunk down, forced to her knees by the force of the blow. Blood dripped from her split lip and smeared across her teeth. It turned her sneer into a bloody grimace.

"You're making a grave mistake, Niklaus Mikaelson."

Now it was Niklaus' turn to laugh.

"I doubt it, Athea." He bend down on one knee in front of her. "On the contrary, actually. You know, I've got my fair share of enemies in this town. But even they have agreed that we must rid this beautiful city of this plague." Niklaus grabbed Athea by the jaw and locked it in place so she was eye to eye with him. "Now, since we cannot seem to kill you - a very annoying obstacle, I must say - we had to find a different way to get rid of you, didn't we."

Freya started to stumble, the weight of the casting taking its toll on her. Immediately, Elijah was by her side and put a hand on her shoulder. It steadied her in more than just one way. She was reaching the pinnacle of the incantation and needed her brothers' power to cast the final piece of it.

"Klaus? Less talking, more killing?!" Hayley called out from next to you. Klaus smiled in return and got back on his feet to join his brother at Freya's side.

"Right you are, little wolf. I so wish we could drag this out, but alas, time is of the essence. Farewell, Athea. You will not plague this world ever again." Klaus put his hand on Freya's open shoulder with a content smile on his face.

Freya started on the last few sentences of the spell. The air in the alley started to flicker like heat over pavement on a hot day. The hair on the back of your neck started to stand up as you felt a buzzing sensation all around you, as if someone had charged the air with electricity.

Then, Freya spoke the final words. For a moment, everything in your vision seemed to sharpen. It was eerily quiet.

Then, a massive beam of light erupted from all around you, turning the world into nothing but a bright white.

Over a thousand miles away from New Orleans, in a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, an alarm went off. The buzzing sound vibrated through the entire place, accompanied by the red flashes of warning lights.

"Oh, what now," Dean Winchester growled. He had just begun to sort through his equipment that he'd need for the next few hours: a whole day of working on the cars in the garage of the bunker. Throw in some beers and some rock music, and you had Dean's favorite kind of day off. They'd just come back from a hunt the day before and he had been looking forward to fixing what needed fixing and mending what needed mending. He went into auto-mode when working on a car; it took his mind off things and allowed him to relax.

Dean put the wrench down that he was holding and wiped his hands on the cloth stuck in his waistline. He sighed. "Can't get one damn day of peace around here," he mumbled to himself and left the garage to head to the war room.

When he arrived, he found his brother Sam and both the angels Castiel and Jack already gathered around the map table. As he approached it, he could make out a blinking light at the south of the United States.

"What is it?" Dean peered at the speckle of light blinking feverishly on the map. Sam answered him. "It's... a rift." He looked around at the men gathered the table before he scratched his neck. "I guess the update does work. This is the first one to pop up since we tweaked the settings. At least the first one to be registered."

"Where is it?" Jack, the younger of the angels chimed in. He leaned forward to get a better look at the map. "From what I can tell... New Orleans." Sam replied after checking a few parameters. There were a few seconds of silence between the men before Dean cleared his throat. "Alright." He rubbed a hand over his face as if trying to wipe the exhaustion away that was written all over it, but to no avail. He looked exhausted and worn down. "Guess we have no choice but to check it out. Cas, get your things, we're leaving in thirty. Sam, you stay here with Jack and keep an eye on the table, 'case few more of these turn up. We'll call you if we need back up." Sam nodded and sat down to check through the table's settings while Jack slowly sunk into the chair next to him. There was a hint of disappointment in the young angel's eyes, but he didn't disagree with Dean. He knew that the older Winchester didn't fully trust him and that he had to keep his head down to earn that trust back.

Castiel and Dean left the war room in direction of their respective rooms to gather their belongings for the trip. Once they were out of earshot, Castiel leaned over to Dean. "What do you think this means?" Dean shook his head in response. "I've got no idea, but it can't be good."

The explosion of light faded just as quickly as it had started. Your eyes took a moment to adjust. Black spots danced in your field of vision and there was a penetrating ringing sound in your ears. You moaned and held your head as you stumbled around while your body tried to recover. Slowly, the ringing faded away to a barely noticeable hum and your vision cleared up too.

Once you could clearly see, you stood up straight. Your brain took a moment to register what your subconscious had picked up on within nano-seconds: something was wrong. Where just a moment ago Elijah, Freya and Klaus had stood, there was no one. Hayley and Jackson were gone from your side as well. Even the witch wasn't there. Athea's disappearance was somewhat comforting - after all, that had been the goal all along - but your stomach churned at the sight of the empty spots where your family and friends should have been.

Did the spell transport all of them? you wondered while temporarily frozen in place. It was like your body had to catch up to what your brain was processing. A slow sensation of panic crept up your spine and filled your limbs with an unpleasant tingling sensation. This hadn't been part of the plan. They weren't all supposed to disappear. Just Athea. "Okay, breathe," you told yourself and forced yourself to follow your own order. You took a few deep breaths and unclenched the fists that your hands had formed into, stretching out your fingers a couple of times before you quickly shook your shoulders loose. You can figure this out.

For a lack of a better option, you head towards the entrance of the alley. Perhaps they got thrown back by the power of the spell, you mused. After all, you'd been further away from Athea and the siblings. That didn't explain Hayley and Jackson's disappearance, but you figured you had to start somewhere.

Your legs were still a bit wobbly, presumably from both the near-death experience of choking on magical vapor as well as being light-bombed. You took it slow, taking your time with each step until you were sure that you wouldn't keel over. The extra time it cost you to reach the entry of the alleyway gave you plenty opportunity to inspect your surroundings for any clues about where your people might have disappeared to. You looked around for any signs of foul play while the never-ending feeling that something, something just wasn't right nagged at you. Something was off.

That's when it hit you.

Your stomach lurched as you reached the entrance of the alley where you'd carried out your big plan and you realized what exactly was wrong. There had been spray paint on the wall behind where Klaus had tackled Athea to the floor. Nothing groundbreaking, just a tag someone had quickly sprayed on the bricks. Now, however, the wall was bare. It was still the same old brick wall, covered in specks of dirt here and there, but there was no spray paint on it. The stack of boxes that you'd almost knocked over was also missing. It should have been to your left, but it wasn't. In fact, there wasn't a single card-box in sight. The alleyway wasn't exactly 'clean', but it wasn't nearly as packed with litter and trash as it had been just a few moments ago.

"No... no, no, no, no." Your whisper grew more panicked with each syllable. The faint humming sound in your ears picked back up as your blood began to rush through your body again. Panic rose in your chest and tightened its grip until you felt like you couldn't breathe, oxygen be damned.

The spell had worked. They had successfully sent someone to an alternate universe, just like they had planned. It just wasn't Athea who'd been transported from one universe to another.

It was you.

Elijah experienced the finale of their plan take place on various levels. He heard Freya cast the last piece of the incantation. He felt it, too, the energy that flowed through his and his brothers arm into Freya, their conduct for the spell. Once his sister spoke the final words he felt a massive tug on his lifeforce, taking a piece so big that if he wasn't immortal, he was sure he wouldn't have survived it. They had known that the spell they had found was ancient, dark magic. The scripture had made vague points about how costly it was, but they had been sure that with his and Klaus' energy combined, they'd be able to supply Freya with all the mana that was required for the incantation to work. Still, the final piece of the cut into him with a kind of force that he'd never experienced before. It forced him to his knees and weakened his senses all at once.

Elijah didn't know if his vision blurred or if it was the air around him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Klaus go down as well. Almost the same second the energy was sucked out of him, he felt it in the air around him, charged and ready to explode at the slightest spark. He moaned, unable to move. His hand was stuck to his sister's shoulder through her magic. It felt like it had fused to Freya and they were now linked together for eternity, hand to shoulder and shoulder to hand. The energy around him grew denser and pressed on him, it trickled over his skin and left sizzling trails.

Elijah's muscles spasmed under the electric force and he groaned. A buzzing sound had built in the back of his head and was now stretching toward his frontal lobe, where it pressed against the bone of his skull from the inside. He thought his head might explode until suddenly, everything became very still, like the quiet before a storm. It lasted for about a nano-second until the energy that had condensed around him blew up and drenched the world in light until all he could see was white.

When he came to, Elijah was on the ground. Pieces of pebble were piercing through his skin where it had become exposed from his suit shifting. The buzzing sound had given away to a ringing in his ears and the growing pressure on his skull was gone. Instead it was replaced by a booming hammering sensation that sent rhythmic thrills of pain through his head. He groaned and shifted his weight so he could sit up. His eyes were still sensitive to the light and he had to partially shield them so that he could see anything, despite the light in the alley having returned to normal.

He first saw Freya. She was down on her hands and knees, shaking and panting. Next to her was Niklaus, who seemed to be recovering from the same ordeal as Elijah; the spell had knocked him out flat as well.

Elijah's gaze drifted forward. He felt the area under his eyes trickle as anger shot through him. There, hunched against the wall, lay Athea. She seemed to have been knocked back into the bricks by the force of the spell as blood was running down from the back of her head. Elijah smelled it, but it wasn't the reason for his vamp face to come to the surface. It was his anger, mixed with frustration. Clearly, the spell had worked. They'd paid the price for sure. He couldn't be killed, but he felt like he was just about as close to dying as he could be as an immortal.

So why was she still here? What had gone wrong?

He rose to his feet, fueled by anger, frustration and worry. Athea may temporarily be blacked out, but she would soon come to and he knew what she'd do then. He staggered over to the witch and grabbed her by the hair to pull her close. He was tempted to rip into her throat right then and there, to watch her lifeforce spill out of her and form a puddle beneath her useless body. But he knew it was no use. The Mikaelsons had learned soon enough that Athea had set herself up good and made sure that she couldn't be killed. Not for long, anyway. She always came back.

Elijah snarled and pushed her head back, appalled by the woman in front of him. She'd caused him and his family so much pain over the last few months and he wanted to see her pay for it. This spell had been their last hope. He had no idea what he was going to do now. How he was going to protect his family, or Hayley. How he was going to protect you.

"What... what happened?" Freya coughed behind him and crawled over to them.

"It didn't work! That's what happened!" Klaus shouted, his voice full of fury. His brother had always had a temper, but this time, Elijah felt it was justified.

"It did work, Klaus. You felt it. The spell worked. I don't understand why she's still here." Freya crawled closer to inspect Athea's unconscious body.

"Clearly, it bloody didn't! This was all for nothing!" Klaus' rage was boiling and he took it out on the wall in front of him. His fist left a cracked imprint on the bricks.

"Niklaus," Elijah warned. Niklaus' anger may have been justified, but there was no time for antics. They had to come up with a plan and they had to do it now.

"Elijah?" Hayley's voice was tinged with fear. He began to turn around to console her. "It's alright, Hayley, we'll find a w-" He abruptly stopped when he spotted the gap between Hayley and Jackson. Both of them were still standing as if they'd just been holding you up a second ago, each of them with a raised arm that had been looped through yours. Elijah got up and walked over to them as if in trance.

"Where's Y/N?" he asked. Neither Hayley nor Jackson answered him. They had no answer. Elijah rolled his sleeves up as if getting ready for battle. It was a subconscious move, a displacement activity. He felt the gnawing feeling of panic set in in his stomach.

"Hayley. Where's Y/N?" he repeated in a calm, quiet demeanor. His auto-pilot was taking over. Hayley looked at him and he saw the shock and fear in her eyes. "She... Elijah, she disappeared..." she whispered as tears welled in her eyes.

Elijah stumbled back as if her words had struck him in the face.

"No... no..." Freya was coming up behind him and stared at the spot between the two wolfs where you had been standing just a few moments ago. "But... that's impossible! It's not possible! The spell was customized to Athea, not Y/N!"

"Freya." Although Elijah said her name like a statement, the unspoken question hung in the air. His sister turned to look at him. Fear and confusion were battling for dominance on her face. "Elijah, I don't know what happened. It's not possible. None of the words I said even remotely referred to Y/N. I have no idea how..." She trailed off. Then laughter came from behind them.

"You fools! I told you you were making a grave mistake! Ha ha ha!" Athea cackled as they turned around to her. Blood was still running from her mouth and her face appeared sunken in, with dark circles forming under her eyes. She continued to laugh while she occasionally sputtered and coughed up more blood.

Klaus was the first to react. He whooshed over to her side and grabbed her by the scalp. "What did you do, you useless bitch?" he snarled at her, but Athea just kept on laughing.

"Did you really think I was going to walk into your trap like that?" Athea sneered at Klaus as a red line trickled from her mouth. Again she coughed and spat out more blood.

"No... how...?" Freya's eyes widened in shock as she registered the meaning behind Athea's words. She'd known all along what they had been up to and had somehow... what? Manipulated the spell? "A spell of this character can't be manipulated! She doesn't have the power! I needed you two to even try to pull it off and even then we weren't sure it was gonna work. There's no way she could have altered it on her own." Freya was thinking out loud while she paced around.

"Then how did she do it? Did she have help?" Jackson's rusty voice cut in. He looked around as if he anticipated a line of enemies to come out of hiding at any second and attack them.

"I don't think so. A circle to back her up would have needed to be massive and they'd have needed to be physically attached to her, like Klaus and Elijah touched me. No, she..." Again, Freya trailed off and hesitated for a moment, then she quickly walked over to Athea.

Their enemy witch looked worse by the second. Her skin had taken on a greyish tone and the circles under her eyes had turned a dark purple. Her face, however, still had a stoic, defiant expression all over it. Freya knelt in front of her and grabbed the sorceress by the shoulder. "How did you do it? How did you hijack the spell? That's the only way you could've done it!" she shouted and shook the woman in front of her. The commotion caused Athea to cough again and blood splattered across her chest. She gave Freya a crimson red smile. "Wouldn't you like to know, Freya Mikaelson."

Klaus wrapped a hand around Athea's throat and squeezed slightly. "Tell us what you did, or I'll rip your head off right here and now." His fingers pressed into her throat with more force now, visibly obstructing the witch's airflow. She gasped for air but still... smiled. "Don't waste your strength on me, Niklaus. My time has come anyway." She gasped and coughed again before she continued. "I knew what you had planned and I knew I didn't have enough power to stop the spell. I knew my time in this world was coming to an end, but I wasn't going to go without a fight." She wheezed and the air in her lungs rattled and blubbered. "What did you do!" Klaus shook her by the throat as his voice echoed through the alleyway.

"I hijacked the spell," Athea replied hoarsely and gave another of her bloody smiles. There was a sense of triumph in voice. "But how?" Freya implored. She had no idea how a spell of this character could be manipulated, let alone hijacked. Unless... Athea cackled. "A good witch never reveal's all her secrets. Isn't that what the mortals say?" Klaus tightened his grip on Athea's throat and pushed her up the wall. Her entire weight was now on Klaus' grip around her neck; her feet dangled a few inches above the ground. "There's nothing good about you, you old crone," he growled. "Enough chitchat. Tell us what you did, or I'll rip you apart limb by limb, no matter how many times it takes until you sing." The witch didn't reply. She gasped for air, but her hands didn't claw at Klaus' hand like any other person might've done. Below them, Freya knelt down and inspected the ground. She soon found what she was looking for and rubbed a pinch of the black powder between her fingers.

"Klaus." The hybrid didn't relent his grip on Athea's throat, so Freya started again. "Klaus, it's no use. She's dying anyway." "Whatever do you mean?" Elijah approached the three of them from behind. Hayley and Jackson followed on his heel. "Just what I said. She's dying." His sister held out her hand to him and showed him the black stains. "When I was still with Daliah, she once told me about the myth about the fruit of the tree of life. Supposedly you could use its dried remnants to redirect any spell or curse thrown at you with ease, but no one had found a fruit in centuries. It was presumed to have gone extinct." Freya gestured over to Athea as she continued. "I have no idea how she got one... but this is what she must have used to redirect the spell to Y/N."

"Okay, great, that's one question answered. But why is she dying? I thought she couldn't die?" Hayley defensively crossed her arms in front of her chest. "She can't, not in a traditional way. But this spell is so old and so powerful, it overwrites any other spell. It becomes the default setting. Any power that she invested into enchantments to secure her life must have been redirected into our incantation, to uphold her end of the bargain, so to say. She traded Y/N for herself. Even if she only hijacked the spell and didn't try to counter it, it must have cost massive amounts of mana." The Mikaelson witch paused and briefly looked down. "So much, in fact, that all of her previous enchantments weren't enough. So she's paying with her life."

"Aren't you a clever little witch. It's a pity Dahlia lost control over you. We could have benefited from a clever one like y-" Athea was abruptly cut off when Elijah zoomed over to her and ripped off her head. It fell to the ground with a soft thump and rolled a couple of times before coming to a halt a few feet away from its previous body.

"Freya," Elijah said as he got his handkerchief out and cleaned a few bloody stains from his hand. "Tell me you know how to bring Y/N back, now that you've discovered the reason for this... mishap." The threat in his voice wasn't meant for his sister. He'd stared at the bodiless head on the ground as he had spoken.

"That's just it, brother. I have no idea."

A/N: It's here! I'm so excited! 🥳 This was so much fun to write and I can't wait to get started on the next chapter. This one got kind of long, but I felt that that was necessary to set the whole story up properly. The next chapter(s) might not be as long 😅 Depending on how much time I can find in the next days it should be up by next week.

Continue reading here: Chapter 2

Feedback is greatly appreciated! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist ☺️

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@vicmc624 @foreverrandomwritings

[perfectlyoongi]

EX-BOYFRIEND!NAMJOON who rereads your conversations on the loneliest nights. every joke made, every plan desired, every love you promised, a whole conversation without beginning or end was read and reread by Namjoon when the longing for you tightened his heart. in a way, in the pain he caused himself he found a little comfort, knowing that for a moment what you had was true, it was felt by both of you. but then reality hit Namjoon like thunder, sending shocks of agony and sadness through his body that shook his entire soul. if that was true, why did you leave? were the Namjoon’s stories too detailed for you? were the photos shared by Namjoon too hopeful for you? speak! tell him! tell Namjoon why you stopped talking, why you decided to take with you all the conversations that could comfort him on the most turbulent nights. tell Namjoon why you stopped talking, why you decided that you no longer needed Namjoon to have jokes and plans and promises in your life. tell Namjoon why you left and he swears he’ll try to understand your side. “i’m trying to look in so many words exchanged where i went wrong to lose you. please, tell me that the reason for your departure is not forever on my phone.”

EX-BOYFRIEND!NAMJOON who looks for you at the bottom of the alcohol bottles he drinks. Namjoon wondered why he wasn’t hearing you. you went with him everywhere, you always laughed when he said he could drink faster than you, you always gave him an alcohol-laced kiss when he almost spilled your drinks on you. but now you weren’t. now, in every bar, in the comfort of his house, you just weren’t there. it was as if you had disappeared, taking with you the joy of moments well spent, leaving behind a small haze of longing. now Namjoon drank alone. glass after glass, Namjoon drank alone, wanting to hear your laugh once again, wanting to feel your lips once again. just one more bottle and he was done. but what if it’s in the next bottle he finds you? you could be in the second bottle waiting for him to spill it all over him. yes, you were definitely in the third bottle. “alcohol has lost all its charm now that you’re not here to make me feel alive. the more i drink, the more i miss you. but there is something in me that pulls me to drink more in the hope of hearing you laughing at the end of each glass. i don't know what to do.”

EX-BOYFRIEND!NAMJOON who can never finish a song because he's afraid of causing it the same pain he felt for you leaving. it all ended suddenly for Namjoon. your relationship simply came to an end one day and Namjoon never understood how or why. all Namjoon knew was that your words dug a huge hole inside his heart, and flooded him with an eternal hurt that only overflowed in a constant waterfall of pure pain. it was an end. a painful end. an end that Namjoon didn’t want to repeat. his art came from within him, in the small drops of pain that spilled from his heart; words written with the ink of melancholy that painted Namjoon’s soul had difficulty finding a home; the papers seemed too rough to use, the computer screen was too bright to contain so much darkness — where could Namjoon ease his pain? would Namjoon be able to ease his pain? finishing creating something… wasn’t that similar to the end of a relationship? all the love and effort that Namjoon felt was going to come to an end. abruptly. no explanation other than it had to end. how could Namjoon subject his entire art to such pain? it wasn’t enough for Namjoon’s heart to suffer, did he also have to make his art suffer? “the anguish that runs through me is something i wouldn’t wish on anyone. this eternal despair of not knowing when something will get better because you know it can’t get better. this anguish, this pain, i cannot give it to anyone. this pain should only be mine.”

EX-BOYFRIEND!NAMJOON who saw you leaving with his heart in your hands. bring back his smile. bring back the sparkle in his eyes. bring back his will to exist, for you left and left behind a prison of pure agony and despair where you trapped Namjoon without giving him a chance to escape. and it was in that prison that Namjoon had been since you left, pondering his crime of having loved, of having loved you, of having loved you too much, knowing perfectly well that there was no possibility of freedom now that you left with the cell key, left with Namjoon’s heart. how could he dream of freedom when you had tied him with ropes of anguish and chains of hurt? Namjoon constantly lived on a bed of melancholy, surrounded by bars of pure suffering that prevented him from seeing the light of the world, retaining all the colors, expelling any and all happiness that could try to appease Namjoon’s broken heart. all because you left and took Namjoon’s heart with you. “i wasn’t able to stop you because you still held my heart with the same love that formed these bars, but you left. with two hearts. one mine, two yours.”

EX-BOYFRIEND!NAMJOON who only sees you when he tries to move on. but maybe it’s time for him to forget, for him to put his past behind him and try to focus on a future he once dreamed would be bright. with you. the future Namjoon had dreamed of was bright and it was with you. no. it couldn’t be with you. Namjoon would move on and forget about you. yes. he would force himself to move on from now on. focus on his happiness. that previously only existed with you. Namjoon’s happiness only existed with you because you were the happiness in Namjoon’s life. no. it couldn’t be you no more. you are not here anymore. Namjoon needs to move on and forget about you. forget all the promises he made to you. forget all the kisses exchanged. forget all your idealized plans. forget you. you. Namjoon’s happiness. in the past. in a present in another reality. in a future dreamed of by Namjoon. he couldn't move on. in whatever direction Namjoon looked, he only saw you. and it was you he wanted, because you were the one he loved.

EX-BOYFRIEND!NAMJOON who stops distinguishing reality from dreams. Namjoon could have sworn he woke up next to you — why wasn’t your pillow there? Namjoon could have sworn he heard you calling him from the kitchen — why weren’t you eating breakfast? what witchcraft was happening from the moment he opened his eyes? why did all of your essence still travel through Namjoon’s house when you weren’t there? did you go back to him? just for one night? no. he didn’t remember having you in his arms. he would remember it perfectly if you had returned to his arms. so how did he hear your voice asking for help making the bed? what was happening to Namjoon? how did he le—

EX-BOYFRIEND!NAMJOON who knows he’s not worthy of being loved, but still hopes to see you again just to be proven wrong.

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 21/?

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Vampire/Witch!AU

Read on AO3

Yeah, I don't even know y'all. Some people stress bake or stress clean, I stress-hammer out like 12k words in four days? Thank you to everyone who is following this :) I still love everyone in this bar!

“Hey Sally?” Evan very deliberately did not look up from the book he was looking through, staring at the brittle, yellowed pages as though they held the secrets of the universe instead of some faded illustrations of different types of protection runes,

Hmm? Sally replied, the lazy, half-asleep tone making Evan smile.

She had curled up right in front of the living room fireplace, having started a roaring fire pretty much the instant Evan’s parents had departed for dinner with a couple of Dad’s work colleagues. The fireplace was purely decorative…there wasn’t a flue, and usually the firebox contained only a set of decorative candles. Sally adored hearth fires, though, and took every opportunity to transfigure herself a fully functioning fireplace whenever his parents went out in the winter.

“You know that spell we were working on today?” he tried to keep his voice light, nonchalant. As though he just wanted to debrief on the lesson and get his familiar’s feedback, like he had a thousand times before.

He never had been able to fool Sally, though. He heard a faint rustle, and when he finally looked up from the page he had been staring at blindly for the last twenty minutes, Sally had gotten up from her indolent sprawl. Her tail curled neatly around her feet and she was watching him steadily, her mangled ear twitching back and forth.

Aye? Sally’s voice was the perfectly calm, steady tone she always took when she was about to have a serious conversation with him. Clinical, almost. He appreciated it…sometimes when he talked to his parents or others in his coven, he felt like he spent half the conversation trying to parse out how they really felt just through their tone. There was never any bullshit with Sally. No hidden agendas or meaning.

“You teach me a lot of things like that,” he started, frowning down at the pages of the huge book in his lap. It was some tome Sally had had his parents borrow special from a coven library in Philadelphia. The book was bound in calfskin, and its pages were thicker than he was used to…vellum, maybe. The ink had mostly faded to a rusty red and the spidery handwriting was hard to read.

I do, Sally acknowledged.

Evan licked his lips and finally set the book down carefully on the couch cushion beside him. “Why?” he asked, voicing the question that had been racing through his head in faster and faster circles this last week. Ever since…

You heard me arguing with your mother, didn’t you? Sally sighed.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted quietly.

That had been happening a lot, lately. Especially on nights after his weekly call with Maddie. He was so worried about his sister—she sounded so tired when he talked to her these days, and he kept getting the feeling that she was holding something back. Trying to keep him from noticing something. He was so tempted to go up to the house she and Doug had bought right after their wedding; just show up unannounced and refuse to leave until she told him what had her sounding so sad whenever they talked. He just wasn’t sure how that would be received.

He hated that he no longer knew how Maddie would respond to something.

Regardless of how your parents feel about me or my lessons, they entrusted your training to me. Your mother may complain all she likes, but there is little she can do to me and she knows it.

“She said you’re training me like people are still trying to burn us at the stake,” he said, and Sally sighed.

Evan, she began. You are extremely powerful. And I would never have you be ashamed or fearful of your magic, but nor would I have you ignore the realities of it. The lessons I give you, the methods and spells that I teach you…yes, they were designed for times and situations that are long gone. But they are also spells that require more discipline. More deliberation. More control. You are quite strong, little love. But that means you must also be quite skilled.

Which was the line of reasoning that he’d heard Sally use when his mother started in on why she was teaching him such old-fashioned ways of casting, and adding spells that no one used to her regimens. It made sense. And Sally never lied to him. He didn’t even really have a suspicion that she was lying to him. But…

“You were scared,” he said finally. “When you said it wasn’t like I’d ever have to use the defensive magics you were teaching me. I could feel it.”

Emotions bleeding through the bond between a witch and their familiar was just a fact of life—but Sally was old enough and disciplined enough that he rarely picked up anything from her that she was not deliberately allowing him to sense. The spike of fear he’d felt from her during that argument, though…that had not been deliberate. Sally never let him feel it when she was worried or afraid.

Ah. Sally looked away from him, her golden eyes fixing on some point over his shoulder.

“I just—Sally, all these spells. And the practice. Does it…does it mean something?”

Divination has never been one of my talents, Evan, Sally said gently, cutting straight to the heart of the question Evan was too afraid to ask. She uncurled her tail from around her feet and leapt primly up onto the couch, staring at him until he sat back against the cushions so that she could climb onto his lap. His hand automatically drifted to the thick ruff of fur around her neck, scratching gently as she pushed her forehead against his, purring softly.

“You don’t have to have a full divination dream to know something’s coming,” he said. Reading the future wasn’t one of his talents, either. Divination magic had never run very strongly in the Buckley coven line. Still, he knew familiars all had at least a little instinct for it. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something deliberate in the lessons that Sally had been drilling him on for the past five years. Something beyond simply trying to teach him better control through more difficult spells.

Evan. I…it isn’t something specific. Only a sense. Neither stronger nor weaker than any such feeling I’ve had about dozens of my witches over the years. I’ve learned to listen to such senses when they come, but I do not feel the need to be ruled by them. Don’t read too much into it.

Evan swallowed, his hand stilling in Sally’s fur. “What is it?”

Sally closed her eyes briefly, sighing to herself. That I must do my best to make sure you can stand on your own. That if I love you—and oh, my boy, I do, I love you as my own, don’t ever doubt that—I must make you strong. Strong enough to thrive when others would see you wither. Strong enough to…endure.

“You make it sound like someone is coming to try and burn me at the stake,” he said shakily. Sally’s comforting purr ceased, and she sat back in his lap, reaching up with one paw to bat at his cheek.

If ever they do, I will make sure you know how to make them regret it, little love, she swore vehemently.

*

Evan held it together as he helped Tommy—and he was helping now, not mostly dragging, so hopefully that vampire regeneration was kicking in better now—out of Greenway’s house and onto the porch. He took a moment run back inside and grab the leatherbound book from where he’d dropped it on the floor when the explosion happened, shaking his head dizzily when he straightened again.

Pain throbbed dully behind his eyes, and he was still sweaty and panting, but he didn’t feel nearly as shaky as he was expecting to after using such intense magic. He was even able to slip himself and Tommy through the between and back into the car without much difficulty, though he had to take a moment to breathe through a flare of nausea once they were settled in the seats…him driving, of course.

“You gonna be able to manage?” Tommy asked urgently, reaching up like he was going to lay his hand on Evan’s shoulder before he seemed to realize just how bloody it was. Not that it would have made much difference. Thank God Tommy had let him borrow a few changes of clothes, because what he was wearing now was just as ruined as the previous set he’d been wearing.

He’d feel a little guilty about it, but Tommy was basically holding his own liver in place while the hole in his torso healed, so he doubted his vampire would care much about ruined clothes. He took another deep breath, silently assessing.

“Yeah. Uh, yeah, I’m all right,” he said, and couldn’t keep the note of surprise out of his voice. He…he really did feel pretty good, all things considering. His head hurt, but it didn’t feel like someone was trying to explore his ocular cavity with an ice pick the way it usually did when he strained himself. His heart wasn’t pounding painfully in his chest, and best of all, his magic didn’t feel depleted yet.

Sure, he wouldn’t be able to cast another control hex right now; probably wouldn’t be able to fire off more than a couple of weak fireballs. But he also didn’t feel like he was on the verge of passing out. It was strange…but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Are we going back to your house?” he asked as he accepted the bloody keys that Tommy dug out of his pocket with a slight grimace, wiping them on his pants leg before sticking them in the ignition.

“Not yet,” Tommy grunted. He looked down at his chest and probed at the wound, hissing out through his teeth. Pain had deepened the creases and lines on his handsome face, and he pressed his head back against the headrest as Evan drove, closing his eyes. “I want to go off-grid until this heals up.”

“How long is that gonna take?” Evan asked anxiously. He didn’t like the idea of Tommy being down for the count if they encountered anyone else on their tails, especially with his magic not at a hundred percent either.

He liked the idea of Tommy hurting even less.

“Few hours,” Tommy said, gritting his teeth as he reached around the seat and grabbed the hoodie he’d been going to use to cover himself as he ran for Greenway’s porch originally. He tore it into a couple of pieces and wadded one up, stuffing it against the wound in his chest with a grunt of pain. “Can you…” he started, leaning up a little and offering Evan the other part.

Realizing what his vampire wanted him to do, Evan took it without looking away from the road and quickly stuffed it against the entrance wound in Tommy’s back. “Uh, hate to tell you, but I don’t think the seats are salvageable at this point.”

Tommy huffed out a short laugh and immediately had to wipe the dribble of blood that spilled from his lips away. “I’ve been thinking about getting a truck for a while now, anyway. It’ll heal faster if I also don’t have to replace half my blood supply.” He was quiet a moment, and then said, “I’m going to need to hunt.” He sounded apologetic. “It’ll take hours to expel all the debris and close up the organ and muscle damage…bagged blood won’t cut it. I won’t—look, Evan, I won’t kill anyone. It’s been a long time since I killed anyone for blood. But yeah, I’m gonna need you to find a neighborhood where no one’s gonna mind anyone else’s business very hard. Once I get a couple of good drinks, we can grab some clean clothes, and—”

Evan saw an exit coming up on the highway. “Do you have any cash?” he interrupted. Tommy frowned, and then jerked his chin towards the glovebox.

“Few hundred in there. Why?”

Evan didn’t answer, instead taking the exit and following the signs past a few gas stations and fast food restaurants. Tommy watched him a moment, before leaning back against his seat again and closing his eyes, clearly trusting whatever Evan was planning to do. He frowned, though, when Evan pulled the car to a stop and he opened his eyes again to find that Evan had parked in front of a cheap-looking chain motel.

“Evan, whoa, we both look like we just we fucking murdered someone,” he said, his voice still rough and strained with pain.

“I got it,” Evan said quietly, before murmuring a simple spell—one most witches mastered by the time they were seven or eight years old. A brief rush of warm wind sprang up out of nowhere, swirling through the vehicle and around his body. The blood that had been drying into a tacky mess on his clothes, hands, and face dissolved into nothingness, and Evan was left just as clean as he’d been when they first arrived at Greenway’s house.

“That must save you a lot of money on laundry detergent,” Tommy said as Evan leaned over and opened the glovebox.

“It is nice not having to haul things down to a laundromat,” Evan agreed, digging around until he found a thick, manila envelope folded up under the car’s registration. He opened it to find several bundles of bills—small denominations and worn enough not to arouse suspicion—a leather wallet, and even a few passports from different countries. “This…seems a little paranoid,” he said, raising a questioning eyebrow at Tommy. His vampire shrugged one shoulder.

“It used to be important to be able to disappear…quickly. Supplies are different, but the habits haven’t changed.”

Sally used to talk like that. Evan nodded thoughtfully and counted out a couple hundred dollars in twenties and tens out of the stack of cash. “Be right back,” he said, and checked to make sure there was no one around who might see the absolute bloodbath the cabin of the vehicle had become before opening the door. He jogged across the parking lot and into the rundown lobby, where a bored-looking clerk sat behind the desk reading a celebrity magazine that looked to be about two years out of date.

“Hey, can I get a double for the night?” Evan asked, deliberately pulling out the stack of cash instead of his wallet. He knew how places like this worked—had taken advantage of them more times than he cared to count, especially in the first few months after he’d been banished.

“Gotta sign in,” the clerk said, completely ignoring the ancient computer next to him and shoving an old fashioned register across the counter. He did not ask for Evan’s ID. “All I’ve got left is a single, unless you wanna pay for a suite.”

Evan shot the clerk a deadpan look, well aware that ‘suite’ in a place like this just meant the hot water probably worked reliably and the carpet might get vacuumed more than once a month. “Single is fine,” he said, singing a completely random name on the register and counting out twenties on the counter until the clerk gave a satisfied grunt. It wasn’t like Tommy needed to sleep anyway.

The clerk handed an honest-to-God metal key dangling on a big plastic keychain over. “Room 106. Corner on the side facing the McDonald’s. Ice machine’s broken.”

“Shocking,” Evan said under his breath, but smiled politely when he took the key, making a mental note to check for bedbugs and be prepared to cast a more intense cleaning spell once he and Tommy got to the room.

That was less of a production than he was anticipating. The room was fortunately on the far corner of the motel, the cracked and weed-choked parking lot empty around them (right, only had a single available his ass) and the security cameras very obviously just for show. Evan cast a look-away charm over Tommy anyway, helping him into the room as quickly as possible and settling him down on the foot of the sagging bed.

The room was like every other no-tell motel room Evan had ever stayed in—dingy and smelling strongly of mildew. The only furniture was the aforementioned sagging bed—a full-sized mattress, at least, small mercies—a rickety table and chair, and a couple of nightstands on either side of the bed. Evan clicked the lamp sitting on one of them on and turned back to his vampire with a worried frown.

“All right,” Tommy said, grimacing as he plucked at the wadded up piece of sweatshirt still packed into the wound in his chest. Evan’s stomach turned a little at the sight of the bloodied hole—he hadn’t had time to examine it closely or even really think about what was happening until now. “As soon as the sun’s down, I’m going to head out and hunt…this should be mostly closed by then. We need to call Howie. And let’s look at the…fuck…” He broke off, hissing suddenly and hunching over.

“What?!” Evan demanded, stepping forward, his hand hovering uselessly over Tommy’s shoulder, afraid to touch him for fear of hurting him worse. Tommy shook his head.

“Debris. I think some splinters just punctured my liver again. God, I hate getting impaled.”

“That, uh, that happens a lot?” Evan’s mind was racing, his eyes glued to the way Tommy’s face was creased in pain.

“I feel like once is enough to decide getting impales sucks, but yeah…you live long enough, you get to experience the wide range of ways people can fuck each other up multiple times.” He sighed, cracking his neck back and forth a couple times in what Evan was coming to recognize was a nervous gesture. “How are you doing?”

“Me?” Evan blinked, confused. He wasn’t the one currently rebuilding his chest cavity.

“Your magic—Evan, you can’t tell me that wasn’t a major spell. And everything else you’ve done…” Tommy trailed off again, the lines on his brow deepening. It was concern this time, though, not pain.

“I don’t…uh, I’m not—” Evan looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as he probed at the glow of magic in the back of his mind. He hadn’t taken the time to think things through at Greenway’s house. He had only reacted.

It was only after he’d dealt with the blond vampire that the thought of consequences had even occurred to him, and he’d waited for the effects of using so much magic to slam into him even as he concentrated on getting his vampire out of the house and into the car safely. That hadn’t happened, though. It still hadn’t happened. He didn’t exactly feel great…and he was definitely tapped out as far as major spells like the control hex and would be for a while. He was weakened far more than he would have been if he still had a coven bond to fall back on. But this didn’t feel any worse than a moderate hangover. He’d had worse headaches after some of Sally’s more intense training sessions.

“I’m okay,” he said finally, wonderingly.

Tommy narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly as he looked Evan up and down. “Are you sure?” he asked, doubt thick in his voice.

“I—yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.” He couldn’t explain it…but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Tommy stared at him, and he shifted uncomfortably before dropping down into the single chair by the round table that was the only other furniture in the room. The chair rattled ominously under his weight.

“I wasn’t just asking about your magic,” Tommy said quietly. “Are you okay?”

Evan froze, just blinking at his vampire stupidly a moment, before he let out a shuddering breath. How could…how could Tommy know… “I don’t feel guilty for what I did back there,” he admitted, his voice almost too quiet for his own ears. “I should, I know I should—”

“Absolutely not,” Tommy interrupted firmly. His words were still ragged, his voice tight with pain. But he stared at Evan steadily, nothing but absolute surety in his tone. “That was self-defense, Evan. Don’t think anything else. Those vampires would have killed me and taken you straight to Ortiz…you saved both our asses back there.”

Evan took a deep breath, looking down at his hands again. “I wanted to hurt them,” he said. “They…I never met any of the other witches Jo—Greenway was working with, but I, I, I know the reasons they must’ve had for going to him. And, and he killed them. Maybe he didn’t actually do it himself, but he let them die. He was going to let me die. And those vampires helped. I wanted them to hurt.”

He was angry. He was so incandescently angry at the people who were pulling on all the strings that had entangled him. Innocent witches had been killed, and for what? Politics? Because some vampire didn’t want to share power? Evan’s life hadn’t been that great, but it had been his. He’d been eking out a living, had almost made it to a point where he might have been able to start building something a little more permanent for himself, almost to the point where he might have been able to be…if not happy, at least content. And it had all been ripped away from him because of Ortiz, Greenway, and whoever else was working with them. Once again, he had a target on his back. Once again, he was being hunted for something he didn’t fucking do.

More than that, though…they could’ve killed Tommy right there. It was pure luck that the chunk of Greenway’s desk had missed his vampire’s heart. Tommy could have died right in front of him, and Evan was no longer startled by the wave of revulsion that washed through him at the thought, the way his magic stirred angrily at the back of his mind. He couldn’t let anything happen to Tommy; would not be able to bear it if anything happened to Tommy. He was done fighting the instinct.

“They deserved it,” Tommy said softly. Evan looked up at him, startled. “Don’t feel bad about wanting to hurt people who already hurt you. Who would’ve done worse if you’d let them. Would you have done that to them if they’d been willing to walk away and leave us alone?”

“What? No!” Evan sat up straight in the chair. “I’d never…that’s not what magic’s for!” I wouldn’t…”

It took him a moment to realize that Tommy had sat back slightly, and was just looking at him with an expression that made Evan’s stomach flip slightly. It was…soft. Softer than Evan thought he had seen his vampire’s face so far, a small smile on his lips that Evan could only describe as fond.

The effect was somewhat ruined by the blood that still smeared the corners of Tommy’s mouth, but it still made Evan fall silent.

“That’s why you shouldn’t feel guilty,” he said simply. “You’re a good man, Evan. But that doesn’t mean you can never show your teeth.”

How many times had Sally tried to drive the same sort of lesson home to him?

Before he could respond, though, Tommy shuddered, cursing to himself in a language that Evan couldn’t identify as he suddenly dropped the piece of sweatshirt he’d been holding against the wound in his chest. “Damn it, give me a minute,” he hissed, before he squared his shoulders and dug his fingers into the still gaping hole in his chest.

“Tommy!” Evan leaped to his feet, but Tommy just shook his head, rooting around in the meat of the wound, a grotesque, wet sound filling the room until he pulled what looked like a clump of bloody tissue from his chest. He held it up, and Evan realized with a flash of horrified disgust that it was another chunk of wood.

“Goddamn it,” Tommy groaned, dropping the bloody mess on the floor between his feet. “How much longer ‘til sunset?”

“Couple hours,” Evan said distractedly. He bit his lip, looking at his vampire—the tired slump of his shoulders, the lines of pain that creased his handsome face. Tommy was hurt…and until he healed more, he was in greater danger. They both were, really. And Tommy was going to have to go out to…to hunt. If he wasn’t going to kill anyone—and Evan believed him when he said it—he would have to be out longer.

Tommy was hurting.

“Would witch blood heal you faster?” he asked.

It was Tommy’s turn to freeze. He went still as a statue, his blue eyes boring into Evan’s before flicking down to his throat and back. “Evan,” he breathed out. “No. I’m not going to ask you to do that.”

Evan took that to mean that the answer was yes.

He swallowed, and again Tommy’s eyes zeroed in on the bob of his throat. “You’re not asking. I’m offering.” He stood up, and took a step towards his vampire, who still sat frozen, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Whatever spell held Tommy still shattered, and he shuddered again, though this time Evan didn’t think it had to do anything with the pain of his wound. He took a deep breath, as though scenting the air around Evan, his hand twitching upwards before curling into a fist and slamming back down on the bed.

“Are you sure?” Tommy said, his voice low and rough, almost a growl. Evan’s stomach flipped again, a shiver running through him that he wasn’t sure he was ready to examine too closely.

“You can do it without hurting me, right?” Evan asked, and now Tommy reached for him, pulling back with a grimace of distaste when he remembered the bloody mess he was.

“I’d never hurt you,” he said, a fervency curling through every word that made it sound like a promise. A vow.

Evan breathed out, his magic humming through him in wild approval. “Then let me help you,” he said.

Tommy’s eyes sheened over with scarlet light, before he visibly reined himself back in. He looked down at his bloody hands and held them up towards Evan almost beseechingly. “I—can you?”

With a small smile, Evan murmured the spell, his vampire’s hands whisking clean in a matter of seconds. Immediately, Tommy reached for him, curling one hand around Evan’s wrist, loosely at first and then tightening when Evan made no move to pull away. He tugged lightly, drawing Evan closer.

“How do you want to do this?” Evan asked, “Um, are you gonna—” He made a gesture towards his neck and was surprised when Tommy instantly shook his head.

“No. No, not there,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. His hand tightened on Evan’s wrist again, his thumb brushing gently over the pulsepoint. It was strange. He knew, intellectually, that Tommy could crush his wrist into powder with barely any effort…could throw him down and drain him dry, and Evan wasn’t sure if he’d be able to defend himself against it.

But Tommy wouldn’t do that to him. He knew it; down to the marrow of his bones he knew it.

Tommy would never hurt him.

He nodded his permission to Tommy’s unasked question. The red glow grew brighter in his vampire’s eyes, eclipsing the blue entirely, and when Tommy spoke again, Evan could see the hint of fangs in his mouth.

“Lie down. I won’t take much, I promise. But just in case.” Tommy let go of him, getting painfully to his feet so that they could trade places.

Evan grabbed the bloodstained comforter off the bed and tossed it to the floor. He was mildly surprised to see the sheets underneath appeared to have been laundered recently…at least there were no creepy-crawlies waiting for him. He kicked his shoes off and stretched out on the mattress, looking up when he heard Tommy swallow roughly.

“God, Evan,” Tommy murmured, so low Evan wasn’t entirely sure he was meant to hear it. “Thank you,” he said, louder, before slowly sitting down on the edge of the bed next to Evan’s hip. “I—it won’t feel like it did at Gerrard’s party without the thrall,” he warned. “I could put you back under,” he offered uncertainly, but Evan could tell he didn’t really like the idea. Truthfully, Evan didn’t either, remembering the helpless way he’d rutted up against his vampire’s body under the effects of the thrall with a blush. He shook his head.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Just take what you need.” He offered his hand up, and had to look away when Tommy slowly took it, something disbelieving and tender in his red, red eyes.

“I can stop myself,” he promised. “If it starts to hurt too much, or you start to feel dizzy or sick, just tell me.”

“I trust you, Tommy,” Evan said, and knew in his heart that it was absolutely true.

Tommy closed his eyes and pulled Evan’s hand closer to his mouth, inhaling against the soft skin of his inner wrist with a quiet groan. “Evan,” he murmured, his name sounding like a fucking prayer in his vampire’s mouth.

Then Tommy bit down, sinking his fangs into Evan’s wrist.

[communicationthroughlyrics]

Let's Talk About Chemistry

You are getting some new ink from your girlfriend, but don't like the interaction between her current client when you arrive, so you fire things up a bit. What's life without a little fun?

A/N: Just a little fluff piece, nothing super crazy. It just kind of popped into my head and I ran with it. No triggers. AU.

The sun seemed to burn your retinas before you could get your sunglasses on as you walked out of your midtown apartment complex on a spring morning. The streets were crowded with eager tourists and natives alike, a cacophony of horns, squealing brakes, and the random taxi driver yelling at someone to ‘move faster’ slowly fading away as you slipped your headphones into your ears. Pushing the sunglasses onto your face, you begin the mile-long walk to your girlfriends ‘office’. 

This is a new aspect of your budding relationship, introducing each other to your working environment. You had met her one night out with your friends at a trendy new club, and you hadn’t been able to peel your eyes off the heavily tattoed, red-headed woman that was seated at the end of the bar. She seemed to be there alone that night, and anyone who had approached her was expediently dismissed.

Your friends had watched you stare over at her all night long, and finally pushed and teased you enough, feeding you with enough liquid courage to go and talk to her. She had barely even looked your way, but you were finally able to get her attention, opening up a conversation that didn’t stop until the early morning hours. Once the bartender had announced the last call, you both exchanged information, smiles plastered on both of your faces as you went your separate ways. The conversation that you both carried on in the club had continued over the phone, via text, and over various shared meals as you both got to know each other. 

As you got to know Natasha better, you found out she was a Russian defector, she and her family had come to the States to escape the Soviet political machine. She had a rough go, getting mixed up with the wrong crowd as a teenager before straightening herself out, and getting herself into a respectable studio where she could share her artistic flair with New York City, and all those who traveled through it. You both had been discussing a new floral tattoo for you, one that would wind down from your shoulder to your thigh, crossing over your ribs as it works its way south.

Your heart skipped a beat as you approached the tattoo studio, your stomach fluttering with a mix of nervousness and excitement. It was your first time coming to the studio, and you couldn't help but feel like the world was spinning around you. Natasha had never seen you in less than shorts and a tank top, citing that she wanted to ‘take her time’ with you. All her previous relationships had started hot and fizzled out just as fast, and she didn’t want that with you. 

The building anticipation was almost unbearable as you pushed open the door and stepped inside, your breath hitched slightly at the sight. In the center of the studio was Natasha, your girlfriend, tattooing another jaw-droppingly gorgeous woman. You stood in the little lobby area of the tattoo studio, watching the interaction between the two. They were lost in their own little world, bodies almost touching as they worked together in perfect harmony. You were easily mesmerized by the way your girlfriend’s muscles flexed as she was shading the tattoo on her client’s thigh. It was a sight that you could easily become mesmerized by, but the flirtatious nature of the client was beginning to grate on your nerves.

At this point, you were thankful for all of the mirrors around the studio, as you watched the woman, whose back was facing you, bat her eyelashes and throw her hair over her shoulder, obviously trying to get Natasha's attention. Natasha, however, didn't seem to notice or care. Or perhaps she was too polite to confront the situation head-on. Either way, you couldn't help but feel a wave of jealousy wash over you. Taking a step forward, you had decided that enough was enough.

"I'm here for Natasha," you said, voice steady and firm. "You can finish up with her later." your words were directed at the woman, your eyes shooting to the scowl on her client’s face, but Natasha looked up at you in surprise, a flicker of amusement crossing her features before she quickly masked it. For a moment, Nat sat while you stood there, locked in an intense gaze, before looking back at your girlfriend. When Natasha broke away, she leaned forward to press a soft kiss to your lips. Your eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of her warm lips on yours as you moved to deepen the kiss.

“I’ll, uhh… I’ll call to schedule another appointment, Nat. See you later.” The client rose from the chair, clearly uncomfortable with the sight before her. You broke away from Tasha with a smirk on your face as her gaze drifted to the woman standing beside you.

“Sure thing, but please…call me Natasha. Not Nat.” She responded, reaching over to grab a fresh paper towel, dampening it to clean her thigh before wrapping it with plastic wrap. “You know the drill. Keep it clean, no scented lotion. Sunscreen when you go out.” She said as the brunette turned on her heels and stalked out of the studio. She turned to face you with a smirk on her face. “Jealous, much?” She stalked towards you, the same shit-eating grin on her face.

“Honey, please. She was desperate. I was annoyed.” You huff, looking down at the suddenly interesting checkerboard floor.

“You know, I do have a lot of female clients,” she tilted your chin up, directing your attention back to her. “Maybe I should keep you around for all of them. Seeing you like this, is kinda hot, babe.” 

“Don’t push your luck,” you lean in, running your hands up her chest as you peck her lips. “Now, can we start on my tattoo?” You ask, jumping up and down while she cleaned up her workstation. She laughed as you wiggled around like a giddy schoolgirl.

“You act like that now, but you won’t be that excited when I’m tattooing your ribs later.” She smirked, watching as you quit bouncing around. You narrow your eyes, almost daring her.

“I’d like you to tattoo something else later.”

“Excuse me?” She smirked.

“You heard me.” You snarked back.

“Mhmm…right…” she responded, grabbing your hips firmly, and pushing you backward to the padded bench. “We’re going to start the outline, I want to get everything outlined today.” She directed, sitting herself down while she got her ink and towels ready. 

“Okay.” You unzip the zip-up hoodie, before removing it. It was followed by your tank top. You had decided at home that a black bikini top would be the best option to wear today, as it covered the necessities but gave her the most room to work. Shimmying out of the sweatpants you had worn, left you standing there in some very, very short shorts and a bikini top. You were slightly nervous since Natasha had yet to see you this bare before.

“I am gonna free-hand this, so don’t mind me as I draw on you with a marker, okay?” She asked, her head down as she finished her preparations. As she lifted her face, her eyes went wide at how much of you was now revealed to her. “Holy hell, Y/N…” she growled, her eyes wandering all over the newly exposed skin. You felt yourself shrinking under her gaze as she stood and stepped closer, marker hanging from her mouth. Removing the marker from between her lips, she leaned down to your ear. “Don’t hide from me, babe.”

You nod your head, gasping as you feel the cold tip of the marker trace down your skin, her skilled fingers tracing guidelines that started at the base of your neck, over to your shoulder, before twisting the opposite direction, going down the middle of your back to the opposite side of your body. She traced down your side, twisting the pattern down to your hip, curling and fading away as she worked it down your thigh and ending it at your knee.  

“Lay down, make yourself comfy Y/N.” She patted the bench behind you as she peered up at you through her lashes. The view alone made your stomach flutter, and you had to push the sinful thoughts out of your head. She smirked, kissing you right below your belly button before she stood, causing your breath to catch in your throat. 

“Natty, be nice,” you sent her a warning glare, knowing you were in a place where no shenanigans could really begin to take place.

“Don’t worry, babe,” she looked down at you with a smoldering gaze. ”I’ll see you later," she murmured, her voice low and sultry. "All of you.” She stepped towards you, your bodies flush with one another, a blush overtaking your features. 

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Nat.”

[concreteburialplot]

(Don't Cry Over) Spilled Wine

pairing: nicholas ruffilo x fem!reader x noah sebastian

word count; 6.1k | crossposted: ao3

other work masterlists; here

warnings; filthy lol, sub!reader/sub!noah, angry mean brat tamer!nicholas, established thruple relationship, dom/sub/sub, thigh riding, handjobs, cum play/eating, degrading, teasing, hair pulling, overstimulation, unprotected sex, oral (m & f receiving), creampie, orgasm denial/delay, 18++ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

summary; you decide that Nicholas is paying more attention to a stupid magazine than you and Noah, so you try to get his attention the only way you know how.

a/n: this is a work of fiction, don't like it don't read it. don’t be mean for no reason & let others enjoy things thnx :)

p.s. pls don't hate me for this 🥲

Your boyfriend thumbs mindlessly through the most recent magazine that has his face plastered all over. Your eyes track his every movement like a lion stalking a gazelle. Long tattooed fingers crease the edges of glossy pages on the left and on the right, his fingertips interrupt the condensation on a wine filled glass.

On the other side of the suede couch sits your partner, Noah, the other face plastered across the cover. Long chocolate locks and potent ink that never ceases to mesmerize you. He sits playing on his phone while you’re glued to the marble bar across from them.

Things had been busy and quiet lately with tour coming and press, and it’s a while since you’d stirred up any trouble. But this particularly calm night inspiration struck you and you decide you want attention.

You begin to slowly cross the plush carpeted floor when his eyes catch on to your movements. His gaze stays on you while the other catches on to your ruse, quietly locking his phone and setting it faced down.

“What are ya doin?” Nicholas’s voice rasps, propping up a thick eyebrow watching your every step.

“Nothin’.” You shrug finally reaching him, “It’s just you’re givin’ that dumb magazine more attention than me.” In a swift movement before he could even stop you, your knees land on each side of his knee, your ass planted right on the magazine.

He clears his throat, “You’ve crushed my magazine.” Anger clearly bubbling in him, but it only fuels your actions, you want more. Noah’s innate reflex mimics your actions, sliding closer to where you both are.

“Well, it seemed like the only way I’d get to sit on your face.” You shrug, spreading your legs further apart on him to get closer in his lap, the magazine crunching beneath you. A glimmer of pride stretches across your face from the visible clench in his jaw.

“Well, you’re not doin’ yourself any favors by pulling this shit.” His voice raspy and restrained, yet it pushes you even further. Your hips begin slowly rutting back and forth on the magazine in his lap, your panty-covered cunt sliding across the pages covered with both your boyfriend’s faces. “So, this is what we’re doin’ huh? Just because you want my tongue in your pussy you get to ruin my magazine?”

His words only worsen the wetness pooling in the panties pressing against the magazine. Your ruts speed up ever so slightly and the faster you go the further your lips spread over his propped thigh. Your sneaking brunette sidekick slithers his way next to Nicholas yet, his focus never leaves you. Noah’s hand makes its way up his free thigh and began palming the strain in his black jeans. Nicholas’ eyes finally snap over at him almost as a warning. “So, you both wanna test me today huh?”

You let out a tiny whimper from how much momentum you’ve escalated to. “I don’t know Nick…are we?” Noah teases as he slides his way onto Nick’s other thigh matching your movements, grinding himself against his leg. “Y/n is right…you were paying more attention to that dumb magazine than us.” His hands slide up Nick’s plain black shirt before leaning down into his neck starting sloppy kisses over his tan, tattooed skin. Your eyes trail down Noah’s lean body, and the bit of chest that’s exposed from his sleeveless shirt makes you more ravenous.

Nicholas lets out a groan, shifting further down the couch to accommodate both of you in his lap. “Look how needy you both are for me, it’s borderline pathetic.” His free hand slides up his outer thigh while the other remains holding the wine glass on your side. He slips a finger into the band of Noah’s sweats, tugging them down to reveal the erection in his boxers. “You know y/n…you started this, I think you should wait your turn.”

“That’s not fair!” You whine and grind harder against his thigh, “I needed you first.” You scrunch his shirt in your fist.

“Oh Darlin’, that’s just too bad. You shoulda thought of that before actin’ like a little slut.” He taunts. Nicholas slips the brunette’s boxers down, his long cock springing free. It’s almost embarrassing how your mouth waters at the mere sight of it. He spits into his hand and begins to work his hand on Noah and causes whimpers to escape his mouth. As much as you’re needy for Nick, Noah’s noises turn you on even more. He ruts into his fist, his lips still sucking on his neck.

You want his attention back on you, so you pull your flowy dress over your head, the cold air peaking your nipples. Nicholas’s gaze returns to you, falling to your bare breasts, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth at the sight of you. The attempt not only catches the attention from him but Noah as well. He sits up while Nick is still pumping him and leans over to wrap his lips around your nipple, circling the nub with his tongue. Your eyes meet his as he sucks on your tit, his own hand sneaking up your thigh. The anticipation of his touch rages a buzzing in your core. But before he could reach where you needed him most, Nicholas snatches his wrist. “Nu uh, did I say you were allowed to touch her?” He scolds. “She’s waiting her turn remember?”

Noah tugs off your tit with a pop and gives Nicholas a frown, “Sorry.” You let out a tiny sob at the loss of stimulation.

“It’s alright babydoll.” He coos up at him, “Just don’t fucking do it again.” He warns then swipes his thumb across Noah’s tip to gather any precum before pulling his hand from his cock.

“I’m just tryin’ to teach y/n a lesson.” Nicholas’ eyes focus back on you with a devious look swirling in his grey eyes. His wet hand drifts to your lips, spreading a bit of both his spit and Noah’s precum on your lips, “Open.” He commands. You blink at him as if to beg not to – you don’t know how much more you can take and you know tasting both of them would only make you even more needy. But you oblige, not wanting to find out the punishment if you defy him. You delicately wrap your hand around his wrist as you take his drenched fingers into your mouth and suck on them. Your eyes close at their taste, echoing a moan around his digits.

“Aw what’s wrong Darlin’? You like the way he tastes? Does it make you wanna suck his pretty cock?” He ridicules in the cruelest tone, letting you know that he isn’t playing around.

Your eyes widen at his words but only muster out an, “Mhm.” pathetically around his fingers, sucking them just as you would his cock. Your actions speed up on his thigh, your own wetness seeping from your panties and onto the glossy pages. It seems though, that you got so lost in the friction that your desperate rutting knocked the wine glass onto the couch, spilling white wine all over the fabric. Luckily none landing on either of you or breaking the glass.

A chilling fear immediately runs down your spine once you realize your mistake and his darkened eyes confirms it. You glance over at Noah, his brown eyes as wide as saucers, just as terrified. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.” He growls. While fear of the inevitable punishment terrifies you, it also worsened the rampant pulsing in your clit.

A hard smack landed on your partner’s ass causing a sharp yelp to leave his lips, “Up.” He commanded and he listened, pulling from his thigh. “Clothes off. Now.”

He got up and slinked out of his sweats and boxers, then tugged his shirt up over his head, tossing it to the ground. Before moving any further, he places a quick kiss on your cheek, a small tradition you have to comfort each other during punishing situations such as these. He looks at Nick for instruction and he just pointed back onto his thigh. He nods and reclaims his position.

He lets out a whine the minute Nicholas is jerking him off again. The scene is absolute torture, your mind is scrambling from how worked up and wet you are. Nicholas uses his other hand to unzip his jeans to pull out his own hard member. Noah’s cock might make your mouth water, but Nick’s makes your pussy ache. He seizes your wrist, his hold almost painful as he brings your hand to his mouth. While keeping eye contact with you as he spits into your palm then brings it to his length. You obey his silent demand and begin palming his cock.

His hand is still on yours almost guiding your movements on him. “You see what you do to me?” His words make you melt in his hands and your walls clench around nothing. “This is your fault.” His thick brows lower menacingly. “And you’re gonna fix it.”

The threat causes you to gulp and arousal to pool in your panties. Just touching it drives you mad with thoughts of him being inside you – the way you can barely fully wrap your hand around it reminds you how much it’ll hurt when he stretches you out.

He lets out a low groan as you worked on him and Noah is a whimpering, rutting pathetic mess. From the increase in Noah’s sobs and his twitching cock, you know they are both close, which hopefully means it will be your turn soon. Though, from your little fuck up a turn wasn’t quite guaranteed. He rolls his hips into Nick’s fist desperately, his hand gripped tightly onto his shirt. You want nothing more than to be on either of their mouths, their fingers, anything.

As Noah draws to his precipice, you notice Nicholas pick up the empty wine glass. You furrowed your brows as he brings it to just below where Noah’s swollen tip is. Your eyes widen when he begins moaning loudly as his orgasm rips through him, his hands tugging at Nick’s shirt while he erupts. Your eyes follow his juices pour into the wine glass; Nick is diligent to get every drop while he rides out Noah’s high. Once he’s spent, he pulls from his hand and falls onto the cushion next to him, his hooded eyes giving away just how fucked out he is.

Nicholas’ stern look finally land on you again, his hand finding yours that had stilled on his length. “Did I say you could stop?” He asks. You shake your head and promptly continue, your fist around his veiny girth. He brings the newly filled wine glass to his cock and tilts it to you, instructing you to take it. “Make sure you don’t miss any.” He says simply, his voice deep and raspy with desire.

Your rounded eyes meet his, still processing his orders.

“Did I fucking stutter?” He spat back and you quickly take the glass from him without another word and hold it just in range. His right hand swiftly finds its way into your loose hair, wrapping it around his fist tugging on it slightly. “When I ask you a question, I expect an answer.” He snarls. “Got it?”

“Y-Yes.” You mutter not even wanting to look at him and continue to stroke his member.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sir.” You correct yourself.

He lets go of your hair and trails his down your side, landing a hard smack on your ass. “Good girl.”

You wince at the spank, but it doesn’t distract you from your mission. His cock’s twitching in your hand, pre-cum leaking from his head. “Fuck.” He groans out. “Fuck I’m gonna cum.” He groans, tightly gripping your ass as white milky ribbons shoot from his tip and into the glass. You continue to pump his member until he was completely done.

You sit up and hold the wine glass, not quite sure what to do with it. He helps your confusion by taking it from you, bringing it up to your eyeline and swirling the contents the way connoisseurs would do with fine wine. The cum from both your partners mixing before your eyes.

Nicholas’s hand returns to your hair again, this time gripping it even tighter around his fist. He uses his grasp to tug your head back and brings the cup to your lips. Your eyes wider than you ever thought they could go, looking at him in absolute surprise. “C’mon, open up.” Tapping your bottom lip with the edge of the glass, “You’re gonna swallow every drop.”

You timidly open for him, “If you take this like a good little slut, I might just let you cum.” He slowly began to trickle the mixed orgasm into your mouth. You are so fucking desperate and so fucking horny that the liquid tastes like pure heaven. You let out a small moan and close your eyes as you swallow their juices completely, every last drop.

Nick grins proudly. “Good girl.” He says lowly, bringing his fingers to your mouth. He swipes his thumb across your bottom lip gathering any residue and moving it back into my mouth. You’re so desperate for anything that you’re absolute putty in his hands. You suck his thumb clean with your eyes locked on his. He’s putting up a good front, but you can tell his own desire is still hunting you. He slides his thumb out of your mouth slowly and hooks it into your bottom lip, “All you want is a cock in your pretty mouth don’t you babydoll?”

You nod silently.

A high-pitched moan from beside you gets the attention of you and Nick, only to find Noah slowly stroking his hardened member. His top teeth are dug into his bottom lip just watching you both.

It’s immediately clear that Nicholas is not happy about this. “I don’t remember telling you that you’re allowed to touch yourself.”

Noah just lets out a small whine but doesn’t stop palming himself.

Nicholas sucks on his teeth in thought before speaking. “Alright, here’s what gonna happen. “You up.” He commands you, “Switch with him, face down.” He looks over at Noah, quickly snatching his wrist. “You’re done with this.” His grip tightens around his wrist. “On your knees behind her.”

Your eyes meet Noah’s, your scared looks mirroring each other. It’s your turn to place a kiss on his cheek for support.

You quickly slip from your panties and get on all fours with your ass perked up in front of Noah and your face is in the couch. The thought of Noah’s cock even slightly near you is making your pussy throb and clench around nothing. You need him so fucking bad.

“You wanna be defiant little brat then you’re going to treated like one.” Nicholas growls at Noah. “You wanna be such a little slut? Go ahead, fuck her.”

“W-What?” Noah lets out a whine. “‘Don’t think I can.” He whimpers out pathetically. “‘Too sensitive.”

You can always tell when Noah is deep in sub space when he starts dropping words.

“I didn’t ask.” He says sternly. “Fuck her.”

He gently presses the head of his cock at your folds just above your entrance and the sheer proximity is enough to make you nearly vibrate in need. He sobs at the small bit of contact. But you can’t wait anymore, you need him. So, you take action for him and back up pushing yourself onto him. Noah lets out the loudest, most painful whine but for you, it feels so good to finally a cock in you, even if it’s only halfway.

Nicholas leans down and tucks some hair behind your ear. “Ah, good job baby. Making him suffer for me.”

He turns his attention back on the long-haired boy. “I told you to fuck her, not fuck around with your dick sitting inside her. Move.”

You’ve nearly lost all your patience and every single cell in your body is begging to move on him, but you know Nicholas wants this done his way.

Nicholas always gets his way.

He finally listens, moving in and out of you painfully slow. Whimpers and whines pour out of Noah’s mouth, pained from the overstimulation. Even his hands are delicate on your hips, as if he touched you too hard, he’d explode on the spot.

You feel the rough pad of Nicholas’ finger glide down your spine, following the arch of your back. Just the graze of his touch is enough to have goosebumps erupt all over your skin.

“Oh, isn’t this pretty pathetic, isn’t it?” Nicholas’ voice is deep and so mean it makes you tighten around Noah, only making him sob more. “You can’t even fuck her properly.” He circles around from him to be in front of you. “How about I show you how you should be fucking her?” He bends one knee on the cushion in front of you and pulls his cock out from his jeans still undone from earlier.

You look up at him with wide eyes and your mouth can’t help but fall open for him. He chuckles lowly and cups your jaw in his sizeable hand, his fingers delicately tilting you face up. “That’s my girl.” He gleams and it fills your tummy with butterflies. The way he’s looking at you right now could make you do anything he wanted.

He pumps his own member a couple times before sliding into your mouth. Just the head of it nearly fills your mouth completely and he’s heavy on your tongue. But you’re hungry and you need more, from both of them. You push your head down further onto his cock until it hits the back of your throat. His fingers rake through your hair and lets out a deep groan from the pit of his chest. It only fuels you to take the lead, beginning to bob on his length, gagging a bit every so often just from the sheer size. While you work on Nick, your hips are backing up on Noah more aggressively.

You have both of your boys letting out noises that make your heart soar and somehow amplifies the almost painful buzzing in your clit. But you’re getting filled on both ends, so who are you to complain?

“Is this what you wanted princess?” Nick asks, “You wanted to be used like a little whore? You wanted a cock in your mouth and another in your pussy?”

You screw your eyes shut and answer with a muffled, “Mhm.”

“Thank you for using your words for me baby.” He moves some hair out of your face and looks down at you proudly. Your cheeks burn from how hard you blush at his praise.

From how desperate you are, Nicholas tastes like candy in your mouth, you can’t get enough of it. Each time your tongue passes over his slit, he shivers under you, and it gives you some semblance of power.

His fingers rake through your hair again, this time gently gripping it back to get you to look at him. “You’re being so fucking good for me baby, but I need to teach our boy how to fuck you properly.”

You nod as best you can, bracing yourself for what you know is coming. He keeps his grip tight in your hair, keeping your head in place for him. He starts slow, just to work his way into the back of your throat. Each inch is more painful than the last and your gag reflex is hanging on by a thread. It’s not until you think you can feel his head halfway down your esophagus that he speeds up. His hips begin thrusting into your mouth quick and hard. Tears build up in your eyes and look up at him because you know he loves making you cry like this.

“Fuck baby, you look so fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth.” He grunts as tears stream down your face.

He’s fucking your mouth so fast and so mercilessly that it’s backing your entire body back, helping you to fuck Noah. He whines and grips your hips hard in a weak attempt to slow you down but there is no stopping Nicholas’ ruthless assault on your throat. It finally pushes you to where Noah’s cock is at the deepest part of you. And nothing could ever top the feeling of having both of them being equally as deep inside you at the same time. You let out whimpers and moans as much as you can around Nick.

Nicholas finally dislodges from your throat, taking thick strings of saliva with him still tethering you to his cock. He picks up your chin, “God you’re so beautiful like this.” He leans down and presses his forehead against yours, looking down into your eyes. “You’re being so good for me, I almost forgot about the wine all over my couch.” His inflection at the end slips back to cruel.

He drops your jaw, leaving you heaving and breathless. He makes his way over to Noah who is very precariously fucking you. You peek over your shoulder to see Nick taking a strand of Noah’s long hair and draping it over his shoulder. “My pretty boy, you like using our girl like the little slut she is?”

Noah gives no answer and his movements slow down even more than they were already.

“You like fucking her tight cunt?” He asks, his voice low and gravely, like thunder rolling. And yet Noah says nothing but just a nod. “It doesn’t look like you’re enjoying it, maybe you need some help.” Nicholas’ hands slide down the boy’s thin tattooed sides landing on his hips and gripping them harshly, causing Noah to let out a yelp. Your eyes widen as you watch Nick moving Noah’s hips for him, essentially using him as a toy to fuck you with.

“Fuck.” You let out loudly and drop your head when Noah’s cock finally begins ramming right where you need him. Pathetic and high-pitched sobs come from Noah, he sounds more in pain than pleasure. You catch a brief moment to look back and watch Nick placing open mouth kisses on the boy’s neck while using him to fuck you. Noah’s eyes are bursting with tears as he’s pushed to his limit, but you know he’s at least enjoying it enough to not use the safe word.

Nick lets go of Noah’s hips obviously done with him. “You’re pitiful. If you can’t fuck her then I’ll do it for you.”

Noah meekly pulls out of you and lets Nick take his place. Like a good boy, Noah waits patiently for instruction.

“Go sit in front of her. I want her to look at how pathetic you and your cock look.” He directs and Noah listens, sitting facing you. His member is glistening and so red it looks excruciating. It only makes you want it in your mouth more.

You let out a sharp gasp when Nicholas thrusts his cock deep into you. Since he has more girth than Noah, he just makes you feel fuller. It’s everything you’ve wanted all day. Moans pour out of you each time he lands deep in your core.

“Does that feel better baby? You like my cock better, don’t you?”

The pleasure building in your stomach is too much for you to even think a coherent thought — the only thing you can even comprehend right now is the way he’s fucking you senseless.

You should’ve known he wouldn’t like silence as an answer. He gathers your hair and wraps it around his fist, yanking your head up.

“Darling, I thought we talked about using your words.” He patronizes. “So, tell me, he can’t fuck you like I do huh?”

“No.” You squeak out.

“Hm. I fill you up better than he does, don’t I baby?”

“Yes.” You say weakly, just trying to hang on to your sanity.

He tugs at your hair to force your eyes onto Noah. “Well if you think so, go ahead, tell him.”

Your eyes round at his demand. “W-What?”

“Tell him how he can’t fuck you like I do. How my cock is bigger than his. How only I can fuck you the way your pretty pussy deserves to be fucked.”

Pleasure builds in your tummy with every word that he says. Your fingertips are aching to touch your sensitive nub so you can actually cum – but you know better than to do so, especially without asking. So now you want to please Nick any way you can.

You gulp and lock eyes with Noah. “Nicholas fucks me better than you.” You blurt out.

Nick gives your hip a small squeeze, silently telling you good job, keep going.

“His cock feels so much fucking better than yours.” You say bolder this time.

While what you’re saying are half lies and seem mean, the twitch in Noah’s cock tells you he loves it.

You feel Nicholas’ stare burning over your shoulder watching Noah intently.

“Oh, what’s wrong? Does your little cock get harder when she says that? Do you like it when we tell you how you’re just a little brat who only deserves to watch?” Nick teases him while he’s buried inside you. Noah’s face flushes strawberry pink and his cock bounces on its own with each word he says, precum dripping from his tip.

You always love seeing this unfold, Nick loves watching Noah suffer, it turns him on more than anything.

Nick’s fingertips are curled into your hipbones so hard you wonder if he’d ever be able to let go. Not that you’d want him to. His thrusts escalate and deep guttural groans escape his lips. His cock is hitting you directly in your sensitive spot.

“I asked you a fucking question. Do you like being a pathetic little bitch who only gets to watch?”

Noah squeezes his eyes shut and nods his head. “Yes.” He squeaks. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, sir. Can I touch myself please?”

“No.” Nick replies before Noah can even finish his sentence.

He whines and wiggles in his place, “Please it hurts, I need to cum.”

The whinier Noah gets, the faster and rougher Nick’s thrusts are. It’s clear that Noah’s desperation only fuels him.

“Hm. Maybe y/n could help you out, how does that sound? Maybe she could put her pretty mouth on your pathetic cock.”

He nods quickly, “Yes, please, I’ll take anything.”

You look back at Nick to confirm the plan. There is so much need and excitement in Noah’s eyes it makes you feel pity for him. You lean down and stick out your tongue but just before you could land, your head is yanked back by your hair again.

“Oh, too bad darling, seems like she’s a little preoccupied to touch your pitiful cock.” He feigns a genuine apology.

Noah’s eyebrows immediately turn upwards, and his jaw falls slack. His eyes look so desperate and panicked it makes you feel guilty even though it wasn’t your fault.

Nicholas’ thrusts become sloppy and quick. His actions move your entire body easily. Your clit throbs at how well he fills you up, how well he fucks you. His hands grip firmly onto your hips, his fingers digging into the bone. Your head hangs as he slams directly into your sweet spot. You’re aware of Noah’s presence obviously, but in that moment, you can't think about anything other than Nick’s cock buried inside you. You can tell he’s close from how erratic his movements are. And while you want to reach your own finish line, right now your body is merely an instrument for his pleasure. You want him to feel good and know it is because of you. So, you match his rhythm and bounce back into his thrusts.

He lets out a gruff groan from deep in his chest. “If you keep this up, you’re gonna have a cunt full of my cum.”

The words spin a flurry of butterflies in your core and only drives you more. You speed up your hips, going even faster than his sloppy thrusts.

“Fuck.” He draws out the word, just savoring in you taking control of his pleasure. That doesn’t last long as he grips your hips hard and slams into you so fast it makes you dizzy. “Fuck, fuck fuck.” He curses out and buries himself so deep in you that you know you’re going to be so sore after. His cock twitches and his hot seed fills you up, just like he promised.

“Thank you.” You pathetically whimper out into the couch cushion.

He runs his hand up your back and tangles his fingers into the roots of your hair, tugging your head up just slightly. “Thank you for what?”

You sob, “Using me.”

You don’t even need to see him to know he’s smirking. “Good girl.”

He lets your head fall gently. “You.” Nick speaks to Noah. “Come here.”

Noah’s chocolate eyes are round and so deep into submission that he just melts at whatever Nicholas says to him. He nods and meekly walks over to him.

Nicholas slowly pulls from you, making sure not to let any cum spill out unnecessarily. You don’t dare move without his direction, so you stay with your ass up and his seed still pooled in the deepest part of you.

He turns to Noah, “Here, make yourself useful and clean this up.”

Noah’s eyes widen at his command then at Nick’s still hard member covered in both your slick and his cum.

“Don’t be ungrateful. Get on your knees.”

“Yes sir.” The long-haired boy squeaks and follows the orders, kneeling in front of him. He’s hesitant when he wraps his lips around the man’s tip then slowly takes the rest of him into his mouth.

Nick runs his fingers through the boy’s hair as he works, “That’s it baby, just like that.”

He swirls his tongue as close to the base as he can get then all the way back up his length to come off with a pop. He sits back on his legs and looks up at Nicholas like he’s the most generous man on earth. “Thank you.” He says quietly.

“Oh, you’re not done cleaning.” He says before smacking your ass. “Lay down.”

Your stomach is full of excitement, need, and hope. You flip onto your back and before you even have the chance to settle in, Nicholas grabs a knee and spreads you open, baring your cum-dripping cunt to Noah.

Your cheeks heat up at the way Noah’s eyes nearly pop out of his head at the sight of you.

Nicholas then pulls himself from the couch and circles over to be in front of you both. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go ahead. Get to work.”

Noah dips his head between your legs but still hesitates, probably because of his affinity for eating pussy and his tendency to accidentally orgasm from it alone. If Nicholas is set on not letting Noah finish again, this might get him in trouble.

“What’s wrong?” Nicholas patronizes. His fingers reach between your legs and uses two tattooed fingers to spread your folds open. “Don’t you like her pretty pussy?”

Both your and Noah’s cheeks grow bright cherry red. His cock is still painfully hard and twitching at just the sight of you.

“I do.” He squeaks out.

Nicholas’ hand finds its way into Noah hair, gripping it at its roots and roughly shoves his head down into your core. “Then fucking act like it.”

He begins by kitten licking at your clit and even though they are just little licks, you’re so sensitive that they’re driving you crazy. The tiniest flick from the tip of his tongue causes tingles to spread across your skin and a knot to form in your stomach already. You let out a tiny whimper and Nicholas’ devilish smirk stretches across his face. He crouches down next to you and tucks a bit of hair behind your ear.

“Isn’t this what you wanted babydoll? Didn’t you want all our attention? Well now you’ve got it.” He hisses.

His eyes rake down your naked body down to where Noah is very cautiously licking at your sensitivity. “No, no, no.” His hand grips his hair again, this time forcing him further down to your entrance and pushing him deeper. “I want you to get every fucking drop of my cum out of her pretty little cunt.”

The way he degrades Noah in front of you turns you on more than you’d like to admit. But the results are even better. Noah begins his task, dipping his tongue deep inside you, instantly moaning at the taste. His noises reverberate through your entire core causing you to tighten your walls around his working tongue. Noah begins to rut himself against the couch as he devours you and you can’t help but lift your hips up slightly to let him get an even better, deeper angle.

Nicholas smiles and combs through your hair a bit, “That’s it baby, let him taste all of you.” His fingertips trail down your body and just his touch is enough for your heart to start thumping in your ears. Your breath hitches in your throat when they find your aching, swollen clit. He begins slow circles on you and the feeling of his fingers and Noah’s tongue fucking you has you on the edge of bliss. Your hips rut up into Noah’s tongue and into Nick’s fingers deliciously.

“Please, please let me cum.” You beg as a very thin string is holding you back from your orgasm. “Fuck, I’ll cum just from this just please let me cum, please let me cum.” You repeat pathetically. “Please, please, please.”

Nicholas lowly chuckles and speeds up his fingertips ever so slightly. “Sure darling, and I guess our little pet here can cum too, if he can without touching himself.”

Before he even finishes speaking, euphoria hits you full force nearly blinding you. Bliss washes over your entire body, your legs clamp around Noah’s head and Nick’s working fingers. Screams, moans and curses spill from your lips. The pressure that’s been built up this entire time squirts all over Noah’s face. He must’ve really liked that because loud whimpery moans tumble from his lips and you feel him freeze, then feel his warm cum shoot on your thigh.

You both are whiny, soaked messes below Nicholas’ gaze. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Well, isn’t this pathetic,” Nicholas coos lovingly, “You both came so hard barely being touched.”

Once completely spent, Noah rests his head on your thigh with your chests rising and falling rapidly. It’s nice to have Noah as your partner in crime because you always end up here together. Being punished isn’t nearly as fun without him and it’s comforting to have someone to cling to while Nick fully sets up aftercare.

“You both were so good for me.” Nicholas smiles proudly down at you two, “C’mon let’s go take a bath and get you guys cleaned up.”

He leans down when you both nod at him and presses his forehead against both of yours. “Are we okay?” He asks gently.

You and Noah respond in unison with a sleepy, “Mhm.”

He takes each of your jaws into his hands, tilting your faces up at him. “You know I need to hear it.” He says tenderly, using his thumbs to graze your cheeks. “Are we okay?” He repeats.

“Yes.” You reply together.

Nick smiles lovingly, “Thank you.” He holds each of our faces softly in his hands, “I love you.”

Tired smiles stretch across both your faces, “I love you too.” You reply.

Noah’s cheeks are blushed but he stays quiet causing Nick to sit next to him on the couch. “I know I was hard on you this time baby. Are you okay?” His hand finding Noah’s and holding it.

Noah tugs on his lip, his eyes shy and staying on their touching hands. “You sure I was a good boy for you?” He asks quietly.

“Aw baby,” He wraps his arm around and pulls him close, “Here’s a little secret.” He whispers between the three of you. “No matter what. You’re always my bestest boy.” Noah blushes and nuzzles into Nick’s chest.

“Same goes for y/n.” He reaches out a hand for you and you take it, getting pulled into the mush pile. “Always my bestest girl.”

You copy Noah and nuzzle into Nick’s chest. There’s no place you’d rather be than on that couch with your boys.

a/n; thank you for reading this if you did. i didn't plan on posting this here but i teased it a while ago and the response was good so here you go, i hope you enjoy it. pls lmk if you do, pls don't hate me🥲

[oldiesstationlover11607]

hiii i love your writing !!

could you write a tyler joseph x reader where reader knows who tyler is and they get stuck in an elevator together? but she tries not to let on that she knows who he is and they hit it off really well. a little angst maybe?

<333

🍁anon

Elevator - Tyler Joseph x Reader

Relationship: Tyler Joseph × Reader

Warnings: none!

Word Count: 1464

A/N: hello 🍁 anon! fall is my favorite season so i love ur emoji choice! it's nice to meet you btw :) hopefully u like this! feel free to continue requesting!!

I’d been on holiday for about a week now, halfway through the break I’d quote-unquote “deserved.” I hated being away from my work. It’s part of who I am—it is who I am. But my boss had quite literally threatened to fire me if I didn’t take time off. I’d just come back from dinner at the sandwich place my mom had recommended and was 100% ready for bed. I stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the seventh floor, glad to finally have a moment to myself after a long day of tourist attractions.

Just as the gleaming silver doors were about to close, a tattooed hand slipped through, and they opened again. I knew that tattoo. Three lines across the wrist. I had the closest thing to that tattoo I could get without injecting ink into my wrist—three hair ties placed perfectly around my arm. Regardless, I knew the tattoo and the person attached to it. Tyler Joseph.

My little sister loved his band and would fight me for the aux cord to play their music. Not to mention the several posters of his and that other guy’s face sprung about her room. I froze for a second, recognizing his face almost instantly. I wanted to say hi, I wanted to tell him I liked his music—despite the number of times I complained enough for my sister to turn it off. But I swallowed that thought, determined not to make things weird. I’ve met famous people before; this should have been no different. I pretended not to notice who he was and stared straight ahead.

“Sorry,” he said with a polite smile, pressing the button for the eighth floor.

“No problem,” I replied, my voice steady, though my heart beat a little faster than I’d like.

The elevator began its smooth climb. It was quiet, and I caught myself glancing at him, trying not to be too obvious. He was... just a guy, right? I focused on the numbers lighting up above the doors, reminding myself to keep it together. But suddenly, the elevator shuddered and came to a jerking stop. The lights flickered briefly, and I lost my balance for a second, grabbing the rail for support.

Tyler pressed the emergency button, frowning slightly. “Looks like we’re stuck.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. Just what I needed today.

He let out a breath, leaning against the wall. “Hopefully, it won’t be long.”

I nodded, leaning back as well. It was strange being in such a confined space with him, pretending I didn’t know who he was. But I figured it was better this way—less awkward, less pressure. Still, the silence felt heavy, and I couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious.

“So,” Tyler said after a moment, breaking the thick silence, “you here for work or vacation?”

I swallowed, my mind still racing from the fact that I was stuck in an elevator with him. “Vacation,” I replied, keeping it short. “Against my will, mostly.”

He chuckled lightly, but there was something distant about his expression, like he wasn’t really here. “Same. Well, kind of. It’s supposed to be a break, but I’m bad at that. I enjoy my work.”

I let out a soft laugh, finding it easier to relate than I thought. “Yeah, same here. I feel like I should be working, even though I’m supposed to be enjoying myself.”

“Funny how that works,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost like he was talking to himself. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes drifting to the floor. “Even when you get time to relax, it’s hard to actually relax.”

I knew what he meant, and there was an odd heaviness in the air, like the conversation was teetering on the edge of something deeper. I wanted to ask—wanted to know what weighed on him—but I stayed quiet, unsure if it was my place.

“I don’t know how to turn off,” I admitted, more to break the silence than anything. “Even now, I feel like I should be doing something productive. It’s stupid, really.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze still fixed on the floor as if lost in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost weary. “It’s not stupid. I get it.”

There was something in the way he said it, a kind of quiet exhaustion that hit me harder than I expected. For a moment, I forgot who he was—the lead singer of a famous band, the guy whose lyrics my sister screamed at the top of her lungs. He just sounded... tired. And I knew that feeling all too well.

“I guess it’s hard when your work becomes your identity,” I said, not realizing how close to home the words would hit until they were out in the open.

He looked up at me then, something shifting in his expression, like maybe I’d touched on something personal. His lips twitched into a small, tired smile. “Yeah. It’s like... you can’t escape it, even when you try.”

I nodded, feeling a weird, growing connection. But at the same time, I couldn’t shake the tension that was building inside me. Part of me wanted to say more, to let him know I understood—that I knew who he was and why this hit home for him. But that part of me was overruled by the fear of making things weird. He didn’t need another stranger prying into his life.

The elevator remained still, the hum of machinery the only sound for a while. I felt restless, stuck not just in the elevator, but in my own head. Why was I holding back? It wasn’t like he’d care. He probably forgot people the moment they left his sight.

“So,” I started, my voice coming out more hesitant than I intended, “is it... hard for you to, you know, get time off? I imagine you don’t get many breaks.”

Tyler let out a short laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You have no idea.”

I bit my lip, unsure how to respond to that. Something about the way he said it made me think there was more to the story. But again, I wasn’t sure I should push.

“I’m sure it’s not easy being recognized everywhere you go either,” I added cautiously, testing the waters.

He looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he was trying to figure out if I really knew who he was or if that was just a passing comment. I could see the shift in his posture, like he was preparing for something—maybe for me to mention his name, to fan out.

“I know you know who I am,” he chuckled under his breath. I let out a sigh of relief. 

“Was it that obvious?”

He nodded, probably used to fans pretending they didn’t know who he was.

“Yeah, but you seem cool,” he smiled. 

“Well, that’s a relief,” I muttered, though I could feel the awkwardness settling in.

But before he could say anything, the elevator suddenly jolted to life, the hum of machinery filling the silence. The floor numbers lit up again, and we began moving.

“Yeah,” Tyler agreed, but he still seemed to be studying me, his expression thoughtful. There was a pause, and then he asked, “So, you said you’re here on vacation. What do you do when you’re not... being forced to take time off?”

I hesitated for a second, then decided there was no harm in telling the truth. “I work in the film industry,” I said. “Mostly behind the scenes—editing, production stuff.”

His eyebrows raised slightly, genuine interest sparking in his tired eyes. “That’s cool. Must be a creative job.”

“Yeah, it’s... intense, but I love it.” I shrugged, feeling a bit more relaxed now that we were back on neutral ground.

The doors dinged, and we reached the seventh floor. As I stepped out, I felt a small tug of curiosity and... maybe something else.

Tyler cleared his throat before I could go. “Hey, I know this is random, but... you seem really cool and I’d love to hear more about your work. Maybe we could grab a coffee sometime?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the request. “Oh, um, yeah, sure.”

He smiled—this time a little more genuine—and pulled out his phone. “Could I get your number? No pressure or anything.”

I gave him my number, trying not to think about the surrealness of it all. Once he had it saved, the doors began to close again.

“See you around,” he said with a nod.

And just like that, the doors slid shut, leaving me standing in the hallway, wondering how a simple elevator ride had turned into... whatever this was.

//

REQUESTS OPEN!

[lalunanymph]

Dawn!! If you’re still accepting suggestions for ttpd, would you be willing to do loml with kakucho or i can fix him with ran? even if you’re not, it’s okay! just wanted to say that ive been following you for quite some time and everything you write is incredible, you are my fav writer on tumblr 🩷🩷🥹

𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐋 [*ੈ✩‧₊˚ dawn.🕹️ ttpd]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ you discover the truth about him

Your shivering body fights through the hail of rain storming down from the heavens as if in retribution for your scalded emotions.  

His back grows smaller, almost disappearing around the corner. 

You follow right behind him, unable to take your eyes off how his trench coat—once gray—is now soaked through till it makes the water dripping from its hem look like bleeding ink.

Kakucho doesn’t sense you, which is strange.

He always had a sixth sense when it came to you. 

But, he pushes through the storm, head bent low. 

It’s almost one in the morning and you can’t figure out why he’s here in the dead of night. Why he left your apartment in a fit of rage when all you had asked him is why he chose to ignore your messages after a fight you both had.

You can���t unearth his true sentiments, and rather than risk his ire for the second time tonight, you choose to do your own snooping. 

He stops right in front of a bar, its neon sign throwing sleazy, ripples of light across the overflowing puddles. Hiding himself under the awning, you can just trace the outline of his scar, slick with water, his expression blank and frankly, frightening.

The Kakucho you knew would never look this disengaged and dangerous.

He always smiles whenever you need it, and right now, you wish he would. 

Wish he would come back home and not make you feel like he had thrown in the towel—giving up on your relationship with such callous ease.

Someone appears from the shadows, and he follows after the mysterious figure. 

You take a tentative step forward, crossing the street, ducking under the awning and following him down the narrow pathway. 

Someone screams, and you feel your blood run cold.

Rounding the bend, your eyes widen, a gasp flying free from your lax mouth.

Kakucho looks up, blood on his hands. A dead man lies at his feet, the skin on his neck shredded to ribbons, red rivulets drenching the ground.

You take a step backward and stumble, falling right on your ass.

“Love,” Kakucho speaks, his voice hoarse; fear flashes in his incongruous eyes, the knife in his hand clattering to the ground.

He takes one step towards you, but all you can think about is how he’s stepping in some man’s blood. 

You scramble back, hands thrown up as if to stop his advance. 

A strangled cry slips past your cold lips, sounding almost like that man’s scream before he lost his life.

“My darling, I can explain—”

“Wh—who—Kakucho—why?” Your brain is on overdrive, spitting out questions faster than your mouth can comprehend.

The darkness starts to spin, and you think you might bend forward and hurl.

“You weren’t supposed to see this.” Rain droplets drip down the sides of his cheeks, the curve of his nose and streaming past his thin lips which twist into a grimace of pure agony. “My love, I’m so sorry—”

“Is this what you do?” You can’t believe how you’re able to formulate a sentence, but the human mind is a resilient thing. “When you leave me alone at night. Is this what you do? Killing people?” 

You’re sure you see the knife glinting in your periphery and almost scream, but he kicks it aside, far away from you, and raises his hands to show he’s unarmed.

Kakucho looks like he’s struggling to speak as well. He opens his mouth, closes it.

Drops his arms and hangs his head forward, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

“I… I’m so sorry. You weren’t supposed to find out like this.” 

You think he’s going to kill you, judging from how villains in dramas would want to get rid of any unfortunate eyewitnesses when their true colors were revealed.

But, your lover does nothing like that.

He only stares at you imploringly with his milky-red eyes. Stepping forward, he slides to his knees, a sinner begging for forgiveness at your altar.

“He’s a dangerous man, love,” he speaks through numb lips; somehow, you sense his words more than hear them, your mind spinning into a different dimension with how easily your life had spun out of control in a single, devastating second.

You wish you had never followed him, never gave into your curiosity.

If you had followed his terse command to stay home, you would still be blissfully unaware; safe in your little, loved-up bubble without ever considering your kind, warm hearted and faithful boyfriend was a literal murderer. 

You wished you had never met Kakucho. 

As if he could hear your thoughts, he shuffles closer to you, trying to take your cold hands.

You shrug him off, curling into your own body, shoulders hunched forward and hands tucked to your chest.

“You’re a killer.” 

He doesn’t refute you; staring at you in open anguish. 

“What would happen if I told the police?”

He freezes, and you already half-expect to be dead where you stand. But, he locks his mismatched gaze onto yours, those unique eyes boring deep into your soul. 

“Then, tonight would be the last time you would ever see me in your life.” He rocks back on his haunches, expression morphing into one of sure regret. “And we will never live the life we want.”

You don’t know if he’s trying to manipulate you—at this point, you can’t figure out anything beyond trying to get out of this alive.

“I won’t kill you,” he says, striking you mute with confusion. “But, I will have to disappear. Forever. If you can live with that—if you want me instantly gone—I will do it.”

The anguish in his eyes melts into acceptance; an innocent lamb succumbing to its fate in the slaughterhouse of heartbreak. 

“But, I won’t try to change your mind. I understand this is something unacceptable for you,” his voice shakes, but he bravely pushes through. “I wasn’t the man you thought I was. I can’t be who he is. I lied to you. I’m so sorry. If you ever do tell the police on me, I hope you will forgive me one day.”

You aren’t able to believe it. Here you were, threatening to expose his crime, and Kakucho was on his knees, apologizing to you for not being the man you thought he was and could be. 

He waits, watching in rapt attention as you race through your thoughts. Sorting through the pros and cons.

Tears prick your eyes, mingling with the rainwater trickling down your cheeks. Somewhere, behind him, you imagine the man’s blood must be running cold.

The rain continues to pour and above, a street light flickers once, throwing shadows across a look on his face you would never forget until the day you died.

Regret. Fear. Longing. 

Loss.

©️ lalunanymph

[howlingday]

Jaune ate the jabberwalker and now he miss is the. It and the closet thing to it is grim could you do something with this im interested in seeing your take

Jaune stood over the dying Jabberwalker. It let out sorrowful, almost fearful words that meant one thing, as was its behavior, even unto its death. Its lanky limbs curled unto itself, arching its back in a curve that reminded Jaune of a dead cat he'd seen in his youth. A youth now long past since his arrival into the Ever After. But such thoughts drifted away as he listened to the beast wheeze it's final words.

"Freezing... Frigid... Frosty... Gelid... Hibernal... Nippy... Polar... Raw... Snowy... "

Cold. The Jabberwalker was cold. It only made sense, as it's ichorian blood spilled like an ink from an old, fleshy, emacited bottle of an apex predator that skulked the Ever After. Soon it would die and be taken by the tree and return in a new, more terrifying form than before. The impossible had been accomplished and now this world will demand balance.

Suddenly, Jaune's body began to feel very hot. Like fire threatened to burst from his chest, his body became wracked by aches and pains much greater than his aged body had ever endured. He fell to his knees, his eyes darting everywhere for relief from this inferno ablaze within his entrails.

"Bitter... Boreal... Brumal..."

Cold! The Jabberwalker was cold! It made sense because it was dying! But Jaune had to live! He had to see Team RWBY again, no matter what it costed him! No matter who it costed him.

Faster than his mind could register, his hands dug deep into the fatal wound left by his rusted blade. Tearing flesh and sinew with animalistic fury, he buried his face into the open gash, gnashing his teeth at the bleeding flesh even as the cries changed temporarily from cold to new meaning...

"Demise... Expiry... Annihilation... Termination... Hollow..."

...until the words stopped. But Jaune didn't.

Jaune continued to dig deeper into the monster, his aching pain soothed little by little as cold viscera continued to fill his mouth, fall to his gut, and paint his face. Tearing himself free, he unleashed a horrible cry to the heavens that sent a shiver through the very beings of every entity across the Ever After.

At that moment, Jaune Arc had died. No longer did he have any cares to worry about. No fears of Grimm or Salem. No burdens of leadership or holding onto his past failures. Finally, truly, and utterly, Jaune Arc had died and was free...

...and in his death, The Rusted Hunter began his prowl.

[loxosceleslolo]

Call It Magic

my Elden Ring brainrot is so severe that I have yet another AU longfic in the works. This one involves both the Heart Stolen "ending" and the question: "what if Ansbach met us at the First Step instead of Varre?" (this was crossposted to AO3 if you prefer to read there)

“Can you teach me how to do that, Sir Ansbach?” 

Sir Ansbach looked up from the book in his hand, the crease between his snowy brows deepening slightly like a furrow in freshly fallen snow. His eyes, sharp as a winter morning, met Folly’s eager gaze.

Folly pointed to the book, her finger trembling slightly with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. “That. Readin’. Writin’, too, if you could. Please.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, like water over stones.

“You never learned?” 

“Can’t say that book learning was a real priority out there in the Badlands. Not with the sellswords I worked for, neither.” Folly tossed her black hair, obsidian waves catching the light, and squared her shoulders, almost daring Ansbach to say something about her history.

“What makes you interested in reading, if I may ask?” Ansbach's tone was gentle, coaxing.

“It’s magic. It’s magic I can learn, even.”

“How so?” Ansbach leaned forward slightly.

Folly leaned over Ansbach’s shoulder, close enough that the warmth of her breath ghosted across his cheek. She traced a letter with her fingertip, the touch reverent. The scent of ink and vellum clung to him, an intoxicating mixture that made her heart beat a little faster, like a caged bird. “You draw these symbols…”

She traced another word, her finger dancing across the page. “…and you can convey your thoughts across any distance. Across years, or centuries even, if the book holds up. It’s as close to real magic as anything, I reckon.” Her voice was hushed, filled with awe at the power contained in those simple marks.

Ansbach smiled, the expression transforming his stern features. Bright, genuine smiles from him were a rare and precious thing, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Was that the only reason?” His eyes twinkled with knowing amusement.

Folly’s cheeks burned, a rosy hue spreading across her face like wildfire. Of course it wasn’t. She’d take any excuse to be close to the older man, to bask in his presence like a sunflower turning towards the Erdtree. Not that she would admit it. 

“If I’m going to be the Elden Ring’s steward until our Divinity and Luminary awaken, I should know how to read and write, shouldn’t I? I’d much rather do it myself than trust a scribe.” The words came out in a rush, a thin veil over her true motivations.

“Fair enough.” Ansbach gently closed the book, the soft thud resonating in the quiet air. He set it on his bedroll with careful reverence, then picked up a stick, its rough texture a stark contrast to the smooth pages of the book. “We’ll begin with learning the letters.”

Folly picked up a stick herself, mimicking Ansbach’s posture. She traced the marks he made, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Like this?”

He laughed, full and hearty, the sound warming Folly from the inside out. “You’re as quick a study with that stick as you are with a blade, dear Folly!”

Dear Folly.

Those two words set Folly’s skin ablaze, as if she’d been touched by the sun itself. They left her feeling as if an entire swarm of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach, their wings beating in time with her racing heart.

Words were magic, indeed. And in that moment with the warmth of Ansbach’s praise enveloping her, Folly felt as if she had discovered the most powerful spell of all.

[sannasruins]

letters from my love

aizawa shouta x reader

type: angst with some fluff sprinkled sporadically, part two to my letters to you but can probably be read stand-alone as well

warning: major character death, grief

a/n: regular text is present, italics are your handwriting, flash backs have tildes (~) enclosing them. reader is refered to with she/her pronous and as "wife". this turned out way more self insert-y than anything else i've written but not for lack of trying, i just couldn't have things be less specific lol, sorry to anyone who doesn't like rain, bugs, and baking

word count: 5.3k

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would wake to find your side of the bed cold. He would get up in search of you and would find you bathed in yellow light at the kitchen table, scribbling away at paper. He would ask you what you were doing, when you were coming back to bed, and you would answer him, writing letters, and soon honey I’m almost done. Content with your answers and much too groggy to ask who you were writing letters to, he would make his way back upstairs and into the warmth of bed. And just as you told him, you would soon slip under the covers and cuddle into your husband’s warm and loving embrace.

Shouta gingery removed one of the sealed envelopes from the box, a small sticker keeping it closed. He turned it around to see the back of the letter and his heart started pounding faster when he saw the scrawl of your handwriting. He tried hard to focus on the words in front of him, though he found it increasingly difficult. He closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths, then reopening them and trying again to read what was addressed to him.

It first rains after I’m gone.

That was your handwriting, but what could that mean? Looking up, he noticed something he hadn’t in his rush to see the contents of the box. On the lid, cut out of construction paper, were the words OPEN WHEN. 

Open when it first rains after I’m gone.

What were these? He put down the first letter and reached for another. You turn 30. Another. It’s been a year. Another. It’s my birthday. You turn 26. It snows. You really miss me. You notice a beautiful sunset. You turn 45. You get sick for the first time after I’m gone. You loose a battle. You turn 28. It’s our wedding anniversary. You find this box. He paused, was this the one he was supposed to read first?

He flipped through the rest of the box, it looked like you had written letters for all of his birthdays, up until he turned 80. That was 55 letters alone. But there were other letters mixed in with them, letters for the changing seasons, letters for coffee dates and weather. And a few of the letters, it seemed, were ones for him to deliver to others, their friends, their fellow heroes. His brows furrowed and two schools of thought argued in his brain. He was mad, mad that you thought you had to do this, mad that your thoughts had been proven right, mad that you knew there was a chance you were going to leave him behind on this miserable planet without you. But he was also grateful, grateful that you loved him so much that you didn’t want to leave him behind with nothing, grateful that you had left him bits of you to have for the rest of his life, his only salvation trying to spread herself past her mortal boundaries.

Open when: you find this box.

He carefully peeled back the sticker that sealed the envelope closed, not wanting to tear the fragile paper. Inside was nice looking stationery, the design suited you, he thought, folded neatly into thirds, front and back covered in your words, the ink holding just a slight fraction of all that you were. He pulled the paper out of its bindings, and delicately unfolded it, revealing the beginning. 

Dear Shouta, my love, 

If you are reading this, that probably means that I am gone, that or you found this while cleaning the closet, and we will be having a rather embarrassing conversation soon.

He let out an amused exhale, but the breath he drew back in held somberness.

My love, I’m sorry that I was the one to leave first, I promise you I never wanted these preparations I’ve made to ever have to be used, I would much rather prefer if we got to grow old together, retire from being heroes, maybe move out to the sunny country, and live our lives long and peaceful. But we’re heroes, aren’t we? We’ve dedicated so much of our lives, from such a young age, to be able to protect and put ourselves on the line for the greater good. 

I hope I went out heroically, maybe not a blaze of glory but, not on the losing side of the battle when it was all said and done. Maybe even I won in the end? You wouldn’t wanna be married to a loser, now would you?

“You did,” he murmured to himself, having completely forgotten his friend across the table from him, “I’d rather be married to you as a looser than anyone else though, a wife who is a looser sounds a lot better than a wife who is dead.” He continued to read.

I wish you could know how much I love you, my Shouta, how much I wish for you. I would give you the world if I could, heavens know I tried. Please do not let my efforts be in vain my love, do not let my departure be the thing that crashes and burns the path that you have painstakingly forged for yourself. 

Crash and burn he thought bitterly, oh the irony. 

I will be waiting for you, dearest, wherever the soul goes where it dies, I will be waiting for you at the start, so that neither of us will be alone. But please, do not join me prematurely, I won’t greet you with joy if you did that, Shouta. Live a long, long life, make it worthwhile, if not for yourself, then for me, please. You have so much left to do. Maybe try teaching, you were always so great with children, teach them better, teach them the hard lessons we had to learn ourselves so that they won’t make the same mistakes their predecessors made.

With all my love, my whole heart, my soul, and my entire being,

Y/n.

That’s where the first letter ended. He sat back, not ready to process everything it had contained, so he moved his focus to his previously forgotten friend.

“Hizashi, there’s a letter for you, in here too,” he nodded towards the box, “there’s actually a couple not addressed to me.” He pulled the letters, which were for your mutual friends and fellow heroes, out of the box, and handed them to the blonde. There seemed to be a silent understanding that it was now Hizashi’s duty to deliver the letters to their recipients, Shouta probably wouldn’t be ready to do that for a long while, and they deserved to receive their messages in their times of grief. 

Aizawa Shouta didn’t go back to work for a while, instead staying in the house the two of you had made into a home. He wasn’t a useless mound of grief the entirety of his stay indoors though. He had decided to do what you told him, and looked into getting his teaching license, taking online courses while slowly cleaning the home. He was never going to get rid of your presence in the space, it was as much yours as it was his, even if you were no longer there. But he needed to get your clothes out of the shared closest, and your products off of the bathroom vanity, carefully being tucked away. He placed more pictures of you around the house, pictures of your wedding day, of your after-school dates, of late night patrols together, decorated all of the walls and filled many empty surfaces.

 Monsoon season had arrived, and it had been a month since your passing that the first real rain happened, it was now June, and the air was hot, balmy. The afternoon rain brought some relief from the heat of summer, and he knew it was time to read his second letter.

Open when: It first rains after I’m gone.

He sat down in the living room, into the plush arm chair that faced the windows, he reminisced on all the days just like this one, where you would sit and listen to the rain, your book of the week resting in your hands, the only other sounds breaking the patter of rain being you turning the page, and the noises you made in reaction to what new words you were taking in, a gasp, a giggle, a snort.

Hi Shouta, 

Are you sitting in my chair right now? Are you watching the rain? 

Never again will anyone know him as well as you did.

I know you have mixed feelings about rain, it seems to almost always show up in the moments that feel fitting for it, for you at least. I’m sure you know how much I love the rain though, the rhythmic pounding, the flash and crash of lightning and thunder. Do you remember that day in our third year, both of us had forgotten to bring umbrellas, you wanted to wait until the rain had let up, but there was no telling when that would be, and I wanted us to just walk out into the rain.

~ “Come on Shouta,” you called out joyfully, “it’s just water.” You stood in the courtyard of the school, most of the students gone now but those that were just leaving looking at you strangely as you spun in the rain. You walked back to where he was standing under the awning, and took both of his hands in yours, pulling gently on him, to bring him out of the shelter and into the downpour. ~

You were so worried I was going to catch a cold; I was more worried about you though. I didn’t want you to be so cautious in life, over such little things, even if we both caught colds, it would be better than waiting, watching, for something that may never come. Shouta, my dear, I don’t know if you're waiting for a sign, a sign to move on, a sign to live, a sign to die. That sign may never come. So let the rain be your sign, let the rain tell you to come out, to feel alive, to dance under it, even if your clothes will get wet, even if you get a cold. I don't want you to move on from me as much as you don't, but that doesn't mean you have to forget me, my love. I will be in every drop of rain that kisses your skin. 

He lowered the letter and looked outside to the darkened clouds. He got up, placing the letter on the coffee table, before slipping on his shoes and heading out the front door. He stood there, in the rain, for quite a while. The droplets mixing with his tears as they hit his face, trying to feel you in every single one of them. He stood there, until the rain started to let up, the color of the clouds fading to a lighter gray, and the sting of the rain turned gentler. He shook the water out of his hair, and turned around, back towards the house. It seemed to have a new air about it, something, maybe, slightly less heavy, or maybe it was just his imagination. He headed back inside, something different about him too, though he couldn’t see it, maybe the rain had washed away something heavy, maybe you had kissed away some of the pain. 

The Butsadan* he had gotten to place in your home held 2 pictures of you, one that he had taken on that very first crepe date, chocolate staining one corner of your mouth as you grinned at him, and one he had taken on your wedding day, looking so lovely in your dress, a gentle, loving smile gracing your lips as you looked at him with such adoration. He never let the flowers at your alter wither, changing out the water daily and the flowers every week, trying to pick out ones you would have liked, while keeping it mixed up so you wouldn’t become bored with the same thing every week. He would light incense twice a day, in the morning, before he left the house, and in the evenings, while he ate dinner, so you in a sense would still be there, eating with him. It was always one of your favorite scents, he knew you well enough to know, what scented lotions or shampoos you would choose, which candles and waxes you always gravitated towards. It was nice and reminded him of the times where he would get to smell the sweet scents every time you walked past him, the air carrying it faintly to his nose. He would leave your favorite buns and candies on the alter, never going too long without changing them out for something fresh, he didn’t ever want you to have something stale.

He started back at his hero work, and applied at several hero training high schools, and was surprised when his former school, UA accepted his application and hired him on for the next school year. 

It was September when he opened the next letter, it had been 4 months now since you left, and he was walking along the sidewalk of a riverbank, like the two of you often did in high school. He saw couples that looked like the two of you did back then, youthful and full of spirit and hope, he tried not to feel envious of the teenagers, though it was hard . He trained his weary eyes forward, and paused for a moment, and how beautiful the sunset was that evening. He wondered to himself if there were any sunsets as beautiful as this in the days that he walked home with you, that he never noticed because the most beautiful thing in the whole world walked right next to him, and everything else just paled in comparison. He hoped the teenage couples he saw earlier also noticed how spectacular the sunset in front of them way, and that they were grateful to see such a beautiful thing with one another. He headed home, to read his letter.

Open when:  You see a beautiful sunset

Hi Honey,

I’ve seen a lot of people say, when they pass, look for them in the sunsets, that they will paint an especially beautiful one for all that miss them. Please don’t look for me in the sunsets, Shouta, I don’t think that’s where I’ll be waiting for you. I’m not entirely sure where you may find me hidden, my love, so you better keep your eyes peeled. I wish I was there though, to see another beautiful sunset with you, so admire them twice as much, once for you, once for me. 

Maybe I’ll be one of those cool mantises, 

Your lovely wife.

Bemused, Shouta thought back to your class 1A mountain training camp.

~ You had wandered off while most of the group cleaned the used dishes, having already helped by being one of two to cook their dinner. He had just started to wonder where you had gone off to as your group was wrapping up cleaning the dishes, when you came practically prancing back into the clearing and towards your friends, something gleaming in your hands.

“Look! Look at what I caught!” you brandished off your daring find, an impressively large rhinoceros beetle. Some of the group around you screamed, the loudest of them all being Yamada Hizashi, an ear-splitting shriek escaping his lips as he jumped back from the creature and its captor. You giggled slightly but apologized to the blond, it wasn’t your intention to scare him, this was just a really cool beetle. He had a sour look on his face as he shakily nodded at you before backing away slowly, not turning to face the building he was going towards until he was 50 meters away from you, what he deemed to be safe. You looked after him with a face of mixed emotions, feeling bad for scaring him, and bummed he didn’t think your bug was cool. Shouta stepped next to you, getting your attention and distracting you from the disappearing figure of the angry Hizashi. 

“Do you know what kind of beetle it is?” he had asked you, trying his best to seem genuinely curious, he was, but he knew he wasn’t always the best at showing it. Your expression quickly changed as you smiled at the ebony haired boy, launching into maybe one too many bug facts about your interesting find. He didn’t mind though, that was one of the moments he fell for you a little more. ~

P.S. Some large species of mantis in captivity can live up to two years! It’s crazy to think how short their lives are to ours, but to them it is their entire existence. I think though, I would be okay even being a Karner Blue butterfly, which lives for only five days, if those five days I got to spend with you, flying around in a field warmed by the summer sun. 

Shouta put down the letter, and raised his eyes, just in time to see the last slivers of light disappear from the horizon, the beautiful sunset having lived its course and gone, making way for a warm summer night, the singing of cicadas fading with the light.

Time seemed to continue its endless march on into the future, in spite of anyone who begged it to slow, to pause just a moment, and let someone gather themselves, put themselves together just a bit more, just a bit better. And soon it was Aizawa Shouta’s 26th birthday, and the first birthday in over a decade that he would have to spend without you, and your warm little parties and cute cakes you would bake. 

Hizashi came and picked him up, insisting that you wouldn’t want Shouta to stay home, all alone, on his birthday. The two of them headed into the social district of town, and into a popular bar for heroes and sidekicks. Shouta nursed on two beers through the night as he watched his friend mingle with the crowd, though never straying too far away from the birthday boy sitting at the bar. At the end of the night, the dark eyed man had a slight buzz to him, his chest holding more heat than normal, but he wasn’t near drunk, he couldn’t say the same thing about his green-eyed friend though, whose face was flushed and words slurring together in jumbled nonsense. Shouta put Hizashi’s arm over his shoulders as he led them out of the bar, the arm heavy with intoxication and non-compliance.

“Nooooo,” the blond groaned as they the street the bar resided on, “comonnnnnn Shouta, te nightstill youg,” he broke away, and spun on the heel of his toe, twisting under the city lights in the nearly deserted street.

Shouta sighed, “yes, but we’re getting olddddd,” he drew out the last syllable of his last word, in lighthearted mockery of his inebriated friend, he beckoned towards where he stood safely on the sidewalk “come on I’d like to get home now.”

The blond looked at him, with what must to have been his attempt at puppy eyes, “but I don’t want you to be all alone tonight.”

“I won’t be alone tonight,” he mused, “she’ll be there too, in spirit at least, but,” he paused and looked at his heavily drunk friend, “I’ll let you crash on the couch if you promise to not throw up in or on anything.”

Hizashi grinned at Shouta, “mkayyyy,” and started his way off in the direction he thought was your home, only to have Shouta grasp him by the shoulder and turn him a sharp 90 degrees, “wrong way” he chided, Hizashi nodded and parroted his friend “wrong way.”

The second they passed the threshold into your home, Hizashi passed out, leaving his poor friend to pry off his shoes, and drag him to the couch, where he unceremoniously tossed him. He went into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water and sipped while looking at the snoring man on his couch. Pursing his lips, he begrudgingly filled another glass and set it on the coffee table, along with an aspirin, before leaving the ground floor of his home and heading up to his bedroom. He caught himself in his thinking. Was this the first time he had thought of it not as a shared yours but now only his? A wave of guilt washed over him, he didn’t want that kind of thinking to come, he didn’t ever want to stop thinking about you, about your lingering presence in his life. He swallowed, hard, he was a bit too tipsy to be thinking about those kinds of things, he could think about it later, in the morning. The pounding headache he knew he would have might be a suitable punishment for his straying thoughts he decided. It was time to open the letter.

He had saved it for the end of his day, wanting the last bits of his thoughts to be on you, maybe it was partly saving the best, and most painful, for last. The letter just being another form of him having to accept that you weren't here to wish him well. 

Open when: You turn 26.

This letter felt bulkier than the ones he had read before, and when he carefully with hands of practice, though he wished they weren't, opened the letter, he saw three 1000 yen notes, with a small sticky note attached to them. The sticky note read ‘getcha self sumthin nice ;)’. He moved on to the letter.

Happy birthday my love!

He smiled, his eyes already starting to tear. 

You’re 26 now, do you feel any different? Are your bones starting to hurt? Does the rain make your joints act up yet? You know that’s coming up, it’ll be here before you notice. I hope you’re making the best of the time you have before that, though I also hope you make the best of the time you have during and after that as well. Do you like your present? I would have gotten you something better but there’s not much that you can fit into an envelope, besides paper, though at least it’s paper with monetary value! I know! I’ve truly outdone myself! You’re probably going “ohhhh y/n, you know me so well, this colorful paper with a dude on it is just the thing I wanted!”

I’m sorry I’m not there Sho, to spend it with you, I wish I was. I hope it’s not too painful without me, I hope you have a good time on your birthday, maybe go out, have dinner with out friends. I don’t want you to be alone my love.

Sincerely, truly, one hundred percent without a doubt, 

The world’s best gift giver, aka, your y/n. 

The was a soft drip, the sound of water hitting paper, before he realized he was crying. He folded the letter and returned it to its envelope, not wanting to mess it up further, as he cried to himself. He reached out and found the small stuffed animal he had come to rely on in your absence, and pushed his face into the plush of its body, inhaling, trying to calm down. But the thing had long lost your scent, and now, to him, it smelt of nothing at all. 

He fell asleep that night, clasping onto the stuffed creature as if it were his only lifeline, the image of him sleeping reminiscent of not too far in the past, when he had just lost you. 

Time marched ever onwards.

It was 4 days before Christmas when the first snow of the season came. Everyone was joyous and hoping it would last until the romantic holiday, wishing for a white Christmas. Shouta was out on patrol, in the late evening, when it started, getting to witness it along with those going home, from an extra-long days work, from the packed bars in the city, from cram schools as they study for the upcoming finals. He was alone though, crouching on top of a midrise as his eyes scanned back alleys, searching for darting shadowy figures, considering the white flurries only a hindrance as they obscured more and more of his vision, until it became clear that he would no longer be able to stalk his prey with his vision blocked out in the sheets of icy precipitation. His breath fogged the air as he sighed angrily, not wanting to let them get away but not being able to stop the forces of nature, though how he wished he was bend them to his will just this one time.

He decided to go home, that he was ill prepared for this and could try again tomorrow, in warmer clothes and more suitable gear. 

When he arrived home, after he had unburden himself from his gear, past when he padded into the kitchen and set a kettle on the stove to boil, only when he sat down in your chair, a warm mug of fresh coffee in his callused hands, one sugar, no cream, did he look out the window, and see, really see the snow. 

Open when: It snows.

There was no dear Shouta, my love or honey to open this letter. 

Do you remember, our third year of high school, during winter break, that night we stayed out under the stars and snow? I can see it so vividly even now, I think that hast to have been the night I fell in love with you, though of course I didn’t say it then. His Purple Highness had us out patrolling by ourselves, truly by ourselves, no senior heroes notified that we were out without a supervisor on the same streets or back at headquarters, a taste of freedom that we would soon know every day. We started just as the sun had started to set, heading out, our winter costumes to keep us toasty. It wasn’t really boring, but it was mundane, as we strolled around the streets, keeping a look out for any shady behavior. 4 hours in, just before 9pm, you stopped in front of a cafe that was getting ready to close. I didn’t notice you had stopped until I was 10 meters ahead, and you hadn’t noticed that I continued on, because you were staring inwards. I walked halfway back and called out your name, you turned your head, surprised that I was so far away and not directly next to you. You pointed inside and made a drinking motion with your hand. I protested, Shouta we’re on the job right now, and you smiled at me, nose glowing red in the yellow light let out from the homey shop, its fine, you insisted, they won’t know what we don’t tell them. And you took me by the hand and pushed into the cafe. You already knew my order, which surprised me, I didn’t think you were the type to notice and remember those kinds of things, but it filled my stomach with a swarm of butterflies that threatened to come up my throat. We sat at a little table by the window while we waited for our order to be ready, you wrapping both your hands around mine, rubbing and blowing hot air on my frozen fingers, wordlessly. I thought I was going to barf butterflies. Our orders were ready before I knew it, and I didn’t want them to be, I wish they had taken longer to make those little coffees. We left the warm haven of the shop and went back into the cold night. You told me to hold my drink with both hands, I blushed and asked you, did you want to get coffee just so I had something warm to hold? Your face flushed and you looked out, away from me and towards the street. A car passed by as you answered, I almost didn’t hear, but you told me yes. 

~He remembered the embarrassment of being called out, but also pride, that you had noticed, and were happy about his little gestures. He couldn’t hold your hand while the two of you patrolled, and even your winter costume had forgone gloves, so he had watched as the night grew longer, the color of your fingers redden. He watched you occasionally rubbing them together, blowing into them, or scrunching them absentmindedly, trying to keep them warm while unaware of your actions, but he was aware.~

The rest of the night wasn’t eventful, except when we stopped that guy robbing a corner store, though we took him out pretty quickly. The cashier was so thankful that she gave us those little handwarmers while we waited for the police to come pick up the attempted robber. I was so happy that she gave us those because my fingers were returning to their freezing temperature and all the cafes were long closed. After that day though, I started finding handwarmers like those in the pockets of my school bag, in my shoe locker, in my jacket. I knew it was you, by the way, I never told you that. Thank you for thinking of me always, my love. We got off at 1 am, we had ended our patrol by a park, and even though most of the city was dark, and even though I’m sure you were cold and tired and hungry, when I suggested we play in the snow, you bent down, I thought you were ignoring me and tying your shoe, and I turned around with a sigh, that was until I felt the cold splat of a snowball on the small of my back! I whipped around and you were grinning, bearing all your teeth, the look in your eye, if I wasn’t so determined to get back at you, I would have been swooning, at least I still was internally. 

~You quickly bent down and mashed snow together into a messy ball before you launched it at him, trying to wipe that grin off his face before he noticed your blush. The two of you launched into an all-out snow war. Shouta had the upper hand in the beginning, as he had made several quick balls before he launched his first attack at your unsuspecting back, but you rapidly leveled the playing field. ~

He couldn’t remember now who had won that night. That didn’t really matter though, because he could still remember the wide grin that made his heart, even to this day, do backflips.

We played in the snow like we were little again, until we gave out, and lay on our backs next to one another, and looked to the sky, watching as the flakes slowly drifted down from dark gray clouds. Your cold hand, with fingers stiff from snow, reached out and grasped my cold hand, and squeezed. Both of us were still panting hard from all the fun we had had. As we laid there, hand in hand, I thought to myself, I love him. I think that’s the same moment I decided I was never going to let you go. There’s not really a moral to this story, besides me telling you the night I realized I loved you, I think I just want to remind you of happy things, the snow can feel kind of depressing now that we’re older, if we don’t look at it through the right eyes. So, look at it through the eyes of the Shouta who threw a snowball at my back. 

The definite winner of that snowball fight, 

Your love, Y/n.

*shrines used for the deceased in homes, originally of Buddhist origin but now used non-denominationally as well.

there may be a part 3? i was planning on doing all of the letters (excluding the birthdays) that i listed, but it kept getting longer and longer. let me know if you would like a part 3, i think if even 1 person asked me, i would write it lol

[eyerealm]

What's your process with picking colors for an art piece? :0 your color choice is super unique

Thank you for the compliment and question

That definitely is a hard question, because a lot of things in my art is purely intuitive

I think i tend to try to make things look like theyre "glowing"

(I think i picked this up from splatoon)..

I generally pair duller or darker colors with very bright saturated ones for this sort of effect. I also enjoy things being very rainbowy, and i just pick whichever colors my brain wants me to (I think it works faster than i can comprehend). I know a  lot of things in my art dont make sense, but i want them to not make sense, at least in my more abstract art

But if i were to analyse it, ill try to explain..

Heres my most recent piece...

I was struggling with picking the colors a bit in the earlier stages of this drawing...

I thought of two options, both had some tone curve + effect on the layer with it that i then erased to leave the parts that would be lit up

The layers with her clothes details was higher than the tone curve layer so they stayed clear and bright. I was leaning to the second option but it felt too dull and green for my liking..

I merged most layers and just went with it, adding more sarurated colors

I usually do this, i dont want to keep too many layers seperate because it gets too complicated and it feels like i cant completely express myself. Merging it all/most of it makes it feel more free and i reccomend doing this at least sometimes..

Here you can see a little close up of her face with some explanation... I  i dont really know if this is helpful but still

Heres a little explanation for why i picked the colors for celestia like this

I also often want to show characters in an unusual way color wise. It makes drawing them more interesting. The colors a character is typically associated with doesnt define them, they can be any colors, duller or brighter, different hues etc. Thats what i often think of when i draw, and its fun to play around with. splatoon is a very good thing to draw for me because of this, since they constantly change their ink color..

I do play around with filters and tone curves and stuff a lot sometimes. Selecting specific things in a drawing and only applying filters to them, or to the whole picture, or using blending modes on brushes. It all helps me with getting to the final picture

But it almost always gets merged with the rest of the layers and the picture continues to develop with it all in one

I wish i knew how to properly put it all into words but i myself sometimes dont understand my process, i mostly do things because it just feels right, and everything is subjective, how do i explain what feels right to me, right.. i dont even know if any of this made sense. But well, art doesnt have to make sense