#its probably a line from prod but-

[hannahshoh]

“as a bb super fan, i know downgrade is a bad thing”

[carbonfiction]

Line to cross

Summary: When DBF!oldman!Logan catches you in a compromising position.. You should probably tell him to stop, should hold the fabric tigher in your fingers, be less calm, put up more of a fight.. He's your dads friend, a taboo line you really shouldnt want to cross..

Warnings?: 18+themes, basically PWP, smut, female masturbation, caught masturbating, mentions of dildos, swearing, nipple play, f!reciving oral, slightly forced orgasm? Tiny bit of overstim? Lotta Praise, nicknames (princess and babydoll mostly) , just oldman!Logan's mouth being a warning of its own really..

Gotta admit i wrote this with nothing more than horny brain. Old man logan just.. Hits the spot yk.. Pun not fully intented..

Masterlist words: just under 2.5k

"Now.. What do we have here?" Logan rumbles as he stands heavy against your doorway, arms crossed with a smirk tugging at his lips.

You shriek and scramble, like ice water has been pushed through your veins, rushing to cover yourself from his gaze. Practically naked and beyond mortified as you stutter biwildered whilst trying to tug your top back over your breasts. “w-what the fuck are you doing?! How long have you been stood there?”

“..what am I doing? I think I should be the one asking you that, princess.”

He ignores the second part of your question and you feel yourself try to shrink to no avail, so you repete; voice breathlessly unsteady and not quite sure if you truly want the answer. “How fucking long Logan..”

there’s bite to your tone but not in the way you’d like, it comes out less aggressive and more meek; unsure and utterly mortified

“long enough” Logan simply shrugs, notchulantly stepping forward into the expanse of your room, clicking the door shut behind him. “wasn’t exactly planning on dropping in, figured you were out.. but then I heard you from downstairs, called my name sounded desperate.. so I assumed something was wrong..” he trails off with a motion of his hands.

Shame swirls In your gut that you hadn’t only been thinking of him, but had fucking moaned out his name..and done so loud enough that (even without his hightend senses) he’d heard you.

“looks like i was the one wrong. Hadn't expected to come up here and see daddies little angel fuckin herself stupid on some plastic cock.”

“W-wasn’t, Logan i-“ it’s a futile defense, pointless really considering what you think he’s seen of you.

“You weren’t what hm? Weren't whimpering my name? Weren't splitting that pretty pussy open to the though of me, trying to make yourself feel good?" Logans hand laces with yours, as he bares down on the matress to sit, a calloused thumb ghosting over your knuckles in an attempt at comfort despite the mockery of his tone. "S’okay princess, don’t have to hide it”

heat spreads from the tips of your ears down your neck, darkening the already hot flush of your cheeks. “Logan I- I swear I didn’t mean-“

“Didnt mean what? To fuck yourself stupid or for me to catch you? Cause babydoll it looks like you failed at both”

A sound bubbles from your throat at that. shame, embarrassment, horror, arousal.. All knotting together in a potent mix deep in your stomach.

Your legs subconsciously close tighter under the thin sheet, a move that doesn't go unnoticed under logans perception.

its also a move that further jostles the dildo still tucked inside you, the blunt head prodding against a spot that has your eyes rolling before you can stop them.

You whimper a panicked little sound at the humiliation; at the lack of friction, the pleasure still festering in your gut. The words that fall so mockingly from logans lips.

He doesnt need his senses to feel the shameful arousal that radiates from your haistily hidden body and it has him huffing in amusement; whilst you scold yourself further for not removing the toy in your panic.

"Cmon, open up.. let me help" he murmurs, his large free hand grasping and pulling at the blanket covering you. It slips down further, covering only your waist- You should probably tell him to stop, should hold the fabric tigher in your fingers, be less calm, put up more of a fight.. He's your dads friend, a taboo line you really shouldnt want to cross..

And yet, you do. You want- need- to cross it with carelessness; with arousal burning your skin inside out.

You let him slip the fabric down past your hips. Past your clenched thighs, your knees, ankles. Until it sits in a discarded heap at the end of your bed.

Its the cool air of the room paired with the feeling of his calloused palm snaking its way back up your left leg that rouses you. "B-but logan, my dad is-"

"-Is gone. work called." he interups, his fingers kneading at the soft skin of your outer thigh. "Trust me s’okay.. S' just us. Me 'n you babydoll."

And with that said, a small reassured nod shaking your frame, his large hands pry your legs appart. Your body shuffles with his following, right leg coming to sit over the broad expance of his shirt clad shoulder, the bed creaking under the weight.

A scratchy kiss is planted just above each of your knees, logans beard rubbing as he shifts with you, coming to rest between your thighs.

The sounds of your heavy breath is the only thing filling the room until logan groans, deep and loud at the sight of your bare pussy still stuffed full of the the toy. "Fuckin lookatcha, already drooling.. such a needy little thing”

You keen at the feeling of his heavy hands touching your body, one sitting heavy on your lower stomach and the other resting against the base of the toy, careful not to move it just yet. You can tell by the way hes looking at you he's taking in the sight of your slick stuffed cunt.

"Want ya to show me what feels good, how you like to be touched.. show me what you were doin before i caught you" his words are quiet, mumbled against your thigh, yet demanding as his eyes find yours for that extra confirmation.

Your head moves in a nod but he tuts disapproving at the action. "Words princess, need ya to use em okay?"

"Y-yeah.. okay"

Wordlessly your hands drift back to your top, slipping it back to rest just below your collar bones, nipples perky and sensitive. It draws an exhale from your body as one hand comes up to your mouth, spit covering two fingers as you suck at them.

Once sufficiently wet they slip back against your left nipple, slick and shiney as you circle teasingly at the bud while your free hand gropes at the flesh on the other side, before moving to mirror the movements on the right. this time palm fondling against the swell of the left.

Your eyes fall closed at the sensations, quiet sounds falling from your lips; steady yet shy. Logan simply watches on, silent and enamored with every move you make.

Then your hand drifts once more, down your tummy and over the hand of his resting there, your touch soft and warm.

Theres a breathy sigh as you wrap your fingers around his on the base of the dildo as you push and pull back and forth. Alternating between the feeling of the silicon balls deep and the tip sitting bearly inside until it slips out with a thoroughly wet pop.

It's this time however logan cant muffle his groans at the sight; of you dragging his hand with the toy cock up and down your dripping slit. It further hardens his own cock sitting behind the denim of his jeans.

Logan lets go under your grip, using it to push your legs open wider as you slide the toy back inside; maintaining a steady pace. palm hitting your swolen clit with the force of your own thrusts. It feels good, fucking yourself like this with his eyes hungrily on you. It has you whining and keening, small uh uh uhs the longer you play but its not enough, not really.

Not when logan is laying between your legs with the knowledge of how to really get you off.

"L-logan, please.. Cant.. Doesnt feel as good myself" you huff and whine sounding akin to a petulant child not getting what she wants.. But in a cruel way you find thats true; while you aren't anywhere near a child anymore, you aren't getting what you really want.

The heavy hand that rests on your tummy moves down, until Logan's thumb presses on the hood of your clit. He tugs the swollen flesh back carefully and then smirks. He spits and you gasp. Yet he makes no moves, just watches it dribble down.

It has the need burning inside of you igniting further and under his touch you find any past embarrassment dissipating.

So you plead again, feeble and quiet, almost defeated. "P-please do something.. Need you to do it." you beg for the smallest movements, for anything he's willing to give.

And to your surprise... He does just that. He gives. The hand that opened your legs moving to shove away the fingers that wrap around the end of the silicon. Its done with an indignant shush when you whine; the dildo once again moving back and forth against your gummy walls. "Shh shh, s'okay I'll do it, you wanna fuck a plastic cock you've gotta at least do it properly princess”

The room fills with wet plap, plap, plaps, as logan keeps his quickened pace. Thrusting the toy steady as his eyes watch each motion hungrily.

"F-feels good.." you mumble squeezing at the meat of your tits, a hand coming down your stomach until it wraps tight around his thick forearm. Your nails dig in and he grunts at the sting of the crescent shapes denting his marred skin, but his movements never faulter.

Your eyes flutter and roll once more at a full thrust. The blunted bulbous tip prodding experimentally at that one spot again; slick and sticky silicone balls pressed flush against your ass as your hips try to buck for friction.

“ooh, there. we. go." logan huffs against your trembling thigh atop his shoulder, punctuating his words with three rougher thrusts. plunging the silicone dildo so deep you swear you feel it in your belly. "that’s the spot huh baby”

"M-mhm.. Close" You mumble through quiet moans. nodding quickly, lip bitten beneath your teeth as the pleasure builds faster and faster. Theres a tremble in your legs that grows the longer your body keens; back arching and hips writhing.

A condecenting chuckle slips from logan, dark and deep as he somehow manages to plunge the dildo faster and harder inside you.

The force makes your body jolt up the bed and you dont know if your scrambling towards or away from whats happening between your thighs. But you do find yourself greatful as your head hits the soft pillows; It happens the very same moment logans thumb finally, finally begins circling the pulsing bud of your clit.

Mindlessly you cry out, fingers pressing harder into your breast and logans forearm. "S-so close.. pleasepleaseplease"

His thumb moves faster, the rough pad slick and wet as you throb beneath his touch. Your body writhes as you moan out obscenities, the pleasure filled coil in your belly twisting tighter with every second that passes.

"Need you to do it babydoll, need to see you make a mess f'me." he growls, commanding.

Moments later you do just that. You cum with a such a visceral sob of his name that it wracks the entirety of your body; head thrown to the pillows and back arched so high it almost looks painful. White hot pleasure running through your veins as your stomach muscles heave.

Yet logan doesnt stop, doesnt let up his movements with his thumb or the now soaking toy cock, thrusting it with loud lewd noises of your cunt as it coats creamy with your release.

He simply coos out concoctions of praise; versions of 'that's it, Atta girl' and 'look so pretty when you cum' with his head pressed against your trembling thigh. Eyes dark and watching the way your slickend holes greadily clench.

He's hard, painfully so, but he knows this is a sight that he'll dream about later; his own slick cock in hand in the confines of his bedroom.

Overstimulation quickly threads its way into what was once overwhelming pleasure, turning the shocks into sparks. You writhe and moan under his hands, begging desperately as your hips buck frantic. "L-logan.. Im done- f-fuck s' too much, too much!"

"Ah ah" he tuts. "Your done when i say your done, need'a see you gush one more time" your eyes roll at that, the stimulation and the way his chapped lips press the words into your pubic bone.

Your eyes screw shut, brows furrowed as you struggle though the pain that with each movement winds your belly tighter. By now tears stream down your cheeks, hands grasping tight to anywhere you can reach of him; To push him away or pull him closer you still dont know.

The rubbing of his thumb on your pulsing clit ceases monetarily at the broken sounds you make and for a second you think hes letting up, going easy on you.

However the feeling of his hot mouth wrapping around the sensitive bud changes your mind. You squeal, loud and panicked, eyes flying open as your legs desperately try to shut around his head.

"N-nno no no" desperate hiccuped sobs falling from you as he laps and sucks, dildo still pushing into you, drawing you to the very edge of the burning pleasure pain in your gut.

"Do it princess, fuckin do it. Know you wanna" he mumbles wetly into your weeping pussy, tongue flicking in quick back and forths.

Your hips thump at his nose, coating the greying in his beard as you cum again. It's filled with a pain that drives the feeling of orgasm higher. your scream is silent, mouth opening and closing in wordless 'o' motions, brain so clouded your words fail.

The motions of the his mouth and the dildo slow until Logan's pulling off you. The sensitivity drawing a whine from your throat, while the the creamy coated sight of the silicone makes him groan loudly as he throw it somewhere on the bed.

For a while you lie there completely boneless, panting as your legs continue to tremble with the aftershocks, logan still resting between your thighs cooing softly. Hardly noticing the way he shuffles his way up your body until his spit soaked lips find your forehead.

"Good girl.. My good girl, Did so good f'me babydoll" he murmers softly against your skin between kisses, a contrast to his previous domineering tone.

You feel him gather your frame into him, the buttons of his shirt pressing into your skin as he lifts you from the bed bridal style. You smile up at him gently, meeting his gaze as your lashes flutter sleepily. His scent comforting as you wrap your arms around his neck, snuggling your head deeper into his chest; trying to burrow your own space inside.

His quiet chuckle is felt before you hear it, rumbing deep from his lungs as he pulls you tigher to him; heading for the bathroom. "Cute babydoll.. Real cute"

you whine at that, an exhausted but happy little sound as he leans his head down to kiss your hair before mumbling "lets getcha cleaned up hm? Ill take care of the sheets"

Eee- this has gotta be one of my favorite pieces I've ever written!! Lemme know whatchu think!! 🫶

[rodolfoparras]

A Helping Hand (Or two, or three..)

Thinking about Somnophila with monster!reader, having your boyfriend dead asleep after a long work week, stripped naked and laying face down on the sheets, practically leaving his ass for your taking

God he looks so pretty like this, you think as you reach out with a tentacle to caress the exposed skin. Usually you’d try to keep your hands to yourself, not wanting to wake him up after such a long week but he looks absolutely delectable like this with the sheets only covering his upper half and laying in such position that would make it so easy for him to take your cock.

So you allow your tentacle to trace the bottom of his spine, hearing the hitch of his breath as the cold wet tentacle brushes right below his birth mark, and watching it leave a wet trail behind as it works its way to his thighs, the slim limb gingerly pulling his legs apart til all you can see is the puckered ring of muscles.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe out, feeling the blood pool to your lower half and you watch as your tentacle takes the liberty to go further with its touch.

Despite the cold wet feeling grazing his skin, he’s receptive as ever to it: fully allowing the wet sticky limb to cup his cheeks, letting it squeeze and grope the skin like his ass belongs to it, watching him buck his hips as the tentacle tugs and taunts his puckered him and hearing it pulling sweet sweet sweet sounds out of him.

You can’t help but be surprised at his reaction since you’ve never touched him like this before, let alone showed him your tentacles, fearing it would have him running out the door. However looking at him now he doesn’t seem to mind them at all.

For a moment you think that in his sleep induced state he must believe that it’s you, his boyfriend, touching him like this, that’s why he must be so comfortable with it but you can see the furrow in his brow, can hear the choked “who” “what” almost as if he’s still trying to comprehend who- what is touching him right now

While you’re lost in your thoughts the tentacle manages to line itself up with his puckered rim, the slimy limb teasingly circling his clenching hole before it starts to slowly sink inside him.

It’s wet enough to easily slink inside and a bit bigger than the size of your fingers or tongue but he takes it oh so easily, allows the tentacle to slowly stretch him out without much resistance.

It’s almost like it knows his body better than you do as it takes him apart bit by bit, prodding and poking at the wall of nervous and leaving him quaking on the sheet; slowly erasing the furrow in his brow and replacing it with a look of pleasure, and silencing any questions with long hard thrusts til he’s only able to only utter sounds of pleasure.

“Mpfh! Fuck! Sir please!” He blabbers out and you can only watch in surprise as your boyfriend addresses you- it by a title you’ve never heard him use before, seemingly uncaring about who or what is fucking him anymore, matter of fact he seems all too eager at the thought of it being someone else other than you.

It’s like his words seem to fuel it on as another tentacle spurts from your chest and buries itself deep inside of him.

This time a loud scream escapes the other man, and you watch him jerk on the mattress probably having been woken up from his deep slumber by now but he still keeps his head down, wildly panting into the mattress “huh- what-wh-”

He doesn’t manage to get another word out as both of the tentacles ram into him, the force of the thrusts sending him forward as another scream escapes his lips. “Fuck oh - oh fuck!”

You can only watch as the tentacles continue to ram into your boyfriend, obscene squelching sound mingle with his scream and you watch his hole practically gaping every time they momentarily slip out of him.

You’re only brought out your trance when you feel a third tentacle wrap itself around your poor weeping dick, the wet limb softly stroking you from rot to tip as you watch your boyfriend get fucked by the other two limbs.

Slowly but surely the man inches closer to the edge and you watch him practically humping the sheets as the tentacles continue to fuck him “fuck fuck fuck, going to cum-“ he manages to splutter out and just as the words leave his mouth you watch him freeze up before he cums,“oh- oh god”

You’re quick to follow along, cumming right on his ass, and watching the tentacles eagerly clean it up.

The man before you slumps back onto the sheets as the tentacles pull out of him, and by the soft snores escaping his lips you can tell he’s already asleep. The limbs are quick to retract to your chest and you spend a couple of moments catching your breath.

Once he’s back to conscious, he turns to you with a lazy smile on his voice, sounding raspy as ever when he says “I had the strangest dream babe”

[so-much-for-the-seashells]

ur writing is so yummy!! i had a rlly hot idea idk tho lol

Logan holding the reader in a headlock and absolutely ravaging them 🤤

YUMMY?? Anon this is a compliment that simply makes me want to be at your beck and call 😘 and that, my dear (gn), is a very hot idea indeed. Thank you for the ask!! I’m sorry it took me like five years to finish it 😅 (also, its not the best, I’m sorry for that too 😭) but like life is… 😀😀💪💪💀💀

Anyways.

Minors, do NOT interact.

-ps: imagine any Logan you’d like! Also, comments are highly appreciated!! Beyond that, if you have a request of your own, please fire away!

Warnings: erm, I think the request has that one covered- but smut, piv, mentions of multiple positions, overstimulation, dirty talk, slight degrading?, sweet!logan even though he’s very rough, safe words. Afab reader.

————————————————————————

As far as sex with you went, Logan had one very important rule for himself: “don’t be rough.”

For as much as a part of him wanted bend your cute little self over a table and fuck you senseless until you had nothing on your mind other than his name, he knew he shouldn’t. He was worried he would break you. Genuinely worried. After all, it might be fun in the moment but the bruises from his adamantium skeleton? You probably wouldn’t be able to sit right or walk right for a week, and that’s not an exaggeration.

That’s not to say that the sex isn’t already fantastic. He’ll thrust into you with slow yet powerful thrusts that leave you shaking with every orgasm. He’ll put you in strenuous positions- time to join up with yoga!- and set every single nerve ending on fire.

But like him, you couldn’t help but want to see him let the animal out. You’d been having wet dreams about it recently, begging him to be rough with you.

Eventually he gave in, saying that this was to be a one time thing. This took SO much convincing, and it had to be on a night where you both had nowhere to be for the next couple days. Once that was settled, he finally, begrudgingly said ok, telling you that you would have to tell him to stop if you needed to. You agreed, and that’s how you landed in your bed, already on your third orgasm simply from him roughly stretching you out with his fingers and tongue.

God does he love the way your face screws up into that pleasure filled smile with your eyes closed tight. The way your head nestles into the pillows as you try to get away from him, not because you don’t like but because it just feels too good.

“L-Logan,” you whine, clutching at his hair. He groans into your cunt at the tugging, not relenting. Your legs have been quivering since your second orgasm, and show no signs of stopping.

“Gotta get you ready for me, sweetheart. Said you wanted it rough,” he mutters, before moving away from you and settling on top of you. You whine at the loss of contact even though you’re extremely excited for what’s to come.

“You know your safe word, right?” his eyes are black with lush. You nod. “Can you tell it to me, baby?” he prods. You oblige.

“Good girl,” he mutters, stroking himself a few times before lining up with your entrance. “My good girl.”

You’re positively soaked, so it’s no surprise that Logan’s able to slip in without any resistance, immediately hitting the deepest parts inside of you. You moan loudly, already on cloud nine.

“You like that, sweet girl? Well you ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” he smirks, and that’s the last thing he says before pulling out all the way and slamming back into you, making you yelp his name with delight.

He takes you so many ways- missionary, doggy, mating press, screwdriver, the works, until finally…

He wrestles you so that your back is against his broad chest, his cock splitting you from behind as you’re forced to look in the mirror. And then one of his beautiful, muscular arms flexes, forcing you in a headlock for support but all it does is pour gasoline on the flame of pleasure he had been stoking within you.

“I love your arms, Logan,” you tell him stupidly as he thrusts up into you. You couldn’t even tell how many times you or he had come, and you’re so out of it that you can barely register your mixed releases seeping out of your tight hole.

“I know you do,” he teases through a grunt. “I seen you looking at them all the time. Thought you might like this.”

It’s the fact that he actually thinks about what you might like before doing it that makes you come yet again, and he chucked, holding you close but his pace unfaltering.

“Makin’ so many messes, dolly. That good?” he says right in your ear before nipping at its lobe.

“Yes,” you cry, overstimulated but feeling as though you’re on cloud nine.

You see your fucked out self in the mirror, but you’re far more focused on Logan. Logan who’s face is scrunched up with determination, his jaw clenched as he brings your hips down to meet his every thrust. Logan, who’s cock is visibly stretching you open with every single hard, fast, deep thrust.

It gets to the point where you don’t think you can take it anymore because it just feels too good. Your head is lulling against his chest, relying on his arm to support it. A dumb, fucked out smile rests on it. But then he starts rubbing in your puffy clit, and you cry. “Logannnn I can’t- I- it’s too much,” you pout, but he just chuckles right into your ear.

“Whats the matter? You been begging for this for so long and now you can’t take it? Poor baby,” he coos mockingly, his pace never faltering.

“Logan!” you whine, clenching on him as hard as you can. He grunts.

“You need your safe word, baby?”

“No!”

“Then shut the fuck up and take it,” he scolds, somehow maneuvering you so that you’re on your hands and knees, his arm still around your neck as he snaps his hips against your. You think your legs are going to give out, but you don’t care because it just feels too good. You’re whining his name over and over again, your cheek smug against his strong arm as he abuses your cunt.

“We should do this more often, huh? Let me fuck into you like you’re a dirty whore,” he grins, impossibly picking up the pace. You clench at his words. “You really are a slut for me, huh, baby?”

“Yes!” you gasp, your eyes screwing shut as he brings you to the edge again. You’re past the point of overstimulation, your limp body unable to fight back as he bruises your hips with his own.

“Good girl,” he praises, making you whimper again by pressing his fingers to your pathetic clit. He expertly maneuvers his deft fingers against it, and you cry, unable to keep the tears of pleasure at bay any more. He tuts, speeding up his pace in response and all you can do is lie back and take it, powerless to say or do anything. A few minute more and you come again with a weak groan, your legs fully numb. He follows suit, finishing and stilling inside of you.

“You okay, sweets?” he asks after taking a moment to catch his breath. Your brain is still fuzzy, your body limp against his. You’re barely conscious enough to register the soreness between your legs, much less his rumbled words.

“Baby?” he asks, obviously concerned.

“Mmm,” you acknowledge him. Tears are still slipping from your eyes, residuals from how good he was making you feel.

“There she is,” you can all but feel his smile. He slips out of you and you whine, your cunt weeping for him, leaking what is definitely too much cum.

“What a gorgeous sight,” he meets your eyes in the mirror in front of your bed.

“Mhm,” you agree. He moves to stand, knowing that you need to rest, but naturally you pout as he gets off of the bed. “Need to get you cleaned up, sweet girl,” he says gently, brushing your sweaty hair off of your forehead.

“Kiss?” you ask sweetly, your watery eyes impossible to say no to.

“Where d’you want a kiss?” he teases, kissing your forehead. “Here?” You pout, tilting your head up toward his lips. “Oh, I see. Here?” he kisses your nose. You make an annoyed noise, and he takes pity on you. “Ohh, here,” he says, kissing you sweetly on the lips.

Because even though Logan has that power to be rough, when he loves on you, it’ll always be sweet.

[dimmadoome]

Listening to Zevlor's voice lines all the way through is so interesting....and enlightening. Because this is a proud man whose confidence in himself is shattered, but he's still proud none the less.

Zevlor threatens you if you punch him. Just straight out says, I WILL kill you if you do that again. He punches Aradin if he spews slurs. He asks you to kill khaga, he asks you to kill the goblin leaders. No hesitation on any of that. Just ..hey buddy you wanna do a couple of murders since I am currently incapable of doing those murders. But he also fights if you ask him to, defends his people through everything. And he won't beg you to do any of that yourself if you reject him. If you don't say yes, he respects it and respects your decision...though he does get snippy as hell about it. If you do turn on him, he'll call you a coward, but he will not beg because once again. Zevlor is proud.

Zevlor is also possessive. You can hear it in the way he says MY people. Sure that could just be the way he speaks because they elected him leader, but he was a commander before that. He was a man who spent his life fighting to have that position of power and respect. Plus he almost sells his soul to the absolute to keep them, both the people and the power. As he says....those people are HIS. His to look after, his to care for his to protect. There's gotta be something in there, deep inside of him that clutches at these people like a dragon does their gold. They are his after all. They're all he has left of the life he once lived. He would rather die than give them up to anyone. Even when the absolute pushes into his mind, it offers him power to keep them safe, plays at his devotion to his oath and his people....and his pride which.....as we've established...is not an insignificant part of him.

He is also protective and caring. That obviously comes with the territory of becoming a paladin of helm, a hellrider and taking the oath of devotion. From what he does for his people to what he's done with his life ...well.....nothing more really needs to be said about that. Its his most prevalent trait and his most commendable.

Zevlor also curses a lot. He is very quick to anger, though he tries to keep himself from flying off the handle and can be reeled back in. He still throws punches and threatens lives with very little prodding. Which, once again, harkens back to his pride. Its quite entertaining to hear every other line be a curse or a shout or some growling threat. Sweetheart where? That man is FERAL.

Another thing is that Zevlor definitely respects you if you are a selfless Tav/Durge/Origin. I think he tries so hard to be selfless as well. Sees it as a good trait to have, but he isn't. Not really. Not where he thinks it counts. Its probably what he percieves as a fatal flaw, which I would guess comes from living in holier than thou Elturel where you basically sign your life away to "protect" the city. I personally don't think total selflessness is a fantastic trait to have, but I could see where Zevlor could pick that up as the Ideal trait for a paladin to have.

Throughout the game, you see this man crack under insurmountable pressure. You see the chips in the facade that he puts up but if you look, you can see the good and the bad trapped underneath those chips. It tends to be frustrating that people only see the cracks and not what's underneath of them and I think thats what annoys me the most. He's a fun character. He's a strong, powerful man who has shattered like iron under pressure but at the end of it all he IS a good man and a menace and a half with such an interesting mindset and backstory that I can't help but wonder if anyone who sees the character, sees him at all.

In summation.

I love him, Your Honor. 10/10 would let him go feral and smite my ass for talking back to him.

[shuastar]

ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ (JWW)

ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴋᴇ!ᴡᴏɴᴡᴏᴏ x ᴀʀᴄʜᴅᴜᴄʜᴇꜱꜱ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴡᴄ: 8.2k (swear it doesnt get any shorter....) ᴀ/ɴ: ᴏᴍɢ ɪ ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴀɪᴅ ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴀɢᴏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ㅠㅠ ᴀɴʏᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ 1ꜱᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ (ʟᴏɴɢ) ᴡᴏɴᴡᴏᴏ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ,,, ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ ᴘʟꜱ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ <3 ꜱᴏ ᴇxᴄɪᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴜɴɴɪɴ

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ ; ɴᴇxᴛ (ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2)

The honeyed spring air only proved to prod at your deep, growing, carnal fury at the scene in front of you. The wooden stilts of your fan dug further and further into the expensive lace of your thin sheer gloves, leaving bright red lines in its wake. As you stared at the traitorous scene in front of you, you felt as if your entire being was thrown into a wall. 

You should’ve known, really, that it was going to end like this. You should’ve known when the greasy money-tainted rat of your soon-to-be ex-fiance crawled out of his cave and to the royal palace, rubbing his hands together in faux prayer as he asked about your dowry. You were sure Seungcheol told him too – all fifteen million won of it. You could imagine how Lord Paree’s eyes would have seen the backs of his skull at the number — how he probably left the gilded royal palace in sheer bliss at the thought of receiving the monetary sum of three city estates just for a single marriage. Maggot, you thought, nails almost digging through the lace. Money-drunken parasite. 

A high-pitched dolphin giggle and a snap! of a fan slapped you out of your red-seeing stupor. 

Right. Yes. 

Dealing with (yet another) failed engagement was more important than the consequences that would follow. You could almost hear the concerned jabberings of Seungcheol, fur-wrapped on his stupid golden throne in the palace, as you stood in front of him. 

“Your highness, you aren’t married either,” you would point out, like you always do. 

Seungcheol would sigh and pout, “I know, y/n. That seems to be the problem.” Then, he would scan you up and down before clapping, jumping out of his throne and meandering his way down to where you were standing with a grin. “What kind of guardian,” he offered you his arm as he led you out of the throne room, “would I be if I got married before I saw you get married?” He pinched your cheek lightly, letting out a loud laugh at your severely disgruntled expression. “Don’t you agree, Duchess Park?” 

You would close your eyes with a long sigh, pretending like this conversation wasn’t one of Seungcheol’s only topics of interest since her debut into Society. “Of course, your highness,” you would mumble, muttering a few more colorful adjectives under your breath as you were led unwillingly to your fifth courtship date request of the month. 

If you knew then that your fourth engagement – in one and a half years, mind you – would end up shattered shambles yet again, you wouldn’t have even let Seungcheol drag you to the royal garden’s mezzanine for afternoon tea with that bastard in the first place. 

Really, you weren’t quite sure whether you were more angry at the fact that the idle-headed useless block of skin tissue or at the all gracious, ever-knowing royal highness for setting you two up together in a future cheating scandal. That was true. Yet fucking again. 

You were so tired of snatching the tea pot off of the wire-frame tables and throwing it at the girl (like it was the poor lady’s fault) before bitch-slapping your ex fiance with as much malice as you could muster at the time. Genuinely. You were so sick of walking into the next ball with no one by your side, save your secretary and personal guard, yet again. You were going to throw up if you heard your name with the words cheating, scandal, and shame in a Society gathering again. But most importantly, you were so sick of the look he would give you from across the ballroom and during your dances. 

“I heard about you and Lord Paree.” 

A step into a waltz.

“So has the rest of the fucking country, apparently.” 

A stifled cough let out due to your unexpectedly colorful language. 

“I wouldn’t say the entire nation, y/n.” 

“Hm, I fear I will have to disagree, your grace, as I heard even Duke Hong’s footmen murmur among themselves regarding my unfortunate turn of events.” 

A falter in his soft smile. 

“Forget him. I’ve always thought of him as an undeserving bastard anyways.”

You laugh, head thrown back – the most joyous you have been since last week. 

“Shall I be glad that you’ve thought so, your grace?” 

Wonwoo shrugs, twirling you around in tight circles. You feel almost lightheaded from his cologne, mingling in with the gentle puffs of breath from the waltz. 

“Think of it however you want,” he hums, dipping you ever so slightly against the sudden base of the cello. You swallow a surprised gasp as his hand, originally on your upper back, dips dangerously low – for a moment, sitting gently against the hem of your corset. 

The two of you come to a halt near the edge of the ballroom floor. You hate how you can feel a flush coming on the apples of your cheeks the longer Wonwoo stares at you, an odd mixture of pity and something else swimming in his eyes behind the metal-frame glasses. 

You bow, one hand on your chest. You know you don’t have to – he is of the same societal position as you. You know you don’t have to, but it feels almost second nature to go low into a curtsy of some kind in front of a man. 

“Thank you, your grace, for this dance,” you murmur, lifting your head back up. Wonwoo stays quiet for a good moment, before he blinks. 

“Find yourself another date for your second dance, yes? Someone better than that cheating bastard,” he hums. You think he’s about to reach for your gloved hand but his hands stay at his side – the only indicator of movement a slight twitch in his fingers. You force down your disappointment. 

Instead, you smile. There is nothing else for you to do, anyways. Seungcheol, although good of heart, would have another engagement for you lined up in no time. And with that, you would need to forget. Forgive and forget. You realize you’ve spent too much time in front of the Archduke’s son when you feel the presence of your guard behind you. 

“I will see you soon,” you greet, before you turn and leave. If you had stayed to hear his response, you feel like you would have stayed with Wonwoo for the entire night. And that was not very ladylike.

Wonwoo

“Wonwoo, one day you’re going to have to live for something else.” 

Seungcheol’s breaths came out in heaving pants as the two took a brief break from their sparring session in the royal palace’s courtyard. 

Wonwoo just raised a brow, wiping sweat off of his brow with his discarded shirt. “What do you mean by that, your majesty?” 

Seungcheol waved away the title. “Drop the pretense, friend. What I mean is,” Seungcheol dropped his empty water jug on the wooden bench, before bringing his sword up to his face, “one day you’re gonna realize you have more to live for than just this.” Seungcheol gestured vaguely towards the desolate sparring grounds. 

Wonwoo rolled his eyes, brushing dusts of sand off of his glinting blade. His fingers flexed on the leather grip. “I don’t live for just this, Coups. I know my responsibilities more than you think I do,” he sighed.

Seungcheol raised a questioning brow, stepping back into the sparring grounds with a twirl of his sword. “You sure?” his voice echoed, which was followed by unfamiliar click-clacks of a woman’s heels. Seungcheol cocked his head and grinned, canines showing, as he squatted down low, flicking his fingers at Wonwoo. “Then why are you asking to go out to fight? You might die.” 

Wonwoo cracked his neck before running at the young king, Their swords clashed in the middle of the sparring grounds, flickers of their manas bursting outwards. Smoky tendrils of black gravitated and fogged the ground near Wonwoo’s feet, curling themselves around his chest and slowly inching up his neck, before blending in with his hair. 

Wonwoo grunted in exertion, pushing Seungcheol back with the help of his mana. The king slammed into the back wall before landing back on his feet. Wonwoo stood over him, panting. Sweat dripped down his temples and his mana curled itself around his bare arms, against the contours of the muscles that laid there. 

“It is the only thing I am good for,” Wonwoo stated. His words came out soft, almost a whisper, as his hand stretched out towards Seungcheol. 

Seungcheol took a second more in his position, staring into Wonwoo’s despairing eyes. The dark browns looked more conflicted than Seungcheol had ever known. His own eyes darted towards the figure that stood in the opening archway of the courtyard. He could barely make out the face, under the layers of shadows, but he knew. He had called her here anyway. Not here as in the courtyard but here as in the palace. It was though, of course, purely coincidental that she had walked to the courtyard of her own volition. 

Seungcheol grasped Wonwoo’s hand, hauling himself off of the sandy ground. 

“You’re willing to leave your duchy? Your Society life?” Seungcheol stood in front of Wonwoo with his sword at his side. He gave the young archduke a knowing look. “Even the duchess?” 

Wonwoo stiffened at Seungcheol’s ending words, his hand stilling, hovering the tip of his sword at the entrance of its sheath. He swallowed. The sword dropped with a loud CLANG into its home in the sheath. He looked up at the king, who looked almost expectant. 

“Yes,” was his answer. He straightened, brushing sweaty strands of his black hair out of his eyes. “Yes, I am.” 

Before Seungcheol, with furrowed brows and disappointment flurrying in his eyes, could open his mouth, a quiet scoff rang out, ripping the silence between the two men into shreds. 

Wonwoo’s head snapped to the archway where the sound had echoed from, fingers curling around the grip of his sword. His other arm pushed Seungcheol behind him, which earned him a noise of protest from the older man. 

“Won-”

“There’s someone there,” was what Wonwoo said, before he stepped closer, into the shadows of the archway. The face that met him left him unable to breathe – as if his lungs had been squeezed out of oxygen from the inside; as if his entire being was wringed; as if someone had, one by one, cut the tendons of his muscles, rendering him absolutely useless. 

“I have been delusioned,” a cold, shaking voice started, “of our relationship, your grace.” You bowed deeply, silken hair falling over your shoulders, petals of the flowers in your hair dancing in the soft breeze, hand tight-fisted on your chest. “I ask for your apology in my,” a deafening pause, “assuming nature.” 

BANG

The sword fell out of Wonwoo’s limp hand. He rushed forward, almost tripping over his own feet and forgetting his look of indecency, leaving Seungcheol long forgotten in the edges of the sparring grounds. 

“Y/n,” he breathed, hands gently holding your upper arms. “Y/n, you misunderstand,” he hurried, forcing you to stand properly. The sight afterwards almost made him wish he let you stay in your bow. 

Your crystalline eyes were glassy and he could make out the glistening pools of unshed tears that poked against your charcoal waterline. Your lips stretched thin over your teeth in an attempt at a reassuring smile. But he knew you better than that – he knew more than half of the emotions that swirled behind your watery eyes and he knew what the tremblings of the corners of your lips meant. What it meant for you, for him, for the two of you. 

You shook your head, shuffling back against the rough grounds. A small laugh escaped your mouth. Your glossy pink lips curled up in a practiced smile – too robotic, too mirror-practiced, too Society for him to comprehend. It sent his mind reeling. It sent his mind reeling because you had heard what he shouldn’t have said. Because he was so used to seeing your dimpled smile in his embrace.

“No,” you responded, pushing his hands off of your lace-covered arms with trembling fingers. Your touch was soft but firm – a boundary that was unfamiliar in his realm. “I apologize for intruding, your grace, your highness,” another bow – this time at Seungcheol, who just waved her off from his position picking up the strewn wooden swords, “I will take my leave now.” 

A noncommittal noise rose from the back of Wonwoo’s throat and his hand wrapped around your wrist habitually, only to be shaken off without a single backwards look and a shuddering sigh as you walked away, head held high and hands shaking by your side. 

Wonwoo wasn’t stupid. He knew when to take a hint. 

“I’m not sure if you started a problem or made an existing problem worse.” 

Wonwoo shot a glare towards Seungcheol. “Thank you for your wise words, your highness. They are so helpful in my current situation,” he muttered, running a frustrated hand through his hair. 

Seungcheol sighed, shrugging as he dumped the wooden swords inside of a crate. “Look at it this way,” he pointed out, “now you are free to go do your battling. Without any ties.” 

Seungcheol handed Wonwoo his discarded sword, eyebrows raised. 

“Right?” 

Wonwoo gave him no answer, only staring at your shadowed retreating form that walked now in the sunlight past the archway. He only stared as you, with a curt nod to a footman, entered the main palace halls again. 

“Wonwoo?” Seungcheol repeated. “You there?” 

Wonwoo blindly nodded, fidgeting with the loose ends of his sheath. “Yes. Yes, maybe,” was his vague answer, mumbled softly under his breath. And all through Seungcheol’s next set of rants about Society politics and the ongoing problems around the Northern border of Obella, the only thing Wonwoo could think of was the alien tightening of his chest – so much so that his lungs felt off and his heart hurt to breathe. 

Wonwoo was sick and tired of the stench of blood and rusting iron. He was sick and tired of the habitual curl of his fingers around the hilt of his battle-worn sword at every small crack in the woods. And he was sick and tired of being away – away from the Capitol, away from his duchy, away from her. 

So when, one morning, his best friend and commanding officer Soonyoung, came into his tent with a cream-colored envelope with a familiar crest stamped on the front, it felt like a weight had lifted off of his shoulders.

His tent flap fluttered as a head of blonde ducked in Wonwoo’s sleep tent. 

“Guess what a little birdie flew in with this pleasantly fine morning?” Soonyoung grinned, leaning against one of the poles of the tent, arms crossed.

Wonwoo looked up from his place sitting on his chair, sharpening his sword. His glasses hung low on his nose and his naked back rippled with aching muscles. He deadpanned, recognizing the crest as the royal crest. “What?” he hummed, standing up and setting his sword and whetting stone down. “Another commission from our dear king?” he scoffed, unwilling bitterness seeping into his words. 

Of course, he did not blame King Seungcheol for his current predicament. Actually, he did, just a little bit. But of course, not all of the situation. Around three fifths was because of himself – because he was greedy and ambitious and begged to be sent to the National Academy and rose to the top of his Weapons class. It was his fault, was what he told himself, that he was on his third year out in the battlefields in the north, fighting the royal battles for a king that presented himself to be one of Wonwoo’s closest friends. Of course an inconspicuous bitterness would form. 

Hoshi laughed, his own bare torso glinting in the early morning sunlight. He handed Wonwoo the letter. “Oh, you wish, Wonwoo,” Hoshi said, clapping his friend on the back. He squeezed as Wonwoo’s eyes skimmed over its contents. He could almost feel Hoshi’s smile from behind him. 

“Congratulations, my friend,” Hoshi laughed, “You have officially been reinvited to Society!” 

Wonwoo’s face crumpled into an off mixture of disappointment, relief, and boredom. Society? That was what Seungcheol was pulling him out of these battles for? Out of everything, Society? 

“Society?” he scoffed. The hollow, fakeness of The Capitol’s Society was what awaited him outside of the violent woods? His fingers tightened on the thick parchment. 

The fact that it was Society wasn’t the aspect that pissed him off down to his bones. It was the fact that Seungcheol knew why he gave up Society to begin with. 

Suddenly, Hoshi’s squinted eyes filled Wonwoo’s vision. His blonde-bleached eyebrows were furrowed on his face. “Why do I feel like you’re not happy to be going back?” 

Wonwoo let out a deep sigh, his eyes closing ever so slightly. His chest felt tight. “Because, Hoshi,” he grumbled, ripping up the letter and tossing it into his lantern flame, “I fucking hate Society.” 

Wonwoo watched as the tattered pieces of the ripped parchment crumble into the orange-red flames. It was his fault, he guessed. Going back to Society, to the Capitol, was something he knew he had to face, once his reign among the knights was over. Three years, even for a man like him, was a long time to not show your face even once in a public Society event. He guessed this was Seungcheol’s passive reminder: get to your duties. He could almost hear it in his head. 

Hoshi shook his head in faux disappointment, tsking. “Thought you knew better than that, Archduke Jeon. You nobility need to perform part of your duties, after all.” Hoshi’s grin makes Wonwoo’s lips stretch into a slight smile. “What? Has the battlefield ridden you of your noble blood, your grace?” Hoshi asked with an eyebrow raise. 

Wonwoo just shook his head with a small smile and a sigh. But he couldn’t shake off the uncomfortable feeling of being called an archduke. Being called your grace. Those were titles he was used to seeing his father carry – his father, who was a charismatic ruler, his father, who loved deeply and truly, and his father, who lay cold and lifeless in the Jeon Family cemetery next to his mother for two years. 

Hoshi was not wrong, he knew. He knew there would be a time he would have to return to the very thing he hated the most about staying in the Capitol, about being a noble; whether or not he returned by his own volition was the question. And apparently Seungcheol had deemed three years, three years too much. The churning in his stomach could not be described as anything else but uncertainty. 

As Hoshi talked animatedly, with flailing arms, about the night before, when the soldiers had broken out crates of rum and beer to celebrate the strengthening of the Northern borders from the “evil spirits,” as they had called them, Wonwoo stared into the crackling lantern flame. If he returned to Society, as per the royal decree and as per his friend’s request, he would have to face the portraits that hung on his Capitol estate’s portrait hall. He would have to walk through the halls of his own home that had once been full of deeper, older, wiser, laughter of his parents without them. He would have to face the claustrophobia-inducing, over crowded ballrooms of the private high society gatherings, attend meaningless hunting outings, and present himself to the greater nobility public like some sort of relic or trophy to be garnished with wreaths and golden medals of bravery after the three year battle. 

But, of course, that was not all of the Society he had left behind. He had left behind a deeper, lovelier Society as well. Something – someone, he should say – that if he had any say in, he would keep hidden in the deepest parts of his heart. Someone, if he returned, who would – no, could – never be his again. She was not someone who waited around – especially if they had left like he did. 

But perhaps…

No. 

No, no, no. 

He shook his head. 

He could not bring his hopes up for nothing. He had a duty – to his duchy, to his family, to the legacy his father left behind, and to his country. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready,” Wonwoo mumbles. Mostly to himself, yet Hoshi quietens in his rant at his friend’s words. 

Hoshi drags a wooden chair over, swinging his legs around it to sit – chest against its back. “For Society or…” Hoshi does not need to finish his question for Wonwoo to understand. It is implied, as it always had been between the two of them. 

Wonwoo sighed, burying his head in his hands. The balls of his palm rub into his battle-weary eyes. “For everything. My responsibilities, Society, the entry celebrations, and…” Now Wonwoo poses the discarded ending. Hoshi knows, he decides for himself. He knows already. Wonwoo could tell from his knowing glance out the tent flap. 

“You’ve had responsibilities out on the battlefield, Woo. I believe your archducal duties are of a similar hierarchy?” Hoshi twirled a quill in his hand. The commander veers out of the way of the silent topic with a quick glance that promises Wonwoo another conversation – preferably over a glass of wine – in another time. 

Wonwoo let out a tired laugh. “You jest. I fear my archducal duties far outrank the simple hierarchy of my responsibilities on the battlefield.” 

Hoshi shrugged. “It is what you believe, sir.” 

“It is what I believe,” Wonwoo murmured to himself. A hand slid down his face as he slouched down in his chair, a tired sigh escaping the battle-worn caverns of his lungs. “Fuck.” 

One of King Seungcheol’s infamous re-entry balls was decided to be held in honor of Archduke Jeon returning to the Capitol, signifying his re-entrance into Society’s cluster of feathers and prim-propers from his years in the battlefields. 

“Do you know how uncomfortable wearing this cape is?” Wonwoo complains for the fourth time, tugging at the golden lapels that hold the thick fabric to his shoulders. He huffs in apparent annoyance as the golden tips of the royal palace’s towers loom overhead when the carriage rattles to a slow trot and then a stop. 

Hoshi, from his seat across Wonwoo, rolls his eyes, his own body decorated with the uniform of the royal knights, and a long gleaming sword hanging off of his hip. “Oh boo hoo,” he mutters, stepping out of the carriage as soon as the door opens. He dusts his white pants with a concluding groan as Wonwoo mutters something under his breath. 

“What?” Wonwoo snaps, “When has it changed so that a man cannot simply complain about his uncomfortable and ill-fit dressings for a ball?” Wonwoo retorts. A strand of hair fell in his face as he crossed his arms. His tight military uniform – decorated diligently with captain stars, rings of honor, and golden medals of bravery – strains against his biceps. He stands next to Hoshi, adjusting his formal tie with a displeased wince of discomfort. “I would have much rather preferred-”

“-Wonwoo!” Hoshi interjects, a rough hand coming down harshly against Wonwoo’s back. One look in Hoshi’s eyes and Wonwoo hesitates to finish his sentence. “My friend, please, for the love of God, shut the fuck up. You look fine,” Hoshi groaned, walking up to the palace doors with Wonwoo in tow. “You should have expected this anyways,” he continues, giving a curt nod to the footmen that open the doors, “This is a ball held in your honor,” a familiar turn into a wider hallway, “Remember?” Hoshi’s neat uniform is pin-straight as he walks down the marbled halls. “And we’re already late. Do you want to get passive aggressively eaten alive by Society the first day back in noble action?” he throws Wonwoo’s way with a quick glance over his shoulder with a teasing grin.

Wonwoo sighs, following Hoshi through the gilded halls of the too-familiar palace. He could almost picture his younger self – five years old – running through the very halls, with Prince Mingyu and (then) Prince Seungcheol hot on his heels, all three of them giggling about something for another. He could picture the two of them, laughing – him with his head thrown back and her with her fan over her pretty pink lips – during the boring parts of each and every palace ball. The gilded palace was gilded – but not just in gold. 

y/n

You were very confused. 

And confusion never was something any noble wanted during a ball, nevermind the King’s re-entry ball, no matter how close your family’s ties ran. 

Of course, you were not confused about who it was for. It was obvious. The Capitol’s newspapers (and most likely every other newspaper business in the nation), had spent the entire past week dedicating their front covers to the headlines that included, but were not limited to, one of the five following words: Archduke, Jeon, Return, Battle, Ball. 

It was as if the entirety of noble society had decided to come together for this one re-entry event, which apparently had people jittery at the edges of their seats because the most eligible bachelor of any season, really, was back on the market. The one high noble who could pay off even the most expensive dowries, who could save a breaking family from complete, utter, desolate ruin, whose dark hooded eyes had enticed so many of the daughters from the highest noble classes, was back. He, on orders and grounds unknown, was returning from his three-year-long disappearance from Society and out into the vicious battlefields of the north. 

And you were absolutely, jaw-droppingly so confused as to why both King Seungcheol and Prince Mingyu (mostly Seungcheol, though Mingyu posed no help), held you (almost) hostage at their sides, rambling and fluttering on about how you should stay with them until the entrance of the “main character.” 

“Your highness, may I ask why?” you ask. Behind your proprietary fan covering the bottom half of your face, your lips curl in distaste. If it was wholly up to you, you would have been in a silken nightgown, getting ready for bed. 

“Is brother still holding you here against your will?” Prince Mingyu’s laughing voice reaches your ears. You turn, meeting his broad frame. His one-shoulder cape glints at the top with a pure-gold cap, in dazzling contrast with his cream-white suit. In his hands are two flutes of bubbling champagne. He outstretches his arm, tipping one flute towards you with a grin, canines pushing down against his bottom lip. “For you, my lady,” he teases, slipping the flute into your gloved fingers. He gives you a cheesy wink, before breaking into a dimpled smile. 

You roll your eyes, habituated with the prince’s oftentimes off-handed flirty remarks. “You ask that as if you have not been doing the exact same thing, your highness,” you huff, but you don’t reject the champagne flute, taking a sip of the bubbling liquid with a satisfied sigh. You clear your throat before turning to both Mingyu and Seungcheol, who is surveying the crowd. “Now I ask the both of you the same question.” 

Mingyu throws an arm around Seungcheol, who stands still, staring at the entrance door to the ballroom with an impatient-tapping foot. “You know why.” He leans his head against Seungcheol, lightly stepping on his older brother’s furious foot with a mutter of maintaining a mask of patience. Seungcheol responds with a simple furrow of his thick eyebrows.

You tilt your head. Mingyu’s lack-luster responses and Seungcheol’s decision to blatantly ignore your words are doing absolutely nothing to quell your curiosity, let alone your confusion. 

Usually, if this was like any other royal-hosted ball, Seungcheol would only keep you for a brief moment. That would frequently consist of introductions to any new or unfamiliar royal cabinet members. And then, he would let you go, which usually meant, for you, going to the closest empty table with a chair and sitting down for the rest of the night. At least until you deemed you had spent enough time brooding in peace in your despairing corner, that it was respectable enough towards both you and the royal family, to leave the ball and return to your estate. 

Of course, you were not unapproachable. You were born and raised in Society. One of the first classes you remember taking with your grandmother was ballroom dance. Before (or many times during) your brooding solitary peace, either Mingyu, Seungcheol, or Duke Hong would leisurely make their way towards you and offer you your dance of the night. 

Those times, when the familiar strings of the orchestra and the notes of the hired singer flowed through the crowded ballroom, you let yourself be guided. After all, it was your job. 

“The lady is always supposed to be guided,” your grandmother used to say, “If a man, especially of high standing, does not guide a lady through a simple waltz, he is not a man. He is a coward not ready to face even the simplest of pleasures.” 

“Save your first dance, y/n,” Seungcheol suddenly says, turning to her. His words seem oddly like an order, and you would not put it below him for it to actually be an order. His grin matches his younger brother’s. The furs of his dress stick out against his dark hair. And his entire being seems that much more irking in your eyes. 

If he has another fucking suitor lined up already, I’ll kill him. To hell with the monarchy.

From next to him, Mingyu chuckles, as if he (they) knew something you did not. Which is usually the case, actually. You need to stop being so surprised. 

“Why?” Your nose scrunches. Your fan is forgotten at your sides.  

Seungcheol sighs, shaking his head slowly like you’re some under-developed child who could not get the full picture. “You’ll see.” 

You snap your fan shut, crossing your arms. “Sometime soon, I hope?” A jolt of pain waves over your ankle, a testament to how long you’ve been standing in one place. You force down your wince.

Mingyu pokes your puffed cheeks with his white-gloved hand and a laugh. “Impatient much, duchess?” 

You swat away his hand with a glance. Your head swivels as you say, “I have been waiting with much patience, thank you very much.” A lick of annoyance flickers in you when you catch at least seven pairs of eyes and gossiping mouths staring at you and the royal brothers. “It seems as though the Archduke is late,” you add, glancing at the giant clock on top of the entrance doorway. 

Mingyu, now arm over your shoulder, tugs at your dress sleeves. “Awfully interested, aren’t you?” he grinned, a small bout of laughter ensuing at your barely concealed tick of anger. Not only at his words but also at his careless touches. He should be glad all of high society knew of your close family relations, or else his actions would have had dire consequences.

You push him away lightly, flicking your fan open again as you gently fan yourself, covering your mouth. “Awfully not, your highness,” you snap. Mingyu knew not to talk about that. You try to ignore the fact that the wound you had once thought was fully stitched up and closed, still hurts when poked. “If I can-”

BANG

“ANNOUNCING ARCHDUKE JEON AND THE COMMANDER OF THE ROYAL KNIGHTS, SIR KWON!” The herald’s voice echoed through the ballroom. 

It was as if the entire ballroom was on a brief pause – the gossiping groups of ladies, the loud laughter of the business men, the rolling children, and even the orchestra. The violinists, cellists, and singer all paused, craning their heads to see through the throng of people who awaited the arrival of the main character – the battle-won most eligible bachelor of all the seasons: Archduke Jeon Wonwoo. 

And all you wanted to do was to never see his face again. 

And of course you prepared yourself. You prepared yourself the moment you had received Seungcheol’s and Mingyu’s separate request letters of your presence at tonight’s ball as part of the royal cabinet. You prepared yourself throughout the time Nai, your maid, rubbed oils into your skin, braided and twisted your silken hair, and pulled your corset tight against your straining ribs. Yet nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the real thing. The thing that was not born out of your imagination that had severely overworked itself over three years. 

Because not only does Wonwoo look the part of the most eligible bachelor, he looks the part of a successful military commander, with his dark military uniform, draping cape, and glinting golden medals. It feels as if the entire ballroom moves towards him, like he has his own gravitational force, as if everyone is attracted to something in the man. You can already see the cliques of the younger ladies fan themselves lightly as their eyes glaze over his wide shoulders and chiseled face. The military uniform does nothing to hide his physique. 

Your fan slowly rises to your face. 

Your corset feels especially restricting when you see Wonwoo’s sharp eyes scan the ballroom. If this were any other situation, you would find the way Wonwoo leans down briefly to Soonyoung to whisper something with a confused furrow and Soonyoung breaking out into a shit-eating grin and tossing a wink towards the general crowd, exponentially more amusing. That had more fans fanning quickly towards the ladies’ face. 

The entire scene reminded you briefly of when you were seventeen, when you had first been introduced to Society, standing almost in the same position as you were currently – next to the two princes who flanked you protectively with crossed arms – and Soongyoung, who was fresh into the Corps of Royal Knights then, and Wonwoo, who had just graduated from the National Academy, striding into your debutante ball late. The small waves and winks Soonyoung sends now towards the various gaggle of young, single ladies of Society reminds you, rather nostalgically, of when you, Soonyoung, Wonwoo, Seungcheol, and Mingyu had all spread out in Mingyu’s foyer on a wintry December day, and all you had talked about were the numerous engagement offers Soonyoung was getting from noble families. 

“What is this? Your thirteenth?” Seungcheol huffed, looking up briefly from Mingyu’s wide oak desk. He dropped his quill in the golden holder. “You’re gonna take away all the ladies from us at this rate, friend,” he laughed. 

You missed, in a small part of your heart, the times when Seungcheol had not been pressed to marry, find his match, continue the legacy. Now, his smile never crinkled his eyes when breeching on the topic of marriage and engagements. 

Soonyoung shrugged, legs dangling off of the couch’s arm rest as he flipped through a newspaper from last week. “Don’t know. You can have all of them, if you want, Coups,” he says, looking up from the tiny print. He gives a sideways look towards Mingyu. “And you too. Don’t want any of them. Not right now, anyways.” 

Seungcheol and Mingyu both grumble about the unfairness of knightly and royal duties as Soonyoung goes off on a separate tangent about the recent addition of a tiger to the park zoo. 

From the corner of your eyes, you see Wonwoo and Mingyu exchange an exasperated look. To be honest, you think it’s kind of cute – Soonyoung’s obsession with tigers, that is. It gives the man something childish in him. God knows he’ll need it in the battlefields one day. 

Suddenly, from the open window, the winter wind blasts through Mingyu’s parlor, wiping papers off of the low tables and out of your hands. 

You shiver, arms crossing around your torso. You rub against your thinly-clothed arms. 

“Sorry,” Mingyu apologizes sheepishly, quickly glancing over at you. “Should’ve closed that thing.” 

You wave him off, about to say something, when suddenly, a thick fabric is draped over your bare shoulders. You flinch at the sudden contact on your skin. From in front of you, Soonyoung’s eyes are wide, which looks rather comical when you see it in his entire position – upside down, legs spread around the backrest, black hair flapping. 

“I told you to close it.” Wonwoo’s tone is almost chastising as he moves from behind you to back to his original spot next to you. He gives Mingyu an almost-glare that has the prince sheepishly standing. Wonwoo picks up his book again, shaking his head ever so slightly. 

Mingyu gives Seungcheol a passive look before he sits down as well, eyeing the coat around your shoulders. 

One quick glance down at the lapel, and you find what you were looking for. The Jeon Duchy’s coat of arms glints up at you, the house crest shining proudly under the chandelier lights. Your cheeks heat when you recognize the expensive cologne that fills your nose. When you turn towards Wonwoo, he’s back in his book, absorbed, apparently, in the tiny printed words on the page. Your previously scattered papers are neat on the table in front of you. 

Wonwoo suddenly looks up from his book, catching your zoned-out stare. 

Your eyes widen. 

Wonwoo just gives you a small smile, before leaning forward and grabbing your papers. He lays his book face-down on his lap. “Do you need a quill?” he asks, handing you your papers. 

He catches you so off guard (as if you were only staring at his face, not listening to what he was saying), that you almost stumble over your own tongue trying to respond casually. 

“Er- Um- I mean, no. No, no, that’s fine,” you mumble, snatching the papers from his hand and scooting towards the other side of the long couch. “Thank you, though.” 

It feels like Wonwoo’s smile grows at your words. If you looked a little bit closer, you would have seen the tips of his ears turn a blush red when you glance down, fiddling with the academic medals on his lapel. 

“Anything for you,” he breathes, like it's a secret shared between you two. 

Mingyu and Soonyoung stare at the whole interaction with a mixture of forced disgust, confusion, and awkwardness, and you don’t miss how Soonyoung pretends to gag, Mingyu following suit, before the two of them go back to their lengthy tangents.

From next to you, you miss Mingyu’s quick glance down at your movements and the knowing glance he and Seungcheol share. 

Whispers break out as the two men – vastly different in the charismas they exude – stride towards the two royal family members. 

And you realize they are heading towards you before you remember you are standing with the royal brothers. And everything suddenly clicks into place. Why the two, more Seungcheol than Mingyu, wanted you to stay for so long – until the “main character arrives.” There is a bubbling pot of the sudden innate need to whack the king over the head with your fan. But of course. That would be terribly unladylike. Nothing a woman in your station should be doing, let alone thinking about doing. 

And it seems as if Wonwoo is as surprised at your presence on the royal platform because his dark eyes widen behind his glasses as he and Soonyoung stop in front of the raised platform you, Mingyu, and Seungcheol were standing on. 

You feel horribly awkward. And Soonyoung’s gaze flitting between you and Wonwoo before bowing his head, trying to conceal his laughter, is doing nothing to make the situation better. 

Seungcheol throws his arms out at the same time Wonwoo drops into a one-knee bow, Soonyoung in tow moments later behind him. At his sudden show of veneration, the crowd gasps softly and you shuffle backwards, only to hit Mingyu’s broad chest that blocks you from leaving the platform. You swallow. 

You need to get off this stupid fucking platform. 

But when you open and shut your fan, looking back at Mingyu, he seems awfully interested in exchanging eye contact with the ballroom’s chandelier. You know he heard your fan shut. The same, familiar spike of rage bubbles in your chest. 

These fucking brothers. 

“Success to your highness and peace to the nation.” Wonwoo’s deep voice, the one you had tried so desperately to forget, to lose in your discarded memories, to rip apart to shreds and feed to the dogs, echoes out against the quiet ballroom. If you strain your ears, you can hear, though, the stuttered gasps of the younger ladies and chaperones, on the verge of swooning at his first nine words. Resentfully, your brain conjures itself to the years when you were the same – fanning yourself to catch a handsome man’s attention.  

You wish you had the courage to laugh. To elegantly step off this damning platform. To get away (run away) from the man in front of the king.

You feel Mingyu moving ever so slightly behind you until you stand perfectly in between him and Seungcheol. Then, in the softest hiss of a whisper he is capable of, he mumbles, “Stay still. You’re sitting with us now.” 

You scoff quietly, raising your fan to your left cheek. The tips of the wooden stilts tickle your painted cheek.

From the corners of your eyes, you can see Mingyu pout. “Oh come on, duchess,” he whines. “I’m degraded down to fan talk?” His fingers wrap around your fan, pulling it down.

You’re glad you and Mingyu stand slightly off to the side because you don’t think you would be able to handle any more whisperings of your relationship with the men in your life Society has to cruelly offer. 

“You read right? The Archduchies are part of the direct royal council, now.” 

That makes you whip your head towards Mingyu’s. He is still facing forward with a practiced smile on his lips and hands in his pockets like this moment was the most relaxing all night. 

You, however, probably look slightly insane. Any fan etiquette goes flying out of the ballroom door at Mingyu’s words. You? On the royal council? Of course, on the surface, it is a great honor. You would be the first non-married matriarch to hold some semblance of power in the royal courts. But you could stitch together the gist of how Society would react to this. And based on Mingyu’s decision to tell you this late into Society’s winter season, you could land a (very accurate) educated guess that Seungcheol was going to announce in the next twenty minutes. 

“Are you crazy?” You whisper furiously, turning back to face the crowd. You can already see eyes slowly turn to the two of you, noticing your, now, not-so-subtle interaction. 

Mingyu just grins, bumping his shoulder with yours. And you don’t even get a chance to hear what he says because Seungcheol suddenly says, “Of course! Of course!” with the most excited tone of voice you had ever heard him use. Apparently Mingyu thinks the same because his head follows yours in staring at Seungcheol. Both of you, but mostly you because Mingyu is still surveying the crowd with a bright, confident, blazing smile that has the ladies of the court drowning in his eyes, are too embarrassed to look confused at what his words mean because you had zoned out of his rather one-sided conversation with Soonyoung and Wonwoo a long time ago. 

You can only stand stiffly in your place sandwiched between Seungcheol and Mingyu as both Soonyoung and Wonwoo rise slowly, giving Seungcheol a curt bow before turning to you and Mingyu. Your fan trembles with your hand as Wonwoo steps closer. 

You had forgotten how it feels to know nothing of what was to come. Especially when it pertained to him.

Your heart stills momentarily when his eyes land on you, moving up to your face and holding you in your place for a split second. You can’t even describe it. The feeling of seeing him so up close after all these years. After you had promised yourself to forget him. After you had spent hours crying in your bathtub, Nia rubbing your back soothingly. After you had fallen asleep, at least in the first weeks, on top of your duvet, letters he had once sent you crowding half of your bed, fresh tear stains ruining the expensive ink and paper. 

He looks so familiar it pulls at some part in your heart that you had thought was buried three years ago at a sparring ground. You observe him as he and Soonyoung pay their respects to Mingyu, who looks a pinch uncomfortable when his friends kneel in front of him. 

Black strands of his hair fall in front of his eyes and crowd his forehead. His military cape pulls your attention to his shoulders, which look broader than you remember them to be. And you can’t help but admit that his tight military top does nothing to hide his worked physique. His family crests glints at the connecting junction of his cape and his uniform, and his sheath, hand-crafted as a gift for his seventeenth birthday, holding his sword, rests against his hips. He looks regal, noble, eligible – so much so that it almost shakes the foundations of the walls you had built. 

Then he turns to you, those piercing eyes refocusing onto yours that don’t know where to land. His eyes? His lips? His chest? His shoulders? The crowd? A shadow of a smile paints itself onto his lips and you swallow. 

Your mouth feels dry. 

This can’t be real. 

When you had imagined the re-entry ball, meeting Wonwoo, nevermind seeing him so personally, had never once crossed your mind. 

Your fan slowly traced its path up to your right ear. 

From behind Wonwoo, Soonyoung grins, teeth flashing and eyes crinkling at your fan movement. Your own lips curl up in your practiced way. 

For the crowd, you tell yourself. 

The entire ballroom seems to watch the two of you in your silence, which was turning more awkward by the second. Wonwoo’s eyes carve a road up and down your figure. It makes your hands clench your fan tightly. 

You glance at Seungcheol, who nods, urging you to speak. You let out a small cough, averting your eyes briefly before your smile paints itself onto your lips again. Your fan falls. 

“It seems the battlefield has treated you well, Archduke Jeon,” you smiled, opening your arm briefly in a practiced welcome. 

It seems as if Wonwoo had not expected you to speak first, and for a second, he stands frozen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and hands still next to his body. At Soonyoung’s small embarrassed cough, he blinks rapidly, following your smile in suit. Except his looks too genuine, it tugs at your heart strings. And you berate your traitorous heart in wanting to pull him into a warm embrace. 

Remember how he left you. He doesn’t want you. 

The corners of your lips tremble. 

Instead, you feign indifference, lifting your chin. 

Wonwoo bows deeply first, followed by Soonyoung. He rises. 

“I see Society has welcomed you back with open arms,” he replies, his voice a pinch above a whisper. His small smile offers it as a jest but his words stab a knife into your gut. He has absolutely no right in jesting about your failed engagements. Not after everything. 

From behind him, you can see Soonyoung pinch his nose bridge, shaking his head ever so slightly, mouthing an apology to you. 

Wonwoo’s eyes linger a moment too long on you, before reaching for your hand. Out of pure etiquette that has burned itself into your entire being, you offer him your hand, and his head is bowed, lips hovering mere centimeters over your lacy knuckles before you realize what you are doing. And by then, it’s too late to retract your offered hand. 

Wonwoo’s lips meet the back of your hand. 

His own gloved fingers hold your hand like you are made out of the most delicate of china, his touch barely-there. 

And just as quick his lips are on your hand, it disappears from your skin. 

“May tonight bring you as much warmth as your presence brings to it,” he murmurs, so softly that you have to strain your ears to hear it. But it’s there.

Wonwoo rises before you have a chance to process his greeting words that were murmured into your hand. You almost miss the way the tips of his ears are blush-red between strands of his hair. 

Before you can say something else, Soonyoung is in front of you, bowing over your outstretched hand, pressing a light, airy kiss. You can feel him grin against your skin. 

When he looks up, he has a teasing grin painted on his face, and you have to force yourself to not roll your eyes at how he wiggles his eyebrows up and down. 

“Success and love for the Archduchess.” Soonyoung’s words echo across the ballroom, unlike Wonwoo’s. 

Too busy retracting your hand from Soonyoung’s grip, you miss the way Wonwoo’s jaw clenches, face hardening at Soonyoung’s words. 

: ̗̀➛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴡɪɴᴇᴅ -- ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ @syluslittlecrows @gaslysainz @meowmeowminnie @luvjichang @peachytokki @nicoleparadas @haneulparadx

[zepskies]

The Honorable Choice - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC 

Summary: June 1872. Captain Dean Winchester of the U.S. Cavalry is tasked with one job: break a wild mustang. He just didn’t expect the woman who infiltrates his camp, intent on freeing her tribe’s horse.

AN: I got inspired after a recent rewatch of Spirit: The Stallion of the Cimarron (literally a perfect movie), as well as having Yellowstone in the back of my brain. I thought this idea might be a good fit for this @jacklesversebingo prompt.

Disclaimer: I’ve done extensive research for this one, both on the American Indian Lakota tribe, and on American history during this time in the late 1800s (AKA: the Old West, during the American Indian Wars and the Sioux Wars). Of course, one of my main goals is to avoid inaccuracies, both historical and cultural.

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Western AU

Song Inspo: The Spirit Soundtrack

Word Count: 4.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only to be safe. Racism/racial slurs, attempted sexual assault (not successful), protective Dean, angst, some violence and some action.

🐎 Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

🎙️ Listen to the podfic version here!

Part 1: Pride & Prejudice

June 1872

Dean hears some of his men shouting, along with the telltale cracking of bone that would make a less seasoned soldier wince. He spares a look to Benny, his Lieutenant, and sets down his glass of whiskey.

Dean’s path takes him brusquely out of his office and toward the stables. He grabs his gun and his hat on the way there, setting the latter on his head.

Is it too much to ask for one night where he can drink in peace?

Dean comes to find a young woman being detained by two of his men, Kline and Novak. Roman sports a bloody nose and his eye is already beginning to swell. The woman fights against their hold.

Even under the pale moonlight, Dean notes the way she’s dressed: a deer skin dress cinched at the waist, over thin pants and shoes. He surveys her tan skin, her black hair that blends into the night, twisted into a long braid, and the anger in her dark eyes.

“What have we got here?” Dean says. He stows his gun in its holster as he approaches her, resting his hands at his belt.

“I caught her breaking into the stables, Captain,” Roman says. He prods with a hiss at his busted nose while trying to stem the bleeding. That’s going to be a bad break.

She remains tight lipped, stubborn. 

“Probably doesn’t even understand English. Savage bitch,” he says. Dean shoots him an impassive look to cover up his annoyance.

“Put a cork in it, Roman,” he orders. Then, he focuses back on her. “You’re a Lakota, aren’t you?”

Aside from their main mission here in the Dakota Territory, the Colonel has been fixed on fighting back against the Lakota Indians, especially after they sabotaged the supply line last month.

The proud tilt of the woman’s chin is her only answer to Dean’s question. Her gaze drags down his form with disdain, like he’s the savage. His mouth twitches mirthlessly. 

“The Lakota rear up their own horses pretty damn well. Why would you want to steal one of ours?” he asks.

She glances away from him, first at her feet, then over at the camp’s latest “guest.” Dean, Benny, and a few of his men wrangled up a horse a few days ago. He’s a beautiful Kiger mustang with a nasty mean streak. He barely got through a trim this afternoon, and almost took a chunk out of Rufus when he tried to brand the horse.

The Colonel ordered them to tie the horse up to a post just outside the corral—no food or water for three days. He’d turned to Dean with a firm set to his face and issued a single order.

“Break him.”

Now, Dean catches the furtive look the Lakota woman gives the horse, who flicks his tail. The animal stares right at her, as if into her eyes.

“Oh, don’t tell me you here for him,” Dean says with a chuckle. “That thing’s a little too much for you, sweetheart.”

That earns her attention, steely and unimpressed.

“He is too much for you,” she says. Her voice is smooth, and would even be pleasant, if not for the circumstances. “He is one of ours. You will never break him.”

Dean's eyes widen a fraction. He glances back at the mustang.

So that's why she's here, he thinks. She's trying to mount a rescue. Dean feels a twinge deep inside, but he can't allow himself to care about that. They've collected a strong horse that will be a good support for their objectives here, once he's broken.

“Ah, well see,” Dean says, tipping his Stetson up to meet her gaze. “That’s kind of our specialty.”

“Sir, should we take her to the stockade?” Novak asks. He seems reluctant to do so to a woman, even an Indian, but he’s always been good at following orders.

Dean opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts him off. Colonel Asmodeus Sanderson steps out and takes a look at their captive.

“Not the stockade,” he says, with that Southern drawl that betrays his Kentucky roots. “Not yet.”

He approaches her with a slow, calculated gait. His hands gather behind his back. Dean gives her credit for looking Sanderson in the eye. She seems rightly wary, but not afraid.

“We won’t hurt you. I give you my word,” the Colonel says, “if you’ll lead us to your people’s camp.”

He takes a hold of her chin, turning her face this way and that, like he’s examining a dirty animal, and all that he’ll have to do to make it clean. She spits in his face.

Dean bites the inside of his lip against a smile. She’s got as much fight in her as the mustang. However, he has to school his face back into stoicism when Sanderson rears back in anger.

The harsh smack rings out in the clearing, along with the woman’s cry. Dean doesn’t allow himself to outwardly react, but inside, his spine tightens as he fights his instincts.

Only Kline and Novak’s hold on her arms keeps her upright. She pants for breath, but again, she meets the Colonel with a face that doesn’t give away anything, despite the reddening mark on her cheek.

“The post,” he barks. “Three days. No food or water.”

Dean is kept busy by his duties. He makes sure the camp is running in order, accepting shipments of supplies and ammunition, among other things. Cas Novak is in charge of the stables, caring for the horses and putting them through their training. Jack Kline is young and strong and a good assistant, along with others in his unit.

Right now, Dean and Benny are going over the plans with Colonel Sanderson for continuing construction on the railroad, from here to the Black Hills. It’s a path that cuts straight through Sioux territory—the bands of Dakota and Lakota Indians that occupy the land.

“The natives are fightin’ us tooth and nail,” Sanderson says. “But maybe our guest will be able to help us…negotiate.”

Dean remains quiet, ignoring yet another uneasy twinge in his gut. He didn’t join the army to fight the Indians. He doesn’t always understand their way of doing things, but he understands why they fight—to protect their land, and to protect their own. It’s the same reason Dean fights, when he has to.

He joined the army because…well, it felt like the right thing to do at the time. His father had been a Cavalry Major, and he’d died an honorable death, now about a decade past.

Has it really been ten years? Christ.

Dean wipes his brow. Even with the windows open, the office is humid and smells like ass. He glances outside, where both the mustang and the woman are tied to their posts under a sweltering sun at high noon.

Not for the first time, Dean wonders what his dad would think of him now. 

After the meeting, Dean and Benny fall into step together to inspect the camp. The summer sun shines hot on their blue uniforms, and occasionally they raise their hats to mop the sweat from their brows.

Things are running as usual, but many of the men’s eyes occasionally turn to the posts. Dean’s attention wanders there too without him realizing, catching on the woman’s dark hair. It shines even blacker in the sunlight, like a raven’s wing. He knows the shade because his dad used to have a feather kept in his journal, like a bookmark.

“You okay, brother?” Benny asks. Dean realizes what he’s doing, and his attention returns to the task at hand. Get it together.

Always forward, never backward.

“Just fine,” Dean replies. Benny gives him a knowing look.

“A bit unsavory, ain’t it?” he says. “Keeping her chained up without even a lick of water.”

“The Indians are getting smarter, bolder. They’re ambushing our men, going after our supply lines, and now, stealing our horses,” Dean says. “This is strategy.”

Benny shrugs slightly, making a sound of agreement. Dean hesitates, his gloved fingers flexing against his sides.

“If she was a man, you guys wouldn’t give a shit about putting a bullet through her head,” Dean says.

Benny’s gaze shifts downward. He doesn’t reply, but he concedes the point all the same.

They continue their route, and Dean keeps the rest of the conversation on the work at hand.

Mila has gone far longer without drink, but the sun is particularly unforgiving today. She’s prayed and prayed for even one cloud to glide overhead and shield her for a while. It’s not much better for her companion. He paces in place, occasionally tugging his head against the rope that binds him to his post.

She makes a clicking sound at the horse, getting his attention. She calls him by his name, and his ears flicker in her direction. He offers her a short whinny in response.

“I see you, Mato. I am with you,” she says in her native tongue. She hopes the sound of her voice will soothe him. He looks tired and hungry, but his eyes flick hard and untrusting on any man who comes near him. His spirit isn’t broken.

“Hey! Shut the hell up over there,” Roman shouts at her from where he and Cas are taking a short lunch break. Cas gives him a certain look, crossed mostly with annoyance.

Mila resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them and tilts her face back to the sun. In a way, it feels cleansing. Maybe it can wash away the stench of the White Men’s hands on her body, manhandling her, checking her for weapons.

She spends the rest of the day watching the camp. One of their leaders, the Green Eyed One, called this a fort. It does look fortified, with tall walls made of thick wood constructed to form a cage—whether to keep others out, or to keep the men and horses in.

She identifies the Colonel as their chief, of a kind. Green Eyes is second in command, followed by the Bearded One with a strange voice. Even the scruffy Blue Eyed One has some authority, mostly over the Child Faced One. There are too many others to rank them all, but she knows the Loud Mouthed One is arrogant, even after she broke his nose. The way he carries himself, he clearly thinks he has more power than he actually has.

In her mind, Mila conjures up different plans of escape. All of them fall short in some way. The men didn’t find all of her weapons; a small knife is hidden deep in her boot. She could saw at her binds within an hour, but even with Mato to carry her out and away, the problem is escaping this camp without alerting the men. Without getting shot.

She has three days to think.

That night, the moon refuses to give her clarity. Her stomach is too empty, her throat too dry, her tongue thick in her mouth. Her attention shifts in and out of consciousness, until the sound of boots crunching in the dirt trills unease down her spine. More alert, she sits up straighter.

The Loud Mouthed One. The one they call Roman comes to taunt her, offering her water, then drinking for himself instead. He comes closer to examine her. He has a small bind over his broken nose.

“You know, you’re a pretty one,” he says, taking another cold sip as his gaze drags over her form. “For a wild thing.”

His face nears hers, clean shaven, though his thin smile reminds her of a rattlesnake. Dread and repulsion churn at odds in her stomach as she realizes what he's really here for. It doesn't matter if he truly wants her, or just wants to pay her back for his face. Either way, he means to take her here in the dirt.

She looks away, not wanting to let him see her fear, or the dread tightening her stomach, rising into her throat. He winds long fingers into her hair. At first the hold is gentle, deceptive. Then it's tight against her scalp. She hisses in pain when he tugs her head back and forces her to look at him. Her breathing quickens as she tries to pull away.

He draws in close to try and claim her in a kiss, but she head-butts him, hard.

He cries out and stumbles back, his flask falling to the ground.

He angrily grabs her and hauls her up to her feet. He pushes her hard against the post and unbuckles his belt, just to stuff it in her mouth. With his free hand, he begins to undo his pants.

She refuses to cry out, even though she spits out his belt and fights him, trying to kick out his knees.

Suddenly, the man’s body is ripped away from her. Mila loses her footing and falls to the dusty ground, sliding against the wooden beam she’s tied to. The wind is knocked out of her, but when she raises her head, she watches with wide eyes as the Green Eyed One beats the other man into the dirt. It doesn’t take much, just a few well-placed fists.

Roman lies there catching his breath, and he spits a wad of phlegm and blood. His left eye will match his nose, that’s for sure.

Green Eyes looks angry and disgusted. He huffs and puffs while staring down at his subordinate. He pushes back his short brown hair and points an ungloved hand at Roman.

“Get back to the goddamn barracks. You’re gonna be mucking out stalls until shit’s coming out of your ears,” he growls.

Roman doesn’t argue, though it’s obvious that he wants to. He just picks himself up, makes a show of straightening up his open uniform jacket while catching his breath. He walks past Green Eyes with a resentful, angry look. Green Eyes watches him until he disappears inside.

Then, he turns to her. His gaze softens somewhat, but it’s still unreadable. He crouches down in front of her, resting his arms on his thighs. Mila’s gaze briefly falls to his hands. They’re calloused, the hands of a laboring man. He carries himself like a warrior.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

It’s not what she expected. Mila eyes him warily when he moves closer. She presses her back against the post until it hurts her spine. He raises up his hands placatingly.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says.

“That is what your Colonel said,” she says. Her voice cracks with dryness. “I didn’t believe him either.”

His lips flicker at a rueful smile. It wrinkles crow’s feet around his eyes, breaking his stony face.

“Fair enough.”

He reaches for his belt and retrieves a flask, similar to the one his subordinate carried. He extends it out to her.

“It’s water, unless you prefer whiskey. I know I do,” he says.

She raises a brow at him, but hearing the sloshing inside the flask, her thirst takes over her wariness, and even her pride. She tentatively leans forward. He brings it closer so she can press her lips to the opening. Despite his Colonel’s orders, he lets her drink as much water as she’s able. When she’s done, he pockets the flask and sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

That, she will not give him. Names are sacred to her people, and this man, while seeming to have a shred of honor, isn’t worthy.

“Don’t wanna even tell me your name?” he says. He nods slightly. “Okay, well, I’m Dean. Captain Winchester, to this band of delinquents.”

He gestures around the camp with a dismissive hand. Mila only watches him. She’s never seen a White act like this, breaking his leader’s rules, being…kind.

What a strange man.

But if he had any real convictions, he would untie her and let her go, along with Mato. She won’t hold her breath.

Dean’s brows raise up toward his hairline, and his full lips form a pout. Realizing he’s not going to get anything more from her, he lets out a tired huff and straightens up.

“Well, goodnight,” he says.

He finally leaves her alone, but she can’t help but follow the swaggering path of his bowed legs and heavy boots. They carry him away and back indoors.  

A strange man.

By the morning of the third day, Dean is ready to do what he does best. Or at least, one thing he does best.

He’s no stranger to horses. He grew up on a farm in Lawrence, Kansas, where he and his brother would help take care of the animals. Dean was older, so he helped his father till the land and train the horses. Sometimes he and Sam would sneak off and race their favorite ones, until their mom called them back for dinner.

In fact, part of what earned Dean his rank in the U.S. Cavalry was how well he could command a horse. His own is resting in the stables.

Today, he’s getting in the ring with the mustang.

…Well, not right away. He lets a few of his guys go first to tire him out. Even after three days of no food or water, the horse is living up to his bad attitude. He bucks each of them off after just a few seconds in the corral. Dean can tell it’s becoming a kind of game for the horse. His dun-colored coat shines in the sun, his brown socked legs kicking up dust and manure as he brays angrily at whoever tries to mount him.

Dean notices the Lakota woman watching with an amused smile on her face while she sits with her hands tied to her post. She’s enjoying the show, like she knew this would happen. It seems to give her energy every time another man is thrown off the horse and limps out of the ring.

Dean shakes his head. Pitiful.

He puts two gloved fingers to his mouth and whistles the entire clearing to attention. He saves Kline the chance to bruise his spine and pats him on the shoulder. Dean steps into the corral and positions himself into the stirrups, wrapping the reins around his hand. The horse is breathing hard, but he’s not done. He’s still got fight in him. Dean sees it in his brown eyes.

“All right, mustang. You’re big and bad. I get it,” Dean says lowly. “But I don’t scare easy. Gimme your best damn shot.”

Cas and Benny give him wary looks from where they stand outside the gate.

“Hold onto your hat, Cap,” Benny mutters.

Dean adjusts his hat and rests his gun on the post for safe keeping. He wants to feel as natural as possible, like it’s just him and this horse, out back in his family farm. He holds on tight to the reins. He’s fully prepared for how the mustang takes off at a galloping clip around the ring. He twists and bucks, but Dean claps his thighs tight and holds on for the ride.

The horse gets smarter.

He runs for the water trough just outside the ring. He slams Dean against the side of it once, twice—and manages to throw him off, with Dean landing right in the water trough.

He bursts out from the dirty water, sopping wet and spluttering in anger. He looks over at the horse trotting around, whinnying and tossing his head like he’s laughing. Dean can’t help it. His anger fades, and he smiles.

This guy’s got some brass balls, I’ll give him that.

The Lakota woman laughs. Dean hears it and his head swivels toward her. She bites her lip, but she knows she’s been caught. Despite his injured pride, Dean’s lips curve with a smirk. Just gonna laugh at me, huh?

“I see things are going well,” comes a familiar drawl.

Dean’s face falls as he looks up and finds Colonel Sanderson. Dean pulls himself out of the trough and tries to squeeze some water out of his uniform. He clears his throat.

“Well, uh, it’s going, sir. Just gonna take a little more time than I thought,” Dean says. He quickly reclaims his hat from the ring, giving the mustang a smart berth. After he climbs back out, he goes over to the post where he left his pistol.

“Hold him steady,” Sanderson barks out the order, but not at Dean. The other men wrangle the horse back into the pen, where Sanderson climbs up and mounts the horse himself.

To his credit, he stays on longer than even Dean thought he would. The mustang gallops and circles. He tries slamming Sanderson on the sides of the corral, tries bucking him and bucking him, but the man clings on, even when his hat falls into the dirt.

The horse is exhausted. He eventually stops in the middle of the ring, panting for breath, his legs shaking slightly. Dean straightens at attention.

So does the Lakota woman, he notices. She looks worried, her brows furrowing.

Sanderson swipes a hand over his graying hair and moustache to collect himself. He raises his head with an arrogant smile.

“You see, gentlemen. Any horse can be broken,” he says. He kicks the horse with his spur. “Move along, mustang.”

To everyone’s amazement, the horse obeys him. He moves forward at a slow clip. All the men applaud, even Dean, belatedly.

“There are those in Washington who believe the West will never be settled,” Sanderson continues. “The Northern Pacific Railroad will never breach Nebraska.”

His gaze draws over to the woman. Her eyes are filled with tears as she watches the Colonel makes his rounds.

“A hostile Lakota,” he says in derision, “will never submit to providence.”

She stares back at him with steel in her watery eyes.

Dean doesn’t realize his jaw is clenched tight until he feels the strain in his jaw. He forces himself to relax, with his hand on his dampened belt.

“And it’s that kind of small thinking that would say this horse would never be broken,” Sanderson says. “Discipline, time, and patience. That’s all you need to level a wild thing.”

Just then, the horse stops abruptly.

“Mustang?” Sanderson asks in warning.

Dean tenses. He knows what’s about to happen.

“Sir!” he calls out.

But it’s too late.

The stallion revs and charges, bucking even wilder than before. He swings his head and rears back high on his hind legs with a powerful bray. Sanderson yells in fear and strain, but he stays on the creature’s back.

The horse’s angry eyes take on a darker shade of conviction. When all four of his hooves hit the ground, he finally bucks hard enough to get the Colonel off his back, though he still clings to the reins near the animal’s head. He comes face to face with the horse’s crazed eyes. His own are wide and full of terror.

Hot breath heats Sanderson’s face. Then the horse swings his head and tosses the man out of the ring. In the process, the horse falls on his side and shatters a section of the wooden beams that fenced him in.

While he shakes his head and gets his hooves under him, Dean and Benny help the Colonel up to his feet. His uniform is a wreck, and now, with a bruised body and likely a couple of broken ribs, the man is fuming.

Kline and Roman wrangle the horse’s reins and keep him more or less in place. The Colonel shoves Dean and Benny off of him. He reaches for his gun at his belt and aims it at the mustang. Dean goes rigid in shock, but he knows he can’t interfere. If he does, it could warrant some major discipline.

The Colonel pulls the hammer back on the revolver, but before he can pull the trigger, the sound of cutting rope and a feminine yell breaks the silence in the clearing. The Lakota woman pulls the Colonel’s arms down, and the gun goes off into the ground. Her elbow comes up quick to strike the man between the eyes. He careens back into Benny, who catches him.

Meanwhile, the woman swings up onto the mustang. She grabs a stronghold by the neck and barks something in her native language. It spurs the horse onward, and he breaks through the crowd of men at a gallop.

Dean watches with widening eyes and furrowing brows. “Shit!”

He runs to the stables where he finds Baby waiting for him. Her black coat ripples as she stamps impatiently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he beckons. He leads the mare out of the stable, and after grabbing a coil of rope from the supply bench, he mounts her smoothly. With a subtle kick of his heel, she picks up speed to follow the mustang and his rider.

They’re already approaching the gate where the men are quickly trying to close it. There’s still a window of opportunity for escape, but not only is Dean on their heels, Roman also stands on a pile of crates filled with iron parts that are due to be shipped out in the morning for continued construction on the railroad. Roman holds a rifle. He trains his weapon on the woman, taking deadly aim.

Dean’s jaw clenches and his brows furrow. He knows then, in the breadth of a few seconds, that he has to make a choice. If he does nothing, both she and the horse are as good as dead.

Sam used to call him reckless, stubborn as the horses he spent long hours taming.

Right about now, his brother is probably right.

Dean reaches for his gun, aims, and shoots within the span of those seconds. Roman goes down before he even knows what hits him. His chest plumes with blood after he slides down the crates and flops heavy to the ground. His eyes stare unseeing at the crisp blue sky.

The mustang tears through the narrow opening in the gate, and Dean isn’t far behind. The woman is an excellent rider, far better than he expected her to be. She clings to the horse’s neck and mane, and she doesn’t even use the stirrups. She clings on when the horse leaps over rocks, and when she notices Dean tailing her, she urges the horse at an even faster gallop.

Dean’s face furrows with determination. Baby is built for speed too.

He gives her a little kick with his heel. “Come on, Baby. Go!”

He’s able to keep up with the mustang just a few yards behind, even when they reach rougher terrain, going further up and into a canyon. He follows them through every curve and dip, guiding his horse just as much as she's guiding him.

Dean takes his rope in hand and turns it above his head, but his attempt to lasso the mustang's neck fails; the woman saws straight through the rope with her knife.

"Damn it!" Dean mutters.

He's forced to let go of his frayed rope when he and Baby nearly careen off the edge of a cliff. His heart settles high in his throat as he grits his teeth, but he pulls back on the reins hard and leans in the opposite direction. Baby's able to bank left, saving them from a long way down to certain death.

They continue up the narrow path the mustang has trod ahead. It carves around and through the mountain.

Dean mentally grasps for a plan, aside from just keeping up. Without even a bit of rope, he doesn’t know how he’s going to slow the woman down without hurting her or the horse. He doesn’t want to have to use his gun.

Eventually, the canyon breaks into a patch of desert, and then, grassy plains and tall forest trees. The mustang begins to tire and slow to a stop. His rider murmurs soothing things to him, stroking his neck. She turns back to look at Dean over her shoulder in dismay. She knows she’s caught.

“All right, sweetheart. That’s enough,” Dean says.

He sidles up next to her and intends to grab the mustang’s reins.

That’s when her swift kick comes, dead in his forehead.

AN: And here we go! 😅 Feels right that November is Native American Indian Heritage Month. 🫶🏽 For that reason especially I've done my best to do the Lakota people justice, even in this little series and complete work of fiction.

There's a lot packed in this first chapter, and yep, I did borrow a bit of scene from one of the best scenes in Spirit as an homage. From here on out, we're literally going off road...

Next Time:

Dean falls out of his saddle with a yell, landing hard in the grass. The impact knocks the air out of his chest and his hat off his head, not to mention the pain that rattles down his back.

“Son of a bitch,” he wheezes, while trying to get back up.

The woman jumps down from the mustang’s back and all but leaps on Dean. Straddling his waist and grabbing a fistful of his collar, she lets out a battle cry and raises a small knife at him. It’s probably no more than two inches long.

Dean may be on the ground with a smarting forehead, but he’s still got the upper hand. He grabs her knife-wielding arm and whips out his pistol from his belt. Her eyes widen, and she stills above him. The gun lies between them, aimed for her chest. They’re both breathing hard.

Dean has a problem.

Looking into her eyes, soulful and brown, the slope of her nose and her full lips, parted with shock… 

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[take-it-on-the-run]

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

[endursent]

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 summary; You have always been sensitive to the foul miasma left behind by dead gods, the terrible energy that seeps into the earth and poisons any living creature that comes into prolonged contact with it. You've made a living of cleansing and purifying these energies from humans and fields in small villages in exchange for food, places to sleep and clothing, you had just settled in a particularly affected village when you are suddenly summoned to the palace of the gods of this land and have no choice but to accept.

Through corruption and war, Morax can only hope the stones of the earth are steadier than your fate, plagued by a sudden misfortune that threatens your balance on solid ground. 】

【 note; this is an ongoing fic i've been posting on ao3 and decided to post it here too. please keep in mind that this is a multi-chapter slow burn, this is the first chapter, and i'll be posting the others over the next days to not clog the tags. read it here on ao3 if you're impatient, it might also be a good idea to look at the tags while you're there. 】

【 word count; 5.322 | next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 1 - Left in the Woods

“Please… stay still,” you practically plead with the small boy, he’s barely a child and is currently wailing and pulling on your sleeve as you try to cure his ailment. His mother is on the other side of the bed, prying his small hands off of your clothes to let you work, but the loud crying makes it difficult to focus.

 “I’m sorry, he doesn’t usually cry like this, Si Leng is a polite boy,” his mother apologises, holding the boy’s hands gently, her greying hair is disheveled and sticks to her forehead as she tries to calm her son down with soothing strokes of her thumbs over his small hands.

 You shake your head but say nothing, you don’t have much time to extract the miasma from the boy’s skin before it seeps deeper. His mother had barged into your home holding him as he wailed and cried, a dead bird in his dirty hands–you had instantly sensed the foul energies clinging to the bird, and now seeped into Si Leng’s body. His skin is pale and the dark taint visibly wriggles under his skin, having wormed its way into a cut on his knee he got from playing this morning after having held the bird for so long. How the bird came to near seep with corruption was something you intended to find out after finishing your first task.

 The corruption is spreading from his knee, prodding at his skin, you judge the distance both by Si Leng’s increase in crying–it really isn’t helping your focus, but you can’t blame him–as well as the way his skin softens where the area is affected, like poking pudding. You reach for a small cart next to you and bring out an old bell, the bottom is rusted and chipped, but it works better than any newly crafted bell the village chief has gifted you. The chime causes the darkened slithers of the corruption to jolt back, then return their advance, and jolt back as it chimes again. Si Leng’s hands fly to his ears as it chimes, it sounds short and unimpressive to your and his mother’s ears, but the taint in his body increases his sensitivity fourfold, especially to blessed tools.

 As the darkness jolts and twitches, you dip your brush in the ink next to where the bell had been, and utter under your breath as you paint intricate lines over his thigh and calf, in the middle of an uncompleted circle around his leg, you drag the brush into a character that seals the circle. The corruption touches the ink, but doesn’t progress, it’s confined to the area of his knee, and just a bit above and below.

 Si Leng’s mother watches carefully, relief in her dark eyes as the spread halts. “Ah, thank you, it’s–”

 “It’s not done, please be quiet,” you don’t mean to sound harsh, but the extraction requires a lot of focus and having someone talk to you is probably the largest distraction you face when cleansing. “Hold him tightly, he will squirm and thrash,” you warn, setting your brush aside and taking a jar from the same cart. Holding your palm over his knee, you close your eyes and take a breath, searching the energy in his body, trailing the lines down to his knee–there, you fist your hand and Si Leng’s wail turns to a scream.

 “W-why!?” his mother cries, holding him into a sitting position so she can encircle his torso better, the little boy’s hands clutching at his mother once more and tighter than before. “Why is he screaming?”

 The extraction takes your utmost focus, so you don’t reply–or really listen, anticipating questions. You usually purify or extract such miasma from objects or fields of wheat, not people, thus there never been a mouth to scream with and the sound is difficult to adjust to… a scream as a result of your work makes every nerve in your body twitch and demand you stop, but you press on regardless, stopping in the middle of a cleansing would only make the spread worse. Dark tendrils akin to thick mist flow from the deep scratch on his knee and into the jar, it takes almost eight minutes of focus and careful extraction to pull the last of the taint from his leg and as soon as the last is out, you shut the jar and slap a paper talisman over it–it’s a temporary solution, dispersing it will come later.

 Si Leng doesn’t stop crying–he does stop screaming–but seems more aware of his surroundings, enough to cling to his mother like a lifeline. It’s not unsurprising the poor boy still cries, all he knows is that it hurt and the lady at the end of the street made it hurt more before it was finally gone. You wouldn’t be surprised if he bolts away after seeing you on the street for a few weeks.

 You let out a breath, feeling as if you had just run five laps around the village and took a dip in the cold springs down the hill… but it was done. You set the jar aside and stood to set your hands in a basket of water, rinsing them before drying as Si Ling’s mother calmed him down, he fell asleep in only a few minutes. “Thank you,” his mother lifted him up and held against her chest, his head pressed into her shoulder. “I’ll fetch payment straight away, I don’t know how this happened, he was just playing in the woods with his brother–they never go further than the stream.”

 You walk to the burning incense on the table, set up to cleanse the air and ensure the corruption couldn’t escape if anything went wrong before the extraction could begin, but now that it was over it only made the house feels stuffed, the thick smell of the incense made your nose tickle if it stayed for too long, you place the burning end in the small bowl of sand next to it and open a window, waving your hand slightly to usher it out. “Could you ask your oldest son where they went? I need to investigate what happened to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

 “Of course! I’ll be back momentarily!” she nodded and bowed thrice before hurrying out of your home, you stepped outside and meant to tell her the recovery process… but if she’s coming right back, there’s no need to rush after her.

 Closing the door behind you, your eye catches the deceased bird laying on your kitchen table–it was practically reeking darkness and foul energies, surely it didn’t gain all of this from around here? Your village is small and tucked against a tall mountain south inside the Guili Assembly, just a two day trek to the “disputed” border to the next territory. Every few weeks the Millelith Brigade would pass by either coming to or leaving the border, it was a line of tall mountains, and every so often either side would inch over the top and gain the higher ground, ensuring their position until the next storm drove them off and the other would regain it. They would occasionally come to your village for small things that the village could afford, they even brought two strange artifacts to you once that were steeped with corruption–the amount of mora plopped in your hands after cleansing them was enough to let you travel east and shop in the larger town closer to the ocean for produce that wasn’t readily available in your small village.

 Could the bird have flown from there? The situation wasn’t particularly perilous at the moment, or so you’ve heard in passing, so why would such dark energies gather there? Perhaps it came from somewhere else…

 As you consider where it must have come from and try to ignore the exhaustion that pulls your muscles downwards–as if it wants to pull you into the earth–you prod at it’s body and examine the flow of the corruption, you were about to reach for your bell when a knock comes from the door. Expecting it to be Si Leng’s mother–you never quite got her name, she lives alone with her two boys and primarily sews… she even has a small box you can put your clothing into with your name on a wooden slab wrapped inside and she’ll have her sons bring it back when she’s done–you don’t make a move to turn around, merely calling for them to enter.

 “I apologise for the intrusion… but is this the village exorcist’s home?” an unfamiliar voice says, you turn and see a man in your doorway. He has slicked back brown hair and wears common travel clothes, a bamboo box on his back and a hat of the same material on top of it, there also seems to be a faintly green streak in his hair on the left side.

 “Ah, yes, that would be me, can I help you?” you moved to stand in front of the bird… it would be quite strange that you just have a dead bird on your kitchen table–it clearly hadn’t been prepared enough to eat, you would usually at least pull the feathers outside.

 The man stepped further inside, it was difficult to read his expression… but he didn’t seem to be in a bad mood, your village doesn’t get many visitors so your introductory skills are lacking. “My name is Houzhang, I was trekking further south in search of a specific herb when I began to feel ill… I already saw a doctor at the Millelith camp by the border but they couldn’t find anything, I fear lingering miasma from the recent battle may be affecting me and they sent me here.”

 You put a hand on your chin, inclining your head to the side as you looked him up and down… he wasn’t particularly pale, there was a healthy tan to his skin and his face didn’t indicate any discomfort, it indicated very little in fact. “Okay, let’s have a look, come sit,” you gestured to the table where Si Leng had been before and moved to clean your hands again, you didn’t want to touch a potentially tainted person with hands that just prodded at a dead bird. Approaching the man as he sat down, you slowed your breath to focus, you had always had a keen affinity for sensing fouler energies, ones of corruption and death. The war between gods had reigned for many human generations now and every time a god perished, they released a terrible amount of miasma into the earth, dark energies that seep into the soil and poison the land and creatures around it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only circumstance this taint could appear under. Immense despair, pain or grief can breed it as well, though it requires either a powerful being or a large collective to do so.

 The man sat patiently under your scrutinising gaze. Surprisingly, you did sense a thick gathering of dark energies in his body–his left hip specifically. “Were you injured?” you asked. The miasma would only gather like this in one specific spot if there was a terrible injury there, if it was exposure by being close to lingering energies, the entire body would seem to have a heavy blanket of it over it.

 “No, but I was directly under the mountain for three days,” Houzhang said.

 “…” your eyebrows furrowed, no sign of sweating either… you counted his breaths and they had a normal frequency. “Hm, please lie down.” he did as you asked and you brought your little cart of tools over, less intimidating than that of a doctor’s though. You poked and prodded at his torso, asking if any specific place hurt or felt numb–he had probably already been asked this by an actual doctor, but you were doing it for a different reason and thus the answer would gain different results. He always said no and you began to doubt there was really anything wrong with this guy, if it weren’t for that condensed spot.

 You poked at the corrupt spot with two fingers… and it moved… you blinked.

 You poked again, and it seemed to fall down his side.

 “…”

 “…”

 He pulled out a small wooden doll from inside his robes, it was round and carved like a furry forest creature. “It was this,” he didn’t sound surprised at all, and he held it towards you. “Can you cleanse it?”

 Why didn’t he just lead with that? What was with making her examine him? Is he a weirdo of some sort? You sighed and took the doll. “Sure, please be patient.” You stood and brought it to a table next to the bed, you had already extracted the taint from a human today, so this would absolutely drain you, but you kind of wanted this guy out of your house because of the weird… display, and interaction. Doing the same as you always do, you lit the incense on the table and closed the windows, you lit the two candles on each end of the table and took out a talisman to lay on to the table. Houzhang watched you work in silence, eyes following every single move you made. Eventually, the doll was clear of the foul energies clinging to it and you handed it back to the man.

 You honestly felt as though every movement you made was akin to wading through stomach-high water.

 He examined the doll carefully and then nodded. “Very good.”

 Very good? Are you being graded?

 “This one apologises for deceiving you,” Houzhang said. “The doll being corrupted was intentional, one did not want to waste your time.” He stands up and hands you the doll back. You’re not entirely sure what to do with it, or why he handed it to you, so you just hold it. “Please come to the capital, we have need of a cleanser, if half-skilled.”

 The capital? Half-skilled ?

 You handed the doll back to him, and he took it to your surprise. “The capital? Who is ‘we’? The capital isn’t exactly close by, and this village is high-risk when it comes to taint and corruption due to its proximity to the southern mountains. Who is going to take care of things here?”

 Houzhang didn’t seem particularly pleased with your questions, it seemed that he expected you to simply say yes and trot along. “The nearby Millelith Brigade will protect it, if they have problems they can’t fix, they can travel to the capital.”

 “You make it sound like a day trip,” you said, slightly exasperated… after two cleansings, you really just want him to leave and let you sleep until midnight. “Do you ride on a cloud or something?”

 He blinked at your question. “No, this one travels normally.” How vague. “It is only a twelve hour journey.”

 Twelve hours? It took you four days every single time that you have gone there, what are this guy’s legs made of? Even by cart it would take two days at best. “You’re lying.”

 “This one doesn’t lie,” he insists, clearly offended that you would suggest such a thing.

 “Okay,” you waved your hand vaguely, why had he changed his speech a minute ago? “But do you expect me to come along with you just because you said so? I’d need some–” you were cut off by a scroll being thrust into your hands. You looked down at it with bewilderment.

 The outside had an intricate golden pattern over a deep brown cover that protected the paper, it was bound with a blue silk streaked with a pale grey pattern that was different to the golden one and a small white ore attached to the end of the silk. Oh… this is a scroll from the palace, where the two gods of this land reside. From them.

 You stared at Houzhang as if he had grown two heads, he simply folded his arms over his chest and waited.

 Opening the scroll, you carefully set it out on the table after moving some blank papers aside. ‘We ask that you travel to the capital of the Guili Assembly to provide cleansing services to the palace. Travel safely.’

 Who wrote this? It’s not exactly what you expected of a godly summon, you were expecting more… grandiose? Something like ‘By mandate of the heavens and the will of the gods, you are hereby summoned…’? Though, the calligraphy was absolutely beautiful… you write a lot for your talismans and seals, but whoever wrote this could write poems and have the characters convey it equally in writing and art.

 Houzhang seemed impatient with your dumb staring and spoke. “Well? Let us depart.”

 Snapped out of your thoughts, you nearly clapped the scroll shut. “How long will this take?”

 “There are a lot of people in need of cleansing,” was his only answer.

 You can only help two people in one day, tops, at your skill and energy level… you’ll need to work hard. It’s not like you can say no to the palace of the land’s gods, and you can safely assume this man works in the palace at the very least–honestly, this guy is so weird you would almost think he was one of the gods in the palace.

 Houzhang stood and waited as you tossed some clothes in a basket, he took the bamboo box from his back and set it down, telling you to use it as well… there were three corrupt dolls on the bottom of the basket, so you declined, you’d rather like your clothes to be clear of foul energies. After packing your tools at last, you looked around… there might be a while until you come back home. It hasn’t been your home for a very long time, only a few years… but it’s quiet and peaceful, it’s been nice and it feels a bit bad to leave, like there’s a small force trying to keep you tethered to it. You moved here only three years ago to assist the village with its frequent corruptions, you had set up barriers and cleansed the farms, but it always seemed to slip through the cracks, no matter how tightly you sealed it. You just hope they’ll be alright, they’re a hard-working bunch.

 As you and Houzhang leave, Si Lang’s mother was just about to knock on the door. “Oh…” she looks at the basket on your back. “Where are you going?”

 You give a small smile, it’s almost sheepish, like you were caught doing something you shouldn’t–and you probably shouldn’t leave without warning, but goodbyes are hard and you suspect Houzhang won’t wait patiently while some villagers ask you to stay, or try and bribe you with their rice dishes (you would cave). “Ah, I’ll be going to the capital for a while, but I’ll be back soon.” you decided not to delve into too many details, but you do hope you will return relatively soon.

 “Ah,” she seemed surprised, but then set a heavy robe in your hands. “Then, this might help! Yu Ming gave me this, saying she didn’t need it anymore, and… it was a bit torn, but I fixed it and it’s too small for me,” it was a heavy travel robe, perfect for colder months and coloured a deep blue with brown fur lining, though it’s freshly spring so it wouldn’t exactly come in handy at the moment. Either way, you knew better than to reject a payment, you gave her a smile and thanked her as she saw you off. You made sure to double-check the seal protecting the village and ensured it would hold for a good while… it should be fine for almost a year if nothing catastrophic happens.

 After walking for a while, the robe was getting very heavy in your hands, and your basket was stuffed… Houzhang took it from you and set it in the basket on his back wordlessly, as soon as he had convinced you to go, he seemed to have lost interest in talking, as if he only had done so to begin with because he had to.

 Despite that, he did speak about two and a half hours into the trip. “This one deceived you twice, one is not named Houzhang. Now that we are away from the village and you have agreed to come, you can call this one Moon Carver.”

 You stared at him.

 Why does he say that so casually? As if you have never heard that name before? “No way. You’re not. You’re deceiving me for the third time.”

 He immediately seemed both offended and annoyed at that. “Believe what you want, it won’t affect your surroundings.”

 “Prove it,” you insisted. “There’s no way, Moon Carver isn’t just some guy,” you looked him up and down, he was entirely normal, there was not a thing that stood out except perhaps for the green streak in his hair.

 “This one doesn’t need to prove anything,” he folded his arms, gaze forward… and thus, he began to ignore you. No matter what you said or did, he didn’t reply nor even look at you, it was entirely annoying as well as slightly amusing. If he really was Moon Carver, one of the adepti at Rex Lapis’ side that has saved countless people and villages, felled beasts and gods… it was rather funny how easily frustrated he got–but perhaps it was best not to intentionally get on his bad side… just in case he wasn’t lying. It would be a rather bold lie, if he was caught lying it surely wouldn’t be hidden for so long.

 After passing a stream, you stepped off the path causing ‘Moon Carver’ to halt, he watched as you took our a small jar, the one you had used earlier to contain the miasma extracted from Si Leng, and dissipated it into the wind gliding above the water, making sure it didn’t enter the water.

 Three hours later, you stepped off the path again, this time to dispose of the bird, pressing a more advanced seal to its body and burying it into the ground, it will slowly erode the miasma and the ground will claim the corpse. You don’t have the energy to cleanse another thing today, so this is the next best thing, though not an immediate solution.

 It’s almost a straight walk north towards the capital, it’s mostly hills and plains, flanked by high mountains that shield the cool winds from the eastern ocean. There is a brief period of woods on the last day of walking, but you would need to sleep under the open sky for two nights. Before the forest is a small village that makes most of its mora housing travelers and Millelith making the trek between the capital and the southern border.

 In silence, you and ‘Moon Carver’ continue walking towards the capital, as you had said, it was indeed not a twelve hour trip and the alleged Adeptus was very unhappy with the slow progress. You set a blanket on the ground as the two of you took a break for the first night–you had to almost plead to stop and rest, maybe this guy really is who he says he is, he wasn’t at all bothered with the trek… meanwhile you are dead on your feet from the events of the day and an eight hour walk. “You know, if you really are Moon Carver, why can’t I just ride on your back to the capital? Then it would only take a few hours.”

 He didn’t even consider it. “No, not just anyone can ride on this one’s back, one is not a form of transport,” he crossed his arms again, his robes would gain permanent wrinkles if he didn’t keep them uncrossed for more than five minutes at a time.

 The walk took four days, but you arrived earlier than usual on the fourth day, just before noon—you had always arrived at the capital after dark and seen the way the lights lit up the large city, after everyone had retired and the streets were relatively empty.

 Today, it was the opposite.

 The crowd was so large that you thought every single person in the Guili Assembly had just gathered here today, the gates were wide open and you could barely hear yourself or ‘Moon Carver’ (you still don’t entirely believe him, he certainly made it more difficult by refusing to prove it, it’s a game at this point) as you walked the streets. “What’s going on today?” you called to him, almost walking into three different people just to enter through the massive gates to the city. You don’t recall there being a specific holiday.

 ‘Moon Carver’ leaned closer so that you could hear him better. “When the oceans warm with the spring, the oceanic gods slumber for three weeks to adjust to the temperature, allowing fishing further from shore–the first batch of seafood has arrived and culminates in a festival of foods.”

 The village you left, as well as your birth village aren’t within appropriate distance for the villagers themselves to fish in the ocean and thus it wasn’t celebrated there, but you do recall that the fish bought from traveling merchants always seems larger halfway through spring.

 After a while of practically wading through the crowd like you would a swamp, ‘Moon Carver’ suddenly tells you that he must see to a task that will only take a short while, and that you should wait exactly where you are for him to return. Thankful for the breather–there are a lot of steps up to the palaces and the peak of the capital–you find a good rock to sit on that reaches about to your knees and decide to rest and observe the festival.

 The capital is huge, larger than any other village or town in the Guili Assembly, built over several human generations under the rule of the same two gods, two gods… that you kind of hope you won’t have to directly face, surely the scroll you were sent was penned by some civil official? Perhaps a doctor or some kind of supervisor in the palace? Though there are technically two palaces at the peak of the capital, one belonging to Rex Lapis, and the other to the Lord of Dust, there are several connecting buildings between them that make them appear as a single palace with two large buildings on opposite sides. The thought of standing before the gods of the land is nerve wracking, especially since they requested your specific help.

 You’re far from the only exorcist or cleanser in this land, but you like to think you’re alright at it… or ‘half-skilled’ as ‘Moon Carver’ so eloquently put it. Now that you’re in the capital, directly under the gods’ gazes… you’re starting to think he was probably not lying, which is a bit embarrassing–but can you be blamed for being doubtful? Who would believe you if you said an adeptus came to your house, played a trick on you and gave you a scroll that summoned you to the gods’ palace!?

 Now deep in thought as the festival continued around you, you barely noticed your rumbling stomach, it wasn’t until it stung that you realised how hungry you are. Considering this is a festival celebrating food, why not try it out? If you can get through the crowd, that is.

 Elbowing yourself through some people–and being elbowed thrice–just standing around in the middle of the street, you manage to observe some stalls. Most of the food was a type of seafood, predictably. Fish cooked in all possible ways from grilled to boiled, squids to prawns, crab to jellyfish. A lot of the options were both curious and enticing, there was a lot of foods cooked in ways you hadn’t tried before, but you were hungry and needed something filling that you knew you wouldn’t dislike, you’re sure the festival goes on for a few days, you can come back and try some new things later. You purchased three large steamed buns, two for eating and one for saving for later, they were stuffed with smoked salmon and vegetables and you hoped it would taste just as good as it smelled.

 Returning to your little rock, you saw that your spot had been stolen, you were certain it was a safe spot to use as respite as it was directly under the sun and had no cover, most people sitting around did so under some shade or next to trees lining the wide streets. You stuffed your buns into your sleeve and approached the rock… what kind of creature is this?

 It was small but long, it had brown scales that shimmered and reflected under the sun, giving it a strangely golden shine that didn’t take away from the earthly colour. It had a thick mane leading from it’s head and down slightly below it’s faintly glowing antlers, and after that did lighter fur take its place, lining the spine of the creature all the way down to the tuft at the end, twitching faintly as it stares at you without blinking once.

 You had never seen anything like it before, it was too skinny to be a cat, and cats don’t generally have antlers like this, or scales… but it was similar in size… you stared down at the creature for a while, unsure if just to give up your spot or try and scoop it away. You have no idea how long it will take Moon Carver to return, and you don’t want to sit on the ground, maybe this little thing will accept sharing? If you share first, you assume.

 So, you take forth one of the buns in your sleeve and crouch in front of the strange creature. “Hey… you,” you hold the bun to its small nose. Its nose twitches as the creature sniffs the bun and its two long whiskers sway. “You kind of took my spot, and I need to wait a while… will you scoot if I give you one of my buns?”

 The creature’s eyes are so… almost aggressively noticeable, the glowing amber burning holes in your own eyes before it turns its snout up and away… that’s a no, then. Your shoulders slump slightly. “Please? You can sit with me? I’ll pet you?”

 It’s head turned further up, so far you thought it might fall backwards and roll off the stone.

 “What are you doing?” you heard a voice behind you and looked over your shoulder, Moon Carver stood behind you, looking at you as if he wished he wasn’t there at the moment.

 You turned back to the rock to see the small creature gone, maybe Moon Carver’s presence scared it away, or it took the opportunity to leave before you could just simply pick it up and move it off the rock. Well, since Moon Carver is here there’s no need to sit on the rock anyway so you stand up and straighten your clothes. “Nothing, I just saw a little creature here, I’ve never seen one like it before.”

 “Creature? Bugs are hardly creatures,” he says simply.

 “No, it was a long creature, it had scales and antlers, it didn’t want my bun as a bargain,” you explained, making a gesture with your hands as to circa how long the creature had been. “Brown with sun-orange eyes?”

 Moon Carver only stares as you try to explain, to a point you thought you might have hallucinated the encounter. You gave up and lowered your hands, it doesn’t seem like he believed you. And why would he believe you? Is he supposed to believe that the esteemed Rex Lapis was lounging around on a rock on a random street as a miniature version of himself? Absolutely not.

[magniloquent-raven]

I am once again plagued with thoughts that aren't 100% coherent so imma just ramble for a bit, pls gather 'round for some stuff about Billy and body image issues cuz I'm in my feels rn.

Billy spends a lot of time staring at Nancy.

Enough that Tommy's noticed and he starts ribbing him about it. "That's one thing of Steve's you might want to stay away from," bitter and pointed. Enough that Jonathan Byers gives him the stink eye whenever he's within glaring distance. Enough that a handful of the more desperate chicks still high off the fumes of his New Kid smell have started dressing like fucking librarians in hopes of catching his eye.

He doesn't give a shit about any of it, if anything the rumour mill is helping him out for once. Less work involved in keeping up appearances if everyone just assumes he isn't sleeping around because he's too busy sniffing Wheeler's granny panties.

As long as no one guesses the real reason, it's fine. It's fucking peachy. It's one silver lining in this shitstorm of a situation.

He's so tired of his eyes inevitably being drawn to her barely-there tits and tiny waist. Every time he's bored at lunch, his gaze wanders. When he's in the library pretending to study, there she fucking is, even smaller when she's hunched over a pile of cue cards.

The longer he looks at her the more sure he is that Steve will never really want him.

Steve's slept with plenty of girls. A variety of girls. He probably couldn't afford to be too picky in this shitty little town. But he's only fallen in love once. One time. The only time it mattered what he was sticking his dick in was when it was in Nancy Wheeler.

And Billy...will never be her. Not even close.

He'll only ever be a warm mouth and a convenient hand, he'll never matter.

She's flat, and thin. Willowy, narrow-shouldered. Petite. Inches shorter than him and nearly half as broad. Thin fingers and delicate wrists. She fit comfortably under Steve's arm, she could nestle safely into his side.

And it was all so fucking easy for her. She never had to try.

She never had to piss off her dad so she'd be forced to skip meals. She never did laps around her neighbourhood until she was lightheaded and doubled over, dry-heaving in someone's hedge. She was never forced to sign up for baseball as a child, poked and prodded and guilted into it because a couple shirts were starting to get tight across the stomach, and being a momma's boy was bad enough, being a fat, lazy piece of shit too was unacceptable.

He used to think he'd done well, maintaining the physique he has. He's worked hard for it. Scraping together his savings for a weight set and keeping careful track of his calorie intake and never skipping a single fucking day of exercise, hangovers and broken bones be damned. And it's fucking useful, truth be told. More than keeping away the echo of old insults bouncing around in his head, it's made flirting that much easier.

But the more he looks at Nancy Wheeler, the more he hates the things he can't change. It gets into his head. Digs in deep, leaving scars on its way down.

He thinks Steve might've noticed.

He knows Steve has heard the stupid rumours about Wheeler, and probably chalked it up to Billy being an asshole, as usual. But it's harder to explain away his sudden tendency to go extremely still whenever Steve puts his hands anywhere on his torso. A palm pressed to his chest, slipped under his shirt, or fingertips digging into his back, or a casual fucking pat on the shoulder—whatever it is, he can't help freezing up, if only for a second, a sick feeling twisting his stomach, cold and shameful and clawing at his lungs.

And then, eventually, they argue.

It's over nothing. And everything. Billy can't explain what his fucking damage is, and Steve can't stop needling in the wrong places. They scream at each other until their throats are raw and Billy leaves when his knuckles start to itch.

He cries all the way home and doesn't eat for four days. Not on purpose. Not consciously. He's just. Fucking. Busy. He's busy. He's always gotta drive Max somewhere or dodge Neil's thinly veiled threats or lock himself in his room when bile starts to bubble up in the back of his throat and his head pounds and he doesn't think about why he's snapping at everyone constantly, he just pounds back a couple beers and goes to sleep. And then it's four days later, and he's flying off the handle at Neil, too sluggish and lightheaded to see the hit coming, and...

Steve comes to see him at the hospital. He hasn't told anyone anything but they've got him hooked up to a banana bag and the nurses keep making sad eyes at him when they come to check his stitches.

He hates it, sitting around doing nothing, being closely monitored every fucking second, it make his skin crawl, and he hates it even more when Steve's standing in the doorway looking at him.

Not for the first time, he's overwhelmed wondering what exactly Steve sees.

He's a fucking mess right now. Greasy hair tangled at the back, bruises peeking out from under the collar of his gross papery hospital gown, one eye swollen shut and a dark tangle of thread holding his eyebrow together. It feels stupid to get stressed about all the shit that usually bothers him when there's so many other things to worry about, but he still finds himself shifting in place, hunching his shoulders, hiding his hands in the crooks of his elbows.

It's sort of a disaster. Worse than last time they saw each other. Billy's not in the mood for Steve's apologies and Steve's at a loss for what else to say.

They don't see each other again for months. Steve graduates. Billy avoids anywhere he thinks Steve might be, and lies awake at night haunted by stolen touches.

He catches a glimpse of Steve through the red haze of storm clouds and cold lightning, tears blurring his vision, the Mind Flayer wearing him like a suit. Their cars collide, and everything whites out for a second.

He's in the hospital again when they finally talk. Billy rolls his eyes at "We've gotta stop meeting like this," and tries not to think about last time he was here. Steve seems more than willing to ignore it. Move forward. Guess demonic possession puts some things into a different perspective.

When Billy's released from the hospital he's seventeen pounds heavier than he was a few months ago. Every time the nurses did their check-ups and put him on the scale they'd pat his elbow, smiling encouragingly, telling him how good he was doing while he watched his stomach get softer, his biceps get less defined, watched himself disappear beneath a layer of fat.

The first thing he does when he gets home is throw up.

He doesn't make it happen. It just happens. And he blames it on the meds they have him on. It's a plausible enough reason, and it means he doesn't have to interrogate the tiny spark of satisfaction he got from losing his lunch.

His second day back home Neil asks him when he's going to start exercising again. His expression is pinched. Cold. His eyes are ice chips freezing Billy's skin wherever they touch, lingering on the softness under his chin, and where the hem of his sleeve pinches his skin.

He pushes his dinner away and grits out an answer from between clenched teeth.

He doesn't need the reminder that he's gotten weak while he was trapped in a hospital bed, but Neil gives it to him anyways. Tells him all about everything he should do to get things back to normal. Push past the pain. Work harder. He tunes it out after a while, and watches grease congeal on his meatloaf.

Eddie Munson is the first person to bring up the things Billy's never known how to talk about.

They started hanging out after Billy's most recent brush with death. Billy's not sure exactly how the got here, from buying the occasional painkiller and letting the guy wax poetic about his dumb band, to spending weekends getting high together at the trailer park. But as weird things in his life go, it's barely worth questioning.

This particular conversation starts with Chrissy Cunningham.

Specifically, Eddie's massive boner for her.

Billy's been noticing it for a while. He hasn't been letting it bother him.

He hasn't.

Maybe he likes the way Eddie smiles at him when they pass a joint back and forth, lazily stretched out and wearing three less layers than usual, and maybe he thinks about closing the distance between them when Eddie offers to shotgun, but it doesn't fucking matter. Just like it doesn't matter that Steve hasn't touched him since before the Mind Flayer and things are fucking weird now that they're on speaking terms again. None of it matters, he's just a fucking idiot.

Because Steve and his new best friend Robin are attached at the hip lately and everyone can see where that's going, and Eddie won't stop talking about tiny, pretty, perfect fucking Chrissy and her stupid ponytail.

And Billy...Billy gets winded walking up the porch steps at his house now. And he pulled a muscle in his back trying to lift half the weight he used to press. And last week he burned three pairs of jeans in the backyard because he kept grabbing them out of his laundry pile, not realizing they don't fit anymore until he was struggling to pull them up past his knees.

He's lost the one thing people used to actually like about him. Never the people he wanted, he was never enough for that, but it was something. Now he's just...

Now he's just listening to a guy he likes talk about some goddamn cheerleader like she personally hung the moon just for him.

And he's drunk. They're both drunk. Eddie in a soppy, embarrassing way, with a sparkle in his eye and a flush on his cheeks, an arm across the back of the couch, outstretched far enough that the tips of his fingers almost brush Billy's shoulder.

He wants to move closer. Thinks about shuffling into Eddie's space, curling into the warmth at his side. But it twists in his guts, sours, sickens—he couldn't, he can't. And he hates himself for wanting to.

"What do you see in her?" spills out of his mouth, bitter on his tongue and sharpened by anger he has no right to feel.

She's pretty. He expects it. She's pretty, she's perfect. She's a fucking angel even though her and Eddie only know each other because she buys drugs off of him. But she can do no wrong because she looks like a little china doll with sad eyes and everyone would be devastated if a single hair on her tiny delicate head was harmed.

Eddie only looks thrown off for a second. A moment. But he shrugs it off, leans his head back against the couch cushions and grins at the ceiling. "She likes my music."

Since fucking when.

"So, what, it's just an ego stroking thing then."

"Nah, man. I mean. Like. She's got this whole good-girl thing going on, but you should see her when I pull out my guitar, it's fuckin'...magic. When she lets herself just. Live." He wiggles his fingers in the air, arms spread, then drops them back down.

Billy's heart clenches, squeezes. It hurts and he doesn't know why. "Bullshit."

"Nah, nah. Seriously. The guy she's dating is a fucking asshole. And her mom..." he trails off, and rubs his eye. "She's just got all this pressure to be perfect, act a certain way, look a certain way, be a certain way, and I hate seeing what it does to her, man. I hate it. No one should have to deal with all that. So. I dunno. I like helping her cut loose. Sorta, find herself, I guess." He cracks a crooked smile, casting a glance in Billy's direction.

And his smile drops.

"Billy?" He sits up, cautious, eyebrows up and his eyes wide.

Billy turns away, shocked into motion, wiping at his face with his sleeve. "I'm fine. Fuck off."

He didn't notice he was crying until Eddie looked at him like he'd seen a ghost.

"Yeah, obviously."

"Fuck you."

Eddie doesn't get much more out of him that night. But he starts watching Billy like a hawk after that. Checking in on him at random. Calling if they haven't seen each other in a few days. It should be irritating as fuck, and he acts like it is, but he still basks in the attention.

Doesn't hurt that it seems to annoy Steve to no end.

Especially doesn't hurt when, in a fit of apparent jealousy, Steve shoves Billy into a wall and kisses him like his life depends on it.

The hurt comes when Steve starts to unbutton Billy's shirt and Billy reflexively shoves him away, when he wants to keep going but wants it to stop and can't tell Steve either of those things because he doesn't have the words.

So he gets angry. At Steve, for pushing it, crossing lines he can't even see. But mostly at himself, because it might be easier than standing there heartbroken but he knows it's the worst thing he could do.

And at Steve, again, when the he doesn't respond the way he should. Doesn't punish Billy for doing the wrong thing, reacting wrong, being wrong. He doesn't withdraw and save himself, he tries to understand, tries to talk it out, like this is something Billy can just say out loud and it'll all be fixed.

He doesn't explain. Not that day. But he lets Steve hold him while he cries, ugly gasping sobs into the front of Steve's shirt, curled up in his lap, collapsed on the floor and tangled together. Because despite everything he's told himself, he does fit comfortably in Steve's arms.

💜tag list ppl💜 @spreckle @growup-thatbeautiful @prettyboy-like-you @suddenlyinlove

[thlayli-ra]

Punkintyre; a twisted love story

As anyone who follows my blog knows, I like posting my headcanons and LOVE posting about Punkintyre, and yet the two have never met... until now! This will be very long and probably split into different parts as I have a lot to say about them. So sit, back, relax and enjoy.

***Please note; this is all my own personal headcanons just for a bit of fun***

Punkintyre, at its core, is a story of obsession, possession and hate. Fiercely passionate hate. The kind of hate that consumes the soul entirely, and once it has destroyed the vessel, it goes on to destroy everything else around it.

But above all, to me, the essence of Punkintyre is that it's a story of unrequited love.

To understand this better, let's look at the players in this ship;

Drew McIntyre - 'You complete me!'

By the close of 2023, Drew was already a good girl gone bad. Having been a popular babyface for years, his attitude had noticeably changed after a series of disappointing losses, becoming more aggressive, ruthless and caring only about himself. The crowd didn't like this new direction and were rapidly turning on him.

Then hell froze over! CM Punk made his glorious return.

And Drew had an epiphany! Here was a true villain, a man currently looming beneath a large, dark cloud. A cancer. A disease, threatening to infect the WWE with his sickness. At the Royal Rumble, he targeted Punk and injured him, putting him out on the shelf for months. Drew basked in his triumph, calling himself the Saviour of Wrestlemania and waited with anticipation for his flowers. Because, if there was one thing that was guaranteed, it was that everybody hated Punk far more than they hated Drew.

Except... they didn't! The mindless drones had already been swayed by the lies of the wolf in sheep's clothing, had already fallen for Punk and his cult of personality. Drew made it his mission to wake them up; to rip that smiling mask off of Punk's face and expose the putrid flesh beneath, show them all the monster that Punk truly was.

To do this, he used the same weapon that caused Punk's downfall in AEW; social media. He constantly mocked and prodded at Punk, hoping to elicit a reaction from the notoriously thin-skinned veteran. He got plenty; but only from the fans. Not from the one he craved! So he pushed harder. Vandalised his signature ringer tee, used Punk's own move set, his entrance, visited his favourite bakery in his beloved hometown and bought him muffins.

Soon, he found himself flying high. His popularity had taken a massive up-swing, tongues were wagging, people were sitting up and listening, waiting on tender hooks for his next move. So he fed them, more and more. Taking pot shots at Punk every opportunity he could on every platform at his disposal.

Until Punk had become something else. Something more. Sitting cross-legged on the announce desk opposite the man who had made that particular taunt famous, Drew called him 'my muse', telling Punk that 'you complete me'. And it wasn't a word of a lie. He now needed Punk, needed him like a crutch to lean on. Needed to feed that hate.

Somewhere along the line, Drew's mission had become an obsession. Not for his goal of exposing the man, but for the man himself!

He didn't want to love Punk...

..he needed to!

CM Punk - 'I love you because you love me!'

Punk, meanwhile, is the not-so-innocent innocent in all of this. Punk never wanted all this attention from Drew, calling him 'an ex-girlfriend that I can't get rid of' yet he's the one who's responsible for making Drew's unhealthy infatuation even worse.

Drew accused Punk of being a 'succubus', a sex demon that seduces men and sucks the em... 'life', shall we say, out of them. The metaphor fits well. Punk has a way of seducing those around him, both in the crowd and in the back, sometimes even to the point of insanity (a certain Maxwell Jacob Friedman immediately comes to mind!). Punk fans affectionally refer to it as Punk Derangement Syndrome.

Punk once told a crowd 'I love you because you love me'. He lives for the adoration! He feeds off of the spotlight and the attention it affords him, soaking up any and all reactions from the crowd. Cheer him, boo him, love him, hate him; so long as it's loud, he'll take it. Unlike Cody who struggled with the hate at AEW, Punk faced against the waves and waves of boos battering him from all sides with a shit-eating grin on his face, doing his worst to up the noise even more.

And this is precisely why he just can't drop this petty tit-for-tat with Drew. The man's obsession with him is feeding Punk, and while his attention is a nuisance at best - and dangerous at worst - it's just not in Punk's nature to be the bigger man and let it die. He has to keep poking the bear even if it might tear his face off (which, it eventually does, but we'll get to that Smackdown later).

And so the players are locked into battle. Neither of them willing participants but their respective obsessions have honed in on one another, fingers on the trigger and aching to fire, neither taking heed of who they hurt along the way.

To be continued...

Part 2

[five-rivers]

Cracked Clay Cup Chapter 2

For @greatbigolhampuckjustforme

“How is this organized, anyway?” asked Daniel.  “It isn't alphabetical.”

Clockwork shuddered.  “The debate about which alphabet to use would be interminable.  No.  The list is arranged from eldest to youngest, with groups being averaged.”

“So, the oldest person is on top and the youngest person is on the bottom.”

“That is correct.”

Daniel hummed and wiped up the last of his syrup up off his plate with the last piece of his pancake.  “This Jasmine person is the youngest person who wants me.  Ick, that sounded wrong somehow.”

“She is the youngest person,” said Clockwork.  He was doing something strange with the plates in the sink.  

“Is she, like, really into plants or flowers or something?”

“Are you really into Daniels?”

“I mean.  I don’t know.  My memory’s been erased and all.  For all I know, my name isn’t even Daniel.  It could be William.  Or David.”  Still, he got the point.  He shook his head.  “Ghosts just picking random names.  What is the world coming to?”

“You could always choose to go by another name,” said Clockwork, mildly.  “You are not trapped in it.”

“I know,” said Daniel.  “I’ll keep it for now, though.  Is, um, is the…”

“Her section of the file is colored teal.”

“Thanks,” said Daniel.  He flipped through.  “These aren’t in the same order, you know.”

“I know,” said Clockwork.  He sounded very put upon.  

“You’re not the one who does the organizing, huh?”

“If only I were.”

Daniel looked over the teal pages.  There wasn’t a lot of information on them.  The name, Jasmine, her height, hair color, eye color, a few lines about interests.  

“Not a lot here.”

“You are meant to form your own opinions,” said Clockwork.  

“Enjoys pushing forward the boundaries of knowledge?” he read from the page.  “Interested in modern psychology and brain surgery?”  He looked up at Clockwork.  “This sounds like mad scientist material.”

“You can always skip her, if you feel uncomfortable.”

“No, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to be fair.  So, uh, let’s go.  Let’s do this.”

“In your pajamas?” 

“Well, it’s not like I have anything else, do I?”

“In fact, you do.  There is a closet in your room upstairs.”

“With clothes that are mine?”

“With clothes in a variety of styles in your size.  They are all new, acquired for this process, although you can keep them afterward.”

“So, no way to figure out my style except for experimentation.  Cool.  Great.  Another mystery to solve.”

“Think of it as an interesting puzzle.  An amusing way to pass the time, whilst you are experiencing the various persons who wish to gain custody of you.”

“Uh huh,” said Daniel, pushing his chair out.  “I’m going to go get changed.  Do I need to pack a bag, too, or what?”

“What, in this case.  Any clothing and toiletries you need will be sent to you.”

Daniel nodded and climbed back up the stairs to ‘his’ room.  There was a closet there that he hadn’t noticed before, across from the bathroom.  He opened the door and started to shift through the different outfits.  

That one was too complicated… ugh, weird texture… too much body exposure… ooh, gothic… but also complicated… nice skirt… robe… kilt?  He prodded at the maybe-kilt a little.  He wasn’t sure that it was a kilt.  Well, whatever.  Jeans.  T-shirt.  Hm.  Tempting, if only for its simplicity.  But maybe he wanted something that vibed with his tail a bit better.  Ooh, Egyptian.  

Eventually, he hit on a combination of loose pants, long shirt, and fringed wrap.  Yeah.  That would look good.  Comfortable.  He took off his pajamas and fluffed his tail.  That did feel good.  He put on the pants, then the shirt, and then discovered he did not have great skills with wraps.  So.  He probably didn’t wear them on a daily basis.  Still, with the help of the bathroom mirror, he managed to get it into a more or less presentable arrangement.  He thought he looked good, anyway, and that was all that mattered.  After all, if they already were getting into fights over custody of him, he didn’t exactly have to dress to impress.  

He went back down the stairs, to where Clockwork was waiting, staff in hand.  “Okay, I’m ready.  How do I look?”

“Dressed,” said Clockwork.  

“Helpful,” said Daniel.  

“I am to please.”

“So… How do we get there?”

“Through this,” said Clockwork.  He held up the staff, and a portal spun off the clock at its top.  Then, he held out a small pocketwatch.  “When you want to return, merely click the button on top.”

“Okay,” said Daniel, taking it and looping it's chain around his neck.  “And… I just go through?  No other tricks?”

“No other tricks.  It is the journey of a single step.”

“Right,” said Daniel.  He took a deep breath and stepped forward.  

The transition between places really was smooth.  One minute, he was in Clockwork's purple kitchen, the next, he was in what looked like a completely normal entryway.  

There was a girl there.  She looked human, and was about half a foot taller than he was.  Her hair was red and her cardigan was the same teal as her paper in the file.  Her eyes, too, were blue.  She… really didn’t look like a ghost at all.  She didn’t particularly look like him, either, except for her skin color.  Unless maybe some of her facial features were similar?  Nose shape, perhaps?  He didn’t really remember what he looked like well enough to say.

But, definitely, what stood out the most about her was the fact that she was a girl.  A teenager.  Not a woman, not really.  She couldn’t be more than a few years older than he was.

“Danny,” she said, jumping out of the chair and starting to smile at him. “Hi, I’m–”  She stopped.  

The girl stared.  Daniel stared back.  

“Danny, what are you wearing?” she asked.  

“Clothing,” he said.  He didn’t think this kind of outfit had any particular name.  At least, if it did, he didn’t know it.

“Oh.”

“And… you’re…”

“Oh!  I’m Jazz!  You… really don’t remember me?”

Daniel shook his head, slowly.  

“Well… They did tell me that would happen…”

“I knew you before?”

“Yes!  Yes.  I… was your mother.  Am your mother!”

“Uh,” said Daniel.  “You’re, like, seventeen.  Eighteen, maximum.”

“Time travel was involved.”

“Time travel.”

“Time travel.  You know how things are in the ghost zone.  You get a natural portal, and then, boom!  You’re fifteen years in the past, or the future!”  She laughed, nervously.  “But I’m here, now!  This version of me.  Who is definitely your mother.”

Daniel realized, then, that just because the memory wipe meant that he couldn’t know what his prior connections were, that didn’t mean that other people couldn’t try to capitalize on them.  Or lie about them.  Or lie about them badly.  

“Time travel,” said Daniel, again.  

“I mean, you’re staying with Clockwork, right?”

“Uh, yeah, so?”

“So, he’s sort of a major player in the time travel scene, right?”

“He is?”  It’d explain the clock theme, at least.  

“He is.”

“Oh.  Cool.”  He still didn’t believe her time travel story, though.  “So, like.  If you were time traveling, who raised me?”

“Your, uh, grandparents.  But they can’t really, uh, do it, anymore.  For reasons.  And I’m back!  In the proper time!   So I want to take care of you now.  And this will start our bonding bonanza!  We can start with a tour of the house!”

What.  She did not just say that.  

“Are they the ones who’re disputing your custody?  Because it is a dispute, right?  That’s what this thing is all about.”

“I mean, um, there are seven groups, right?  Counting me?  So, no, it’s not because of them.”

“Right,” said Daniel.  That didn’t rule them out, though.  Maybe they were the ones at the top of the list.

“So, obviously, this is the entryway… At least, you know, when there’s a door.”

Daniel looked behind him.  There was, indeed, no door.  “What?”

“Something about the rules to these things.  We’re not supposed to leave for the duration.”

“What about food?”

“It’s brought in, the same way you were.  So, over here is the kitchen.”

The kitchen was a long, galley affair, with tile countertops and cute floral backsplashes.  It was much more normal than Clockwork’s, at least in terms of colors.  There was a fridge, a microwave, a toaster, and a dishwasher.  

“Do you know who the other six groups are?”

“I mean… I have a guess about some of them, but I don’t really know.  I’d thought Clockwork would be one of them for sure, but…”

“What, really?”  That, at least, didn’t seem like a lie.  “But he’s the neutral party?”

“Yes,” said Jazz.  “But I thought that the two of you were close.  But maybe it was more along the lines of being, I don’t know, work friends.”

“Huh,” said Daniel.  “I… Okay.”

“Yes.  Okay.  So, the fridge is completely safe, no biological or ectobiological samples stored in it.  Just food.  Normal, edible food.  We’ll do the dishes together, of course.  Cups are in here, dishes, pots and pans–”

“Your profile said you were interested in brain surgery,” said Daniel.  

“Oh, yes, that’s one of the things I’m thinking about studying in college!  Once I get into college.  Which will be soon.”

“So, you don’t have, like, a mad science lab in here where you do brain surgery or something like that?”

The girl stared at him.  “Are… you sure you don’t remember anything?”

This was not a promising question.  “Yeah, why?”

“Because you’re assuming that I have a mad science lab in here.  I’m  a high school senior.”

“Which means it’s weird that you’re here with a house at all.”

She made a face.  “It’s… I had some help getting it.  The house, I mean.  But there’s no mad science lab.  There will never be a mad science lab.  Unless you want a mad science lab.  I could probably make some calls.”

“I don’t want a mad science lab.  Why would I want a mad science lab?”

“I don’t know, to tinker in?  You used to do some, um, tinkering.  Mechanical engineering stuff.”

“That’s more of a garage thing, though, isn’t it?”

“I… don’t know.  You only ever did it in the lab.”

“So, we used to have a mad science lab.”

“That’s– I mean–  No.”

Definitely a lie.  They totally had a lab.  Or, at least, Jazz used to have a lab.  What was going on that they had a lab?  Something sinister, doubtlessly.  

“Did you dissect brains in this lab?”

“No!  Like I said, I’m only a student.  A student that is interested in a lot of things, but right now, my thesis is about Ghost Envy.”

“You’re a high school student with a thesis?”

“I’m a high achiever.  Have to make up for all that time lost time traveling.  You’d think you’d gain time!  But.  Yeah.”  She smiled tightly and nodded.  “Living room next!  We have a, er, one of those consoles.  For video games.  I got it from a friend.”

Daniel let Jazz drag him around the house.  It was kind of nice, except for how nervous she got whenever he probed about his past or her supposed time travel.  He didn’t really feel threatened by her, per se, but the lying… it definitely gave him a bit of, how should he put this, anxiety.  

“And here’s your bedroom, Danny!”

The bedroom was actually really cool.  Unlike the rest of the rooms, it had a very clear, very obvious theme beyond just house people can live in.  The theme was space.  The walls and ceiling were painted with constellations.  There were model rockets on shelves.  The desk had an astrolabe and a small model solar system on it, alongside astronomy books.  There were also some novels, composition notebooks and sketchbooks, alongside a variety of markers, but those were tiny points about the overwhelming amount of space.  Even the decorative throw cushions on the bed had galaxy patterns on them!

Danny… he really liked it.  He guessed he had to admit that, at least, Jazz had known him before, and had known him reasonably well.  Even if she wasn’t his mother.  

She’d also turned around to play with a deadbolt on the door.  

“It locks from the inside, because, well, I figured you’d be a bit nervous, staying with someone you know nothing about, and a lock might make you feel safer.”

She wasn’t wrong about that.  “Hey, speaking of safety, you’re still, like, alive?  Human?”

“Yes?” said Jazz.

“Isn’t it a bit weird, trying to get custody of a ghost?”

“Oh, um, I suppose it’s a bit unusual, but you’re my b– My son.  Definitely my son.  So, it’s worth it.  It doesn’t matter to me if you’re a ghost or a human or– Wait, Clockwork told you, right?”

“Told me… what?”

“That you’re not, you know, a normal ghost.”

“I… he might have said something about that.  About being an unusual kind of ghost.”

“So he didn’t tell you that you’re only half ghost?”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It’s a thing.  You can change back and forth between a human - more human - form, and a ghost form.  Like this.”  She gestured at him.  

Danny stared at her.  “That’s not a thing.”

“It is!  Oh, jeez, I can’t believe Clockwork left it to me to explain.”  She crossed her arms and turned away.  “I don’t know how to explain this.”

“Wait, does that mean my dad is a ghost in this story?  Are you saying that you, as a human, and a ghost–”

“No.  You died.  That sounds terrible.  I mean, you, um.  You sort of died.”

“How did I die that I managed to die only halfway?”

Jazz opened and closed her mouth several times.  “I didn’t witness it–”

“But you know.”

“It was– Do you really want to know?  I mean, regardless, I’m still your– your mom.  And I want to be.  And that kind of thing is really traumatic.”

“What was it?”

She looked like she didn’t want to answer.  Danny poured all his effort into a forceful, expectant stare.  

“It… was a lab accident.”

Silence.  

“Like, um.  A ghost lab.”

More silence.

“Okay,” said Danny.  He bit his lower lip.  “Right.”

“I’ll just leave now,” said Jazz.  “Make yourself at home.  Because it is!”  She stepped out.  

“Yep,” said Danny.  He closed the door and slid home the deadbolt.  Then he put his hand around the pocketwatch, lightly touching the button on top.  “Okay.  I’ll be okay.  I can always leave if she tries to examine my brain, and… I should give her a fair chance.  Right.”

[elizakai]

you guys i can’t take this anymore i need to release steam from this pot of killer and dust thoughts that’s on the stove

listen. if you don’t know by now. one of my favorite things to do is bridge narratives between fanon ideas, and canon truths hehe

Killer and Dust. The accepted dynamic is basically killer being a pestering little shit and dust being over it.

THATS GREAT ON ITS OWN it’s funny etc

but think about their ACTUAL characters for a moment. they are two sides of the same coin.

⬇️

i don’t want to hear any of that old fandom “they are literally the same” shhhhh. nuh uh dear friend, they commuted the same (general) action💥

their motives and situations are very different however! which is important when it comes to understanding a character

They both played into an opposite role in their world if you ask me.

Killer partners with chara, filling the role of the player. he’s a lot like flowey actually.

(in killers world, while he is still a pawn of this sick game, he gets manipulated after all, he has taken on the ROLE of the player. everyone else are the pawns.)

dust is against the anomaly of dusttale, which is that worlds player.

dust is a pawn. a pawn that is defying the player of the game

(in the same way that killer is still pawned, dust still uses his fellow “pawns” as a means to “win” the game, meaning he’s also playing)

(but again, i’m speaking role wise)

Killer and Dust’s dynamic doesn’t have to just be haha funny, it has some actual merit and potential to their characters.

Killer is constantly looking for new forms of entertainment. something new. he’ll get bored, and if he’s bored he’ll have to look at himself. killer is very much a character representing disassociation avoidance and to an extent, escapism (huh. like someone playing a video game?)

Of COURSE he’s gonna poke at people. it’s INTERESTING. it gets a REACTION. he gets to have that small power trip of being in control, after feeling like he lost control this is something that’s probably addictive to killer.

meanwhile dust…well. killer acts like his own anomaly in a way. he prods at him, toys with him, he’s leering and he takes pleasure in any reaction dust gives. dust probably would resent this feeling without really knowing why. he feels like some toy, and he’d probably be inclined to even interpret a genuine interaction this way.

this honestly makes dusts inclination to shut off or dull down any emotion make more sense. be as unremarkable as possible, and you’ll be left alone, right?

isn’t that…kind of what sans does? he’ll repeat same lines of dialogue and such when he reallyyy doesn’t have to. he’s being uninteresting. (and no he doesn’t need to remember everything magically for that to be possible. in game he will poke fun at past conversations and dialogue so he’s clearly aware enough)

Killer wants a response, so dust doesn’t give one.

killer wants control and feels like this is a challenge, dust feels cornered and defensive

if they had existed in the same world, it would have been killer vs dust in the end either way.

it’s a big old game of cat and mouse until someone snaps. they need to be given the opportunity to understand their similarities

even in an interpretation where they are in a healthier relationship, in whatever capacity, i think these mindsets would be conflict they may have….

to killer , on one hand he may be OFFENDED by his lack of response. he may be EXCITED, it’s a CHALLENGE. he might take dusts resignation as a sign of submission, which would give killer a HIGE power trip.

he might. genuinely just be trying to have fun?

it could be ENTIRELY lighthearted, and it’s still…rather toxic, considering where that mindset branched from

and we know dust won’t be inclined to say anything. he probably doesn’t understand his own feelings to be frank💀 he just feels gross and intimidated and cornered so he shuts off and sees killer as oppressive , and grows resentful regardless of intent, as these feelings only feed into his crippling self hatred anyways

….thats all for tonight-

[korpuskat]

Engineering Ecstasy

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (Gender Neutral, implied to have a vagina) Rating: Explicit WC: 2,065 Warnings: None

-----

Surrounded by tools and screens and lights, Ramattra stands in his workshop and stares at the device before him. It floats softly on a light pad. Beside it, a screen shows off its blueprints, complete with a cut-away view, to show where each piece will lay, where the sensors are suspended, the indicator lights. It's rather a marvel, if he's truly being genuine- the design is custom, the inlaid nodes are all cutting edge, fast and sensitive and durable. Every aspect has been nurtured and guided into the form displayed before him.

And this is the lowest he has ever felt.

Because the appendage that floats before him is an imitation of a human cock. A mockery, even, intended in every way to be better, but perhaps... familiar enough to not be off-putting. He hopes.

It's shameful.

Making the thing itself is not the problem. Life was meant to be enjoyed, omnics were meant to explore and seek new experiences and integrate themselves among humanity- sex was a part of that. Even at the monastery it wasn't unusual for those omnics that had the hardware to use it- and to discuss the implications of having it to begin with. But he did not envy his brothers and sister who were made with genitals. Ramattra had never seen the appeal; all the ecstasy and release from sensory overload could be achieved without any attachments.

He had not understood the desire until you.

You and your laughter that plays endlessly in his memory banks, your soft, fleeting touches to his plating that tingle hours after, your kind words that pull his mind from the task at hand. He's itched endlessly to reach out and touch you, to know what it is about you that's made his processors hang, caught endlessly in the minutia of your existence. And how he wishes it was just simple fascination- he hates how quickly it turned to him prodding at his own sensory nodes, plucking wires in his hips and wishing it was your hands instead.

This- the purple silicone device in his hand- is only the latest fantasy he's indulged.

After all, what if he were to finally approach you and you were uninterested in toying with his systems? And even if you were, he wouldn't be able to please you at the same time-- he would not risk an unintentional twitch of his hands. This... this was just an investment in the future. He hadn't quite gathered your input on the design or shape or size-- or expressed his interest in you at all-- but he'd invested time to research popular shapes, ones well-received by humans. This... he's fairly sure will please you, if you let him- and if it isn't to your tastes, then he'll make it again and-

...

He should probably test it, before he gets ahead of himself.

He takes the cock in one hand and examines the ports, where it will connect to his frame. He squeezes it, feeling the firmness of the silicone. Honestly, he isn’t sure what density he was aiming for; it’s so much softer than his plating, he has no idea what would be ideal. Not just for what you want from him either; if the silicone's curing has somehow distorted a wire or dulled the sensors’ abilities, then the whole design will have to be scrapped.

Ramattra's hands shake as he disconnects the paneling at the end of his torso. Before, this little crevice had only housed a chip for monitoring the health of his hip joints. Now that was pushed further back towards his spine- with a minor upgrade to allow for more precise movements, smoother rotation of the joint- given the purpose of the device, it felt appropriate to make sure he could use it correctly. Where the chip had sat before is a new plate with two jack outputs.

They line up with the ports, at least. Ramattra allows himself one more moment of preparation before slotting them together. The circuits connect at once- and the buses inside are still working, aligning themselves with his systems, synchronizing, adjusting the pre-loaded drivers, running a self-check automatically. The internal display of his model updates- and another wave of shame nearly makes him pluck it off again as the cock- his cock- appears on the diagram.

The self-check concludes, the indicator lights flash green- muddied through the purple- then match his preset red. Every system reports back: ready, online. Between his legs his cock stands proudly. The translucent silicone glows where the red lights shine just under the surface.

He could leave it at that…

but he should test the sensors. After all, they all might be online, but they still might need adjustments. He has no idea if the silicone has disturbed their functionality at all. Hesitantly, as though the appendage would burn him, Ramattra touches the surface above one LED. It's smooth and cool to the touch. Something prickles in his sensory subroutines, the data input on his cock is so minuscule and yet so sensitive.

He wraps one finger and thumb around the base. Instantaneously, warmth spreads through his circuits, settles into those wires at his hips. He strokes upwards-

”Aaah…” The noise slides from his voice box unbidden, a kernel-level reaction to stimuli coming forth unintentionally. And Ramattra would make a note to investigate that, to minimize uncontrolled reactions- except that every process is overridden by the drag of silicone on metal, on the rubber pad of his palm, on how every wire in his body is lighting up.

One stroke and it’s like you’ve breathed on every sensor in his body. And you- how does his mind always wander back to you?- your hands would be so much smaller, softer- delicate, even. You would- he shudders, delves into fantasy- You would start so slowly, fingers barely touching him. His hand mimics his thoughts, loosening until there’s barely any pressure, stroking so slowly it hurts. Maybe you’d be nervous- it’s okay, he would be too.

And you- you would see how he’ll try to be still, to let you explore him, and you’d see how badly he needs more. You would be kind to him, wouldn't you? With those soft smiles, you wouldn't deny him. At least, in his fantasy. His grasp tightens again, thinks only of your little hands on his cock.

Each motion brings fire through his circuits, a haze to his mind. You… oh, you could do this to him as long as you wanted. Forever, maybe, if it always felt like he was burning from the inside out. Maybe... you would touch him elsewhere, too. Perhaps bracing yourself against his chest or shoulder, or exploring his ribbon cables or along his neck, down the sensitive, covered wires of his spine. He can almost feel you, your weight across his thighs, stroking with one hand and holding him close with the other- and he would hold you, splay his hands across your back and lean in closer to press his array to your forehead.

The thought alone has him shuddering, warmth spreading in his chest and-

and he needs more.

He would whisper to you, May I have you?, but even in his own mind he sounds desperate, aching.

It wouldn't matter, because you would say Yes, of course, I'm yours.

He groans aloud at the last one; yes, yes, he wants- he needs you. To have you, not just in physicality, but in every other way he can imagine. And he imagines much. Like how you'd move, how you'd reveal yourself to him. It isn't what lies beneath that excites him- it's you doing it at all, showing him what you hide from everyone else. Letting him explore you the same way, though he's not sure what you would feel like. Most of his experience with human skin and flesh is not what he wants to associate with you, so he skims this part of his fantasy until he's prodding between your thighs.

The internet has helped him visualize this part. He may not know what sensations you would provide him there, but he can picture your face when he slides into you. How your brow pinches, how your lips part- and you would be so wet for him-

and suddenly the drag of metal and rubber on silicone is not nearly enough. He needs- he needs to know how it would feel, that slickness you would surround him with. His workshop table provides an obvious option. A bottle of machine lubricant would be close enough- anything at all to sate the impulse. He pours the oil over his hands- and thinks of his fingers covered in your arousal instead.

When he strokes this time, there's hardly any friction at all. A smooth glide from root to tip has him throwing his head back, voice box crackling out another broken moan. All of that burning inside becomes liquid, waves of hot pleasure that crash over him with stunning ease. His hips twitch into his palm- and he lets the instinctive chase of desire take over, fucking into his fist with abandon.

He imagines you on top of him- and oh, he'd have to be so gentle with you, but he can't with himself now. He'd hold you, careful with his hands when his hips aren't. You'd cling to him, barely keeping yourself up as he fucks you- and he likes that, how you'd melt against him in pleasure. The pleasure he gives you. You would trust him with this, that he wouldn't harm you. And in turn, the moans he's heard in his research would be nothing compared to the noises from your lips. Would you be loud, quiet? Would you call his name- oh, yes- an overheat warning pops into his HUD, he likes that. How you'd sound saying his name, moaning it in broken tones, like his staticked voice as he pleases you until you-

his frame shudders as he strokes himself faster, imagines how your face would twist and pinch as you'd near your end with him. Would you tremble when you finished? And inside, what does it feel like in-

His ventilation falters, half his fans seizing as tips over the edge. Pleasure floods the same wires he used to manipulate, a white static rushing through every logic circuit, drowning out every thought as his body rushes to dump the excess sensory input. Heat surrounds him- literal heat, as his processors run and run with no coolant pumping. A droning noise fills his workshop- and it takes much too long for him to realize it's his own synth.

A pop-up tells his release vents have opened- a quiet hissing of steam and hot air rushing out somewhere. His fans resume their buzzing pace as he finally begins to cool off.

Ramattra falls back onto his workshop table and lays there, waiting for his systems to completely refresh- and enjoying the lingering tingles like sparks between wires. After only a few moments the high has passed, systems flushed and returned to working order. An automatic check returns ready, online across every parameter.

And Ramattra is left with his own cock once more standing proudly between his thighs. Perhaps that would be awkward for you, in the time afterwards.

Afterwards. When you're flushed and panting and curled up next to him- you would stay, wouldn't you? He's read humans need care once the activity itself has concluded. His refresh would mean he could tend to you in whatever way you needed; sustenance, contact (though, he would have to purchase pillows), perhaps he could clean you. A stray thought slips by, the image conjured before he can stop himself: What would you look like with...?

The shame returns, but Ramattra suspends the feeling and adds a note to the blueprints of his cock- should he make another, he'll add a fluid reservoir tank. It's practical, he argues. Self-lubrication would make this much easier.

With an internal tank he could leave his fluids on you- in you. Non-toxic- in case you wanted to... A prickle of stray electricity runs down his spine. His fist curls around the silicone again, still slick with oil. With the thought of your tongue peaking out to taste him, he can't stop himself from beginning to stroke again.

After all, another set of data would be very useful...

[f3mme-f4tale]

☾ bound by bloodshed ☾

part three

⇠ part two - part four ⇢ word count: 6.2k potential warnings: needles, stitches, sexual content (mdni pls!), brief sub!ellie, mild odaxelagnia, explicit language, praise kink, cunnalingus (r recieving), fingering (r & e recieving) pairing: seattle!ellie x female reader ☾ mood board authors note: the middle section is a flashback that takes place right before part one, which is indicated by italics. also, i don't really write smut so pls keep that in mind lmao. also this dynamic is literally i don't smoke by mitski

FREE FREE PALESTINE!

It’s a few hours later when the sun is deep below the horizon and you’re just under fifty miles east of Jackson. You’ve made residence for the night inside what appears to be remnants of an office building. Ellie tries to stay still as you unwrap the bandage, keeping her jaw clenched tight. She focuses on taking deep and even breaths, and she finds it painful whenever you apply pressure and tug on the wound.

She does her best not to make a fuss, but you can see her wincing in pain and fighting to stay still as you treat her. A bead of sweat falls down her forehead, and her skin is flushed. You know she's not having the best time right now, but she's just trying to get through it.

A sewing needle is mocking Ellie from its place on the table, your hands fumbling through your supplies for any sign of thread. Finally victorious, you use your teeth to cut the material, tongue wetting the end to make it easier to work through the needle. 

"Ellie, have some water" you lecture, dumping the remaining alcohol from earlier over her arm, which causes the girl to hiss at the pain. "No use in me fixing you up if you're going to die from dehydration." Ellie shakes her head, despite the thirst that fills her throat. She's trying to be as strong as possible, not wanting to let you see how much discomfort she's in right now.

"I can keep going without water," she says, her face flushed a little bit. "It's alright." But Ellie isn't actually as sure of this as she makes it sound. She knows she probably should drink some water, but she doesn't want to admit it.

"God, you're so irritating sometimes" you mumble, grabbing your own container of water and forcing it into her hands. Ellie snickers slightly at your comment, the first little smile escaping her lips in the entire day.

She takes the water and takes a sip of it, feeling the cold, refreshing fluid slide down her throat. Ellie lets out a deep sigh of relief and takes another sip. "Thank you," she says quietly. You can tell that she really appreciates it, but she also doesn't want you to know just how exhausted and tired she's feeling.

"’Course," you smile at her. Ellie smiles back, though it barely reaches her eyes. You're just patrol partners, she reminds herself. She's not allowed to have feelings for you. And yet, she can't help but feel something. She keeps drinking from the water, not letting go of it yet. Just a few more sips, she promises herself.

You’re clueless to the sight above you, fingers working diligently to make the process go by as smoothly as possible. You push the edge of the needle deep into Ellie’s arm, skin ripping and exiting from the other side. The yellow spongy tissue is speckled with pink, pulling as you attempt to knot the thread. 

Ellie watches as your eyes stay focused, the way you hold yourself as you line the tip of the needle to the edge of the opening of the wound. The sight of you – hands covered in her blood and knees between her legs – has her so turned on that she has to dig her nails into her palm, fingers turning white at the pressure. “Am I making you feel sick?” She prods, pushing your leg with her knee.

You scoff at her, using some of your water to attempt to clean off the blood that has stained your fingertips, shaking your head at her insinuation. Admitally, you’re attracted to broken people. 

“Wanna see something?” Ellie asks sheepishly, avoiding your gaze as you wipe your hands on your pants, handing her a clean bandage to place on her arm. You rarely see her like this, your interest immediately piqued. 

“Uh, sure? As long as you’re not planning on flashing me or something,” you jest, shoving your shoulder against hers. She doesn’t respond to this, instead throwing her bag in her lap and dumping out its contents. 

Curious, you lean in closer, your eyes widening as you realize what she's holding – a Walkman. It's a relic from a bygone era, something that of course Ellie would have. "Where’d you get that?" you ask, unable to hide your surprise. Ellie's grin widens, a hint of pride in her expression. 

"I had it when I was living in the Boston QZ, before Joel and I came out here," she explains. "It broke a few years ago and finally, after some tinkering, I managed to get it working again." She slides a tape in, presses a button, and the familiar click of the cassette tape being engaged fills the air. A moment later, the tinny sound of music pours forth from the worn headphones, the melody faint.

Soft acoustic guitar chords accompanied with a man’s voice enters your ear and you realize you almost forgot what music sounded like. You immediately sigh at the welcomed calm that overtakes you. 

"Do you mind if I just rest for a few minutes?" she asks, sounding a little exhausted. "I know we have to move soon, but just for a few minutes so I can..."

"We got the whole night here, Els," you whisper, taking the walkman from her. She smiles softly as she leans her head against your shoulder, finding herself comfortable in your presence. She glances at you, noting the weariness in your eyes but also the kindness and empathy in your expression.

Despite all this, she can't help but take notice of how close you two are right now. Her head resting on your shoulder. Her body pressed up against yours. Just friends just friends she chants, but she can't deny how comfortable she feels with you right now.

She closes her eyes, attempting to let sleep wash over her slowly. Your heart aches for her. This closeness is something you’ve ached for these past few weeks. You have to remind yourself that she doesn't want you, no matter how much you long for her. "Oh, Ellie,” you mumble, just above a whisper.

"Hmm?" Ellie hums, her eyes still closed.

She's half-asleep now, and the weariness is slowly creeping up on her. But she can hear your voice so faintly, and she wants to listen. She adjusts her position slightly, wanting to lean against you completely. She can't deny it – being this close to you is addicting.

"What is it?" she asks quietly. "Did you say something?"

"O-oh, no sorry. Just um, thinking is all," you sigh. "Go back to sleep." Her headache is starting to get worse again. But she doesn't seem to care much. She can't stay awake much longer. She tries to ignore her fatigue and discomfort and leans into you further, wanting only to rest, just for a few minutes.

Her eyes are shut tightly, but she hopes to hear you again before she falls asleep. Without even thinking about it, she curls herself onto you and wraps her arm around you.

You lean your head against hers, clutching the water bottle in your hands. Your eyes wander over to the door, suddenly aware of the fact that just anyone can barge in. You force myself to stay awake – despite the pain. You have to protect her. As Ellie sleeps, you can feel the pain in your side worsen. 

You can feel her heartbeat through her chest, and you are both so close that you can feel her breathing on your face. You let her engulf you, afraid that you’ll never experience this closeness again. Your eyes suddenly feel very heavy, and it was no use; not when the exhaustion and the warmth of Ellie were so convincing.

⭒⭒⭒⭒

The echoes of multiple string instruments echoed throughout the hall, a few folding tables lining one end of the large room. Orange fluorescent bulbs were string to the rafters, the quaint scent of roasted meat and the soft humming of the generators making your chest swell. 

Pew bunches have been pushed to the back and against the wall, allowing for a group of townsfolk to congregate in the middle and dance along to the folk music playing from the speakers. You’re humming along to Little Sadie by Crooked Still as you watch Dina maneuver across the dance floor with another gentleman, who she is clearly showing off in an attempt to garner attention from her ex-boyfriend – to which you roll your eyes at. You make a bet with Ellie that they’ll be back together in two weeks, as you both laugh at Jesse’s failed attempts to not drool at the sight of her. 

So when Dina makes her way towards the three of you, you’re caught off guard when she takes Ellie’s glass of whiskey and downs it, proceeding to pull the woman towards the middle of the room. As you hear Ellie call Dina a dick in response to her mocking the man, you feel a twinge of jealousy in your gut. You’re aware of Ellie’s obvious crush on her best friend, as is half of the town, Joel included. Yet, that doesn’t help the gnawing bitterness that forces its way up your spine and through your fingertips. 

"Looks like Dina's pulling out all the stops tonight," Jesse remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Yeah, she's really laying it on thick," you reply, trying to sound nonchalant. You force a smile in response, but inside, your heart feels heavy. You've known Ellie for years, and though you've never admitted it aloud, you've harbored feelings for her that run deeper than friendship. But seeing her gaze fixed on Dina, the way her eyes light up when they're together, it's a painful reminder that you may never be more than just a friend to her. You can't shake the feeling of being left out, of watching from the sidelines as Ellie's attention is drawn elsewhere. 

Jesse nudged you, breaking your reverie. "Hey, you alright there?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

You forced another smile, nodding. "Yeah, just enjoying the music," you replied, though the words felt hollow even to your own ears.

But Jesse knew you well enough to see through the facade. He gave you a sympathetic look before turning his attention back to the dance floor. "You know, sometimes it's okay to admit when things aren't okay," he said softly.

His words struck a chord within you, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude for his understanding. "Thanks, Jesse," you murmured, appreciating his silent support. Despite this, loneliness blankets you, wrapping you in. 

You find yourself retreating into the background, music and laughter of the evening fading into the distance as you wallow in your self-pity. And then, unexpectedly, Ellie breaks away from Dina and makes her way over to where you're standing, her expression soft with concern.

"Hey," she says softly, reaching out to touch your arm. "Are you okay?"

You force a smile, though it feels brittle and fragile. "Yeah, just... lost in thought," you reply, unable to meet her gaze. But Ellie isn't fooled by your facade. She studies you for a moment, her eyes searching yours for answers. And then, with a sigh, she takes a step closer, closing the distance between you. She nudges your shoulder with her own, raising her own glass in salut and you both take a sip.

“‘M just feeling sorry for myself and whatnot,” you mutter, awkwardly switching the weight on your feet. 

Ellie's expression softens, a flicker of understanding crossing her features. "I get it," she says quietly. "But you can't keep wallowing in self-pity."

Her words hit you like a slap in the face, the sting of truth cutting through the haze of your emotions. "Easy for you to say," you shoot back, your tone sharper than intended. "You're the one who's always the center of attention, while the rest of us are left picking up the pieces."

Ellie's brows furrow in surprise at your outburst, her expression shifting from concern to frustration. "I'm just trying to help," she retorts, her voice tinged with annoyance. "But if you'd rather stew in your own misery, be my guest."

The words hang heavy in the air between you, tension crackling like lightning. You both know that this argument runs deeper than just tonight's events; it's the culmination of years of pent-up frustration and unspoken resentment.

"I don't need your help," you seethe, the bitterness in your voice palpable. "I've been fine on my own this whole time. I don't need you or anyone else telling me what to do."

Ellie's features harden, the hurt flashing in her eyes like a spark igniting a fire. "Fine," she snaps back, her voice sharp with anger. "If that's how you want it, then maybe you're right. Maybe you don't need me at all."

The words hit you like a dagger to the heart, the realization of what you've said sinking in like a heavy weight. But before you can apologize, Ellie turns on her heel and storms away, leaving you standing alone in the midst of the chaos. You can feel eyes on you, a few townspeople whispering to each other. You fold in on yourself, slouching your shoulders and hands death-gripping your glass. 

And as the echoes of the argument fade into the distance, you're left with nothing but the bitter taste of regret, knowing that you've let your anger drive away the one person who's always been there for you, the night before you’re both assigned to be on patrol together.

⭒⭒⭒⭒

The two of you sleep beside each other comfortably in the ruined building, not a care in the world, at least for the moment. It's a few hours later when you blink away the sleep, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. You find yourself stirring awake in the early hours of the morning. Your body is stiff from sitting so still all night, and you can feel the effects of the injury on your side.

You can feel Ellie sleeping next to you, warm and cozy. She's got her arm wrapped around you, her head nuzzled against your shoulder. Silently, you scold yourself for falling asleep. You see the light of the early morning beginning to shine through the broken window of the building and feel a strange comfort in knowing that the two of you are in safety together with the sun slowly peering in.

As you carefully unwrap yourself from Ellie, you make sure not to wake her. You silently exit the room and find a closet down the hall. It's picked through – crumbs from the last residents. A half empty bottle of gin sits on one of the shelves, practically calling your name. "Eh, it's 5 o'clock somewhere," you joke to yourself. 

The sound of a door opening quickly penetrates Ellie's consciousness. She stirs away and sits up in the darkness of the room, her eyes still closed. Her head is pounding. She can feel the exhaustion and pain coming back now.

Her voice is still soft and sleepy when she glances towards the door. "Hello?" she whispers quietly. She can hear you rummaging around in the hallway.

You turn around, not expecting Ellie to be in the doorway. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," you defend, holding up the alcohol. "I found a friend." Ellie rubs her eyes, still trying to wake up.

"It's okay," she says. She's resting herself against the frame of the door, the headache coming back in all its glory. "A friend, huh?" She lets out a small, weary chuckle. "Do you mind sharing?" 

You let out a long exhale, still a little drowsy and nod your head. "What time is it? I'm pretty tired still, to be honest." Ellie looks over at you, and you can see she's still half-asleep.

"No clue, almost dawn maybe?" you say, sitting down on a beat up mattress that is pushed against a couch, a large cut in the faux leather cushion exposing the filling. She wobbles over to you and not so gracefully joins you. "Here you go, m’lady," you joke, handing her the bottle of gin. Ellie smiles, snatches the alcohol and takes a small sip.

"I don't think dawn is the right time to be drinking," she says jokingly, before taking another sip. She lets out a long sigh, the alcohol slowly relaxing her muscles and numbing the sharp pains in her head. "That's a lot better," she says softly. She glances at you, trying to hold it together. She knows she's being weak and pathetic, but the exhaustion is getting to her. "I'm so, so tired."

"You don't have to stay awake with me, I'm a big girl. I can drink by myself." Ellie lets out a quick laugh and takes another sip of the alcohol.

"Well, I am thirsty," she teases, smiling.

She glances at you and smiles again, but you can also see the exhaustion setting in. Her eyes are slowly closing, and the room is beginning to spin. Ellie yawns, but manages to stay awake.

"Up to you, princess," you jest, letting your hair down. You take the bottle from her and take a sip, letting the liquid numb the pain. "If you're up to it, we can play a game to pass some time?"

"Oh, a game huh?" Ellie's eyes are half-closed now. She's trying to fight it, but she can feel herself relaxing. “I'm up for it," she says despite a yawn escaping her. You shake your head and roll your eyes, typical. "What kind of game we talking?" She gives you a little wink. 

"Hmm, how about never have I ever?" you ask, taking another sip, frowning when you realize how little alcohol there is left in the bottle. Ellie's eyes sparkle as she lets out a small laugh.

"Really?” she quips, raising her eyebrows as if to say are we thirteen? “Haven't played that in a while," she says, but smiles at you and shrugs. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts and then looks back at you. "Okay, let's play."

You move your body so you’re sitting across from one another on the mattress, bottle of gin in between. "Ok, never have I ever…," you trail off, thinking. "Gone skinny dipping." Ellie's eyes widen when you say this, and she lets out a loud laugh.

"Oh, I definitely have," Ellie replies, almost instantly. "I was, like, sixteen," she says. "Me and my buddies just decided to go for a swim in the lake at night." She takes another sip of the gin and looks you in the eye, smiling curiously.

"My turn, now," she says, trying to change the subject. "Never have I ever ... uh, eaten an entire jar of peanut butter in one sitting."

"Oh, c'mon." You take the bottle and take a swig, practically downing the remaining liquid. "I told you that in confidence,” you sigh, shaking your head. "Ok.. never have I ever.. kissed someone I shouldn't have." As you take a sip of the alcohol, Ellie once again raises an eyebrow at you.

"Someone you shouldn't have, huh?" she asks with a grin. She's not the one to judge, that's for sure. "Can't say I have," she replies with a small smirk. "So, you've got a juicy story behind that, eh?"

"Not really, it's kind of pathetic really. I'm surprised Jesse hasn't told you." you snicker, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "I had a crush on him when I was younger, before he and Dina got together, but I knew she liked him. Someone dared me to kiss him – so I did,” you continue, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “Needless to say, he did not feel the same way." Ellie chuckles quietly as you let out a groan of disappointment.

"Sounds like you were younger and more foolish, if I'm being honest," she teases. "Which... I mean, I really don't think I can talk – I'm not the smartest person, or the wisest." Ellie is not planning on drinking much more, but she's finding the pain in her head a little more bearable now.

"Okay, my turn," she says, and she's already got a good idea of what she wants to ask.

"What's your question?"

"Never have I ever ..." Ellie pauses and glances at you, but you can tell the alcohol has made her a little more bold. "Never have I ever ... uh, slept with a girl before."

You take the bottle from her and finish the dingy bottle of gin, letting her stare at your lips. "Just because we haven’t slept together doesn't mean I haven't had some fun before," you say slyly. Ellie doesn't look away, she just keeps looking at your lips and your face. Something about you just makes her smile, and the alcohol isn't helping.

"Well. What about you? Have you ever slept with a girl before?" You ask, voice jumping down to a whisper. You’re suddenly a lot closer to her than you realize. Ellie doesn't say anything, but you can tell the question makes her flustered even more. She takes a moment to think as she glances towards your lips yet again.

"Yes," she replies quietly, finally. "I have." She looks at you again, but this time, she doesn't look away. She's staring at your eyes, and her face is still a warm shade of pink.

"Really? Was it good?" you ask, voice low. 

"Good?" Ellie replies quietly. “Hmm, you’d like to know wouldn’t you?” she pesters, eyes dropping down back towards your lips.

"Yeah," you reply quietly. "I would." 

"Keep it up and I might just have to kiss you," she says just above a whisper, dangerously close. You’re staring into her eyes, the weight of the world fading away.

Your lips meet in a gentle, tentative kiss, the taste of gin lingering on her tongue. It's a moment filled with a mix of nervousness and desire, a forbidden sweetness that neither of you can resist. As your lips part, Ellie's heart races, her mind buzzing with a million thoughts and emotions.

But then reality crashes down upon her like a wave. Ellie pulls back abruptly, her eyes widening with shock and regret. "I'm sorry," she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. "I shouldn't have—"

But before she can finish her sentence, you silence her with another kiss, this one more urgent, more passionate. Your hands cup her face gently, your fingers tracing the curve of her jawline as you deepen the kiss.

For a moment, time seems to stand still as you lose yourselves in each other, the world around you two fading into the background. But eventually, you break apart again, breaths coming in ragged gasps as you stare into each other's eyes.

"I'm not sorry," you murmur, your voice filled with a mixture of longing and defiance. "I've been thinking about kissing you since Jackson."

Ellie's heart skips a beat at your words, her chest tightening with emotion. "Me too," she admits, her voice barely more than a whisper.

And in that moment, as you sit there in the dim light of the abandoned building, your hands intertwined and hearts racing, both knowing that nothing will ever be the same again. You may have started as just friends, but now you’ve crossed a line that can never be uncrossed. But for now, you push aside the doubts and fears, allowing yourselves to simply be in each other's arms, cherishing this stolen moment of intimacy and connection. 

Plus, you thought, you’ve been dying to know how soft her lips were. 

“God…” you mumble against her lips. “You taste so..." you begin but are unable to finish as she swallows the rest of your sentence, a flush spreading across your cheeks. And then you’re pulling your face away again, pushing her against the front of the couch and moving to straddle her. Her arms go to hold your waist, a shit-eating grin plastered on her face. You’re taking in the way her hair frames her face and bunches in the back, the strong muscle of her stomach peaking out from under her thin top. 

You can feel her gaze burning into you. "Oh really?" she asks, her voice filled with amusement. She seems to see right through you and it’s almost too much to bear, your body seemingly trembling with lust.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be able to stop myself,” you manage to breathe. 

Ellie laughs softly, "Maybe I don't want you to stop yourself.” She is practically devouring you with her eyes and you can’t stand it. 

Ellie moves in closer, pushing her knees up slightly and placing a supportive hand on your ass and the other on the small of your back. She smiles softly, "I mean, that is the idea after all," she murmurs against your neck, feeling confident as she slowly makes her way back up.

You weren’t that close of friends anyways.

Your hands are cupping her cheeks, fingers brushing against the freckles that dance across her face. You place a tentative finger on her lower lip, opening her mouth immediately to encase your thumb. She is staring at you from beneath her lashes and you can feel your thighs tighten at this. 

The hand on your ass moves to your thigh, inching closer and closer to where you ached for her touch. Your breath hitched, Ellie smirking with a finger still in her mouth, tongue lapping at the skin. Despite being situated below you, she was in control. With no hesitation, she slid her cool fingers underneath the hem of your shirt. 

Sensing her want, your hands grabbed the edge of your top and pulled it over your head. Ellie noticed how your skin was soft, warm to the touch. An oval gold locket rests between your breasts, ain't it warming you, the world going up in flames? The sheer material covering your chest left little to the imagination, Ellie practically drooling at the sight; no going back now. Unable to keep her eyes off of you, her nimble fingers trace your lower stomach, drawing out a soft whimper from deep inside your abdomen. 

Her fingers graze the skin under your breasts, breath hitching. She bites your fingers softly, which are caressing her face. The action has you involuntarily bucking your hips against hers, egging her on further. You are torn between wanting to run and giving yourself over fully. 

Ellie’s eyes sparkle with sick laughter as she suddenly is picking up the weight of your body to push you down into the mattress and position herself above you, her legs trapped between yours. Her strength and confidence are both evident in the way she holds herself. You can't help but feel a bit of guilt when you stare at her, her body so close and yet so far. She takes in the sight of you below her, the way your hair is spread out beneath you. 

You want to let go, to let all of your inhibitions go as she pulls you deeper and deeper into the heat of the moment. She pauses for a moment as she stares straight at you with those bright green eyes, her expression unreadable. You wish she would press her chest against yours, a hot and hungry mix of skin and sinew. 

You shudder again as her fingers continue their gentle trail, this time trailing downwards from your abdomen. You feel your cheeks heat as a shiver runs through you at the subtle change in her touch. She continues to trace her fingers across the curves of your stomach, her touch still light but teasing. Her fingers come to a halt again just below your stomach, and you feel the familiar tug in your abdomen.

She lowers her head as her weight is supported by her right forearm, which is resting above your head, while your hands get lost in her hair. Her lips leave soft kisses along your neck and down to just above your breasts, her left hand palming your exposed side, fingers dangerously close to your pants. 

She bites your skin, tongue soothing it afterwards. Your hands instinctively tug at her brunette locks, forcing a moan out of the woman above you. She is marking your chest, left hand snaking under your back to find the clasp.

“This ok?” she mumbles, words slurring against the heat of your skin as she is kissing up your neck. You nod eagerly, but Ellie isn’t satisfied. “Use your words, princess.”

“Yes,” you croak out, one of your hands leaving the now tangled mess of her hair to run down the front of her. You help her out of her shirt, pulling her back down by her belt loops, an action that has Ellie soaked. 

You’re smiling as you catch her lips in a passionate kiss, both hands fumbling with the button on her jeans. She’s laughing at your keenness. You didn’t care, you just wanted her. You struggle to slide the tight jeans down her legs, getting increasingly frustrated as Ellie’s hands explore your back. “Fuck,” you complain, pulling away from her mouth, irritated at her stupidly attractive half-undressed thighs. 

She shakes her head at your foolishness, thoroughly enjoying how worked up you’re getting. She sits back so she’s sitting on her heels, pulling your own pants down agonizingly slowly, wanting to drink all of you in. 

She collects your fully discarded jeans and stands to finish taking hers off. A pair of boxers are fitted tightly against her thighs – because of course they are. She’s staring down at you, something animalistic taking over her eyes. You suddenly feel very exposed, dressed in only your undergarments. However, you hold her gaze, not wanting her to realize just how anxious you are. You lean forward on your elbows, chest fully exposed. Ellie’s eyes have become saucers, salivating at the shape of you. 

“Are you going to stand there staring or are you going to fuck me already?” You bite, opening your legs ever so slightly, her gaze dropping down to the space between your thighs. And that’s all it takes for Ellie to drop down to her knees, pull your body forward by your waist, and swing your legs over her shoulders. You’re a bit taken aback by the speed of her actions – I guess she has been with other women. She’s careful to avoid the injury on your side, peppering small kisses around the surrounding area.

She lowers her mouth to the fabric of your underwear, tongue running a stripe between you. You tremble at the gesture, shutting your eyes. 

“Look at me sweetheart,” Ellie says sweetly, voice laced with honey, to which you oblige. “So wet and warm for me, hmm?” She's praising, her voice against your heat sending you into a frenzy. 

Her tongue is back between your thighs and you're bucking your hips up to reach her face, not wanting a barrier between you two. With one hand supporting her weight, she uses the other to push the garment aside, burying her nose deep into you. Her hands are squeezing your hips, her thumbs no doubt leaving bruises. 

Her tongue moved in and out, in and out, in and out as you squeezed your thighs around her head. If you weren’t so pussy drunk, you’d be embarrassed by the sounds of her mouth against your clit. At one point she bit down on your inner thigh, hard. 

You’re squirming underneath her, the sight of her staring at your sopping cunt almost too much to bear. “Ellie,” you’re whimpering, hands back tangled in her hair. With her help, you shimmy out of your underwear, now completely bare. She’s sitting back again, just staring, your doe eyes looking back up at her. 

At this moment, Ellie is ravenous. She is desperately trying to show that she’s in charge, pushing down her word vomit to keep from truly expressing how she’s feeling. She peppers kisses up your legs, right hand teasing your cunt. Without warning, she slides her pointer and middle inside you, a soft gasp escaping your plump lips.

“C’mon,” she coos, free hand rubbing circles into your thigh encouragingly. “Take it for me, baby.” She slides in another long finger, stretching you out even farther. Your eyes water, the pain almost overtaking the pleasure. But then her mouth drops down again and the sight of her mouth against your pelvis almost sends you over the edge.

The sudden urge to kiss her becomes immense, your hands desperately pulling her face up. You can taste yourself on her, tongue invading her mouth. As she continues to pump her fingers, thumb rubbing vicious circles, you pathetically moan into her mouth. This gets her off even more. 

With a hand placed on the small of your back, she shifts your weight so you’re on top again, her back resting against the wall. With you straddling, you ride her fingers, her mouth latched onto your chest. As she guides your hips with one hand, yours goes to wrap around her neck, her hot breath against your throat. As you bounce against her hand, her teeth sink into the soft skin of your shoulders, eliciting a noise from you that could only be described as pitiful. 

“Lemme,” you breathe, your hands fumbling down her body. “Wanna feel you Ellie.” Her name rolling off your fucked out mouth has Ellie nauseous, her heart hammering against her chest. And so, your free hand plunges deep into her boxers, fingers immediately covered in slick. This time she's moaning into your mouth, speeding up her own actions. She shifts her position slightly to give you better access. Your tongues meet, teasing and delighting as the air fills with the scent of each other's breath.

As you ride out your orgasms, Ellie swears she’s been to heaven and back. Your breathing quickens as your bodies press together, swept up in an ocean of heat and desire. She locked eyes with you, searching for some secret, hidden meaning in your haunting gaze. Unencumbered by the expectations of the world, like shadows merging into one, you melted into each other, losing yourselves in the intoxicating embrace of your passion.

⭒⭒⭒⭒

The next morning breaks with a crisp chill in the air, the early light filtering through the foggy windows. As you stir from sleep, you're met with a mixture of emotions; a lingering warmth from the night before intertwined with a sense of unease.

Sitting up, you glance over at Ellie, who's already awake, her expression unreadable as she stares into the distance. There's a tension in the air, palpable and heavy, like a storm brewing on the horizon. Despite the woman being knuckles deep inside you, she can hardly meet your gaze, fidgeting with the straps on her backpack. 

"Morning," you say tentatively, hoping to break the silence that hangs between you. Ellie's response is terse, her gaze flicking briefly in your direction before returning to the task at hand – packing up with brisk efficiency. "Is everything okay?" you ask, unable to ignore the growing knot of anxiety in your stomach.

Ellie's jaw tightens, her hands pausing in their movements for the briefest of moments before resuming their task. "Fine," she replies curtly, her tone sharp. But you can tell it's anything but fine. The tension between you is like a live wire, crackling with unresolved emotion.

"Is this about last night?" you ask quietly, your voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within you. Ellie's shoulders stiffen, her movements becoming more abrupt as she avoids meeting your gaze. "There's nothing to talk about," she retorts, her voice sharp with defensiveness.

You shake your head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "That's not true, Ellie, and you know it," you say, your voice rising slightly with emotion. "We can't just pretend like nothing happened."

Ellie whirls around to face you, her eyes flashing with anger. "What do you want me to say?" she demands, her voice raw with emotion. "That it was a mistake? That I regret it?"

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, the sting of rejection cutting deep. "No, Ellie, that's not what I want," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "I just want to understand what this means – for us, for our relationship." You place a hand on hers, which causes her to freeze. 

Ellie's expression softens, the mask of anger slipping away to reveal a vulnerability you hadn't seen before. "I don't know," she admits, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I've never been good at this kind of thing." And then Ellie pulls her hand away, her eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and fear. "I don't know if I can do this," she confesses, her voice trembling with emotion. "I'm not sure I'm ready for... this."

Your heart sinks at her words, the weight of disappointment settling heavy in your chest. You had hoped that last night had meant something, that it had brought you closer together. But now, faced with Ellie's uncertainty, you can't help but feel a sense of doubt creeping in.

"I understand," you say, forcing a note of acceptance into your voice, even as your heart aches.

taglist: @seraphicsentences @onlinelesbo @yumimak @elliewilliamsblunt

[gumnut-logic]

“I’ve got you. You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

Virgil tried to answer but his throat was too dry. A familiar blue-gloved hand wrapped around fingers frozen by desperation.

He had been clinging to the side of the building for what seemed like hours, his suit jacket and his strength his only protection against a fall that not even a Thunderbird could recover from.

Scott’s jetpack hissed against the wind.

“C’mon, Virgil, you can let go now.”

He didn’t think he could.

“Gordon has you secure. You’re not going to fall.”

Far above him, standing in the remains of the window Virgil had smashed through, Gordon peered down, hands holding the safety line that was, no doubt, secured to the building’s core. Worry emanated through his little brother’s helmet, even through his professional façade.

Emotion bounced off the glass of the skyscraper.

Virgil’s feet dangled into nothing.

He couldn’t let go.

Scott had his body wrapped around him, the grapple packs in his baldric pressing into Virgil’s spine.

“You can let go.” It was like the whisper that had haunted him through those apparent hours that couldn’t have been hours because International Rescue did not take that long to respond.

But it was only one hand that had stopped their fall. One wrist, one set of extensors, one brachioradialis, one set of biceps, triceps, deltoids…his medical knowledge listed off the possible damage. The height, the impact, the strain…he struggled in a breath. “I…can’t…”

His brother’s arms tightened around him. The rescue harness clinked and for the barest of moments Virgil thought he had dropped the little boy.

But Jeffrey was safe. Virgil’s brothers had seen to that, moments after securing the both of them.

Virgil had held him so tight.

That arm lay limp, draped over his brother’s blue bicep.

Blood dripped into infinity.

“I’ve got you.” That voice had saved him so many times.

Those blue-gloved fingers ever so gently prodded at his grip on the flimsy flag pole that had saved two lives by its simple existence.

Pain.

For a moment, he automatically gripped tighter, but that hurt even more and his body spasmed in response.

And Virgil finally let go with a gasp of both fear and relief.

Those arms immediately tightened around him, catching him before he could drop even a millimetre. “I’ve got you. You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

All the breath in his belly rushed out between his teeth as the broken muscles in his arm attempted to contract…and couldn’t.

But then he was moving. Wrapped in brother, he shot up, past the windows that had flashed in the opposite direction earlier, the remains of the sun still glinting sharp sparks.

And then there were more brother hands. “God, Virg, you know how to play the hero.”

Virgil grunted as Scott and Gordon ever so gently lowered him onto a hoverstretcher.

Virgil found his eyes closed.

He forced them open. “Jeffrey?”

Gordon answered. “He’s safe with his mom and the paramedics. More a fright than anything else. A few scratches and one hell of a tale to tell.” A sigh of exasperation as Gordon began strapping up his arm, ever so gentle. “You do know that you don’t have actual wings, right? You’re not actually the embodiment of Thunderbird Two, despite all the heavy lifting.”

That only deserved a grunt, so that’s what it got.

Scott had taken a pair of scissors to Virgil’s expensive suit. Probably to get to the cut in his shoulder.

A hand brushed back his hair from his forehead and he found himself looking up at Gordon again.

There was something in his eyes.

Virgil would have reached up a hand to reassure his little brother, but both were currently unavailable.

A flicker of a smile danced across Gordon’s face and he went back to securing Virgil’s arm.

Virgil turned his head just enough to see Scott.

All business. Lips thinned in determination and concentration.

Virgil watched him work.

“How is he?” Kayo startled him as she always did, appearing out of nowhere.

That, at least, explained the lack of a crowd in the room.

It had been such a good party, too. Art, charity, good company. He smiled.

“He’s alive.” A touch to his cheek. “Virgil, talk to me.” The worry in Scott’s eyes hurt.

Virgil swallowed and sobered immediately. “He fell through the broken window.”

“And you jumped after him.”

“He’s her son!”

Scott stared at him a moment. “As if that mattered.” And his brother was moving.

The hoverstretcher rose with him and Virgil closed his eyes in sudden dizziness. “I had to.”

A hand was in his hair again, but this one was bigger. “I know.”

They were hit with a wall of sound and light, forcing Virgil to close his eyes tight, as his other senses tangled in the energy in the room.

Kayo’s sharp words and the movements of IR security backed off the calamity somewhat, but the shouts of ‘Hero!’, ‘Thank you, International Rescue!” and “We love you!” still bounced around Virgil’s head.

A sharp command from Scott and the ‘stretcher moved into quiet surrounds and elevator machinery was lifting his belly off the planet.

“Two’s on the roof.” Gordon made it sound like a haven as well as a threat since his little brother was the reason she was there and not at the London GDF base where Virgil had left her.

The evening air was far too familiar.

He forced his eyes open, looking for his girl, but instead One drifted sharply into his eyesight.

He stared. The speed in those massive engines was likely the only reason he and Jeffrey weren’t smears on the pavement far below.

He wouldn’t have been able to hold on. He had been slipping that very moment his brother had streaked into the sky. His arms had caught Virgil and Jeffrey before they could fall.

“Thank you.”

The hand in his hair was stroking softly.

Quietly determined and reassuring all at once. “Anytime, little brother.”

An exhaled breath.

“Anytime.”

-o-o-o-