#now i go stew in agony

[yingren]

isn’t that exactly what dan feng had always wanted — not just as himself, but as high elder, as the imbibitor lunae ? freedom. not the freedom to reject his role, but the freedom to exist as both — as high elder and as dan feng. as high elder and yubie or dan heng. to uphold his duty without sacrificing his individuality, to carry the weight of his title without surrendering a piece of himself just to fit the rigid, predetermined mold of what an imbibitor lunae should be. yingxing once swore to abolish all abominations, dedicating himself wholly to the only cause he believed he could serve — to support those strong enough to fight against the abundance. he swore to stand beside dan feng, not just for his sake but for all those who longed to carve out their own freedom. more than anything, he had wanted to shatter the laws etched in stone, to silence the endless recitations that kept dan feng bound inside a cage far too small for his ambition, repeated like an unrelenting hymn. if freedom was dan feng’s greatest pursuit — for himself, for his people — then in the end, who truly achieved it ? was it him ? or was it dan heng who finally stepped forward to claim the prize ?

anger that volatile can only be restrained for so long before it erupts in ugly, uncontrollable ways. and despite all his practiced decorum and polished elegance, dan feng is not immune to emotions more human than either of them will ever be. he has mastered the art of keeping his feelings veiled, every improper impulse buried beneath layers of restraint — but both ren and yingxing always had a way of digging deep enough to unravel him. the strike to ren’s face should enrage him, should humiliate him, but it doesn’t. maybe to an outsider, he looks pitiful — on his knees like some defiled, beaten dog, no stronger than a starved animal abandoned to the streets. maybe to an outsider, dan feng’s violence would seem cruel, the act of a tyrant lashing out in unchecked fury. ren wishes that were the case. but in truth, it’s justified. the lingering sting on his skin burns with the weight of something well-earned, and it’s almost disappointing that it does nothing except confirm what he already knew. so in that moment, where he feels as though he’s finally sinking his hooks into the truth he’s been chasing for so long, he doesn’t rush to rip it open. instead, he waits — patient, unwavering — as his lips curl into a grin far too self-satisfied for the situation at hand.

❝ how could you have not known and still made that decision ? ❞ every accusation is another pin pressed into the fragile paper-thin image dan feng has become in ren’s mind, fastening him to a backdrop stained with blood and the remnants of sin. a dark wall, painted with every mistake they ever made — every mistake made because of them — a monument of shame that neither of them is exempt from. yingxing once thought himself immune to suffering, believed that his sins would earn him nothing worse than death. that they could not shackle him, could not break him the way they drained the very essence of life from dan feng. but he had been wrong. so very wrong. that is why he stands here now, alongside dan feng, both of them perched atop the pedestal of infamy, their names carried through generations, spoken in hushed voices by the descendants of those who once lived by their side. whispers, gossip, twisted echoes of the past. yingxing and dan feng. the artisan and the high elder. sinner and sinner.

when told to take his words back, ren only stares. at first, it seems like disbelief, but it isn’t dan feng’s audacity that unsettles him — it’s the absence of it. the hesitation laced within the demand. take it back. there’s no authority in dan feng’s voice, no unshakable pride. at least not to ren. it sounds fractured, as if crushed between the weight of a stone wall and the dawning realization reflected in those ocean-deep eyes. eyes that, just moments ago, held mysteries too vast to decipher, now reduced to shallow pools exposing every unspoken thought swirling within his mind. ren should be triumphant. he is, in some way. so why does it feel so empty ?

❝ oh goodness me, our dearly beloved high elder allows me to hate him ! should i count myself lucky ? ❞ ren spits again, this time deliberately away from dan feng, a vile mix of blood and saliva staining the ground. he doesn’t let it distract him, though. instead, he tilts his head back to face the empty sky, and the laugh that bubbles up is as manic as it is desperate. all those years of bitterness, now reduced to this — an anticlimactic clash that does nothing to ease the old wounds. dan feng, untethered, and ren, shattered. they were truly made for each other. what other two abominations could hold so much hatred yet fit together so perfectly ?

❝ you’re wrong. ❞ when it comes to yingxing, ren could never make any decisions for him. the artisan had already decided for himself long before he became ren. his tired body collapses to the ground after stumbling a few inches forward, barely closing the gap between them. he rolls onto his back, exposing his face and his soul to the sky above. if he even has a soul anymore, it must be long detached from ren by now. his arms are spread out across the ground, chest rising painfully with every desperate gasp for air. yet, he never once looks away from dan feng — not even for a moment. he will cling to each second of this, even if it’s fractured from time and exists solely for them. he will claim it as his own and remember it forever.

❝ i made my own decision to hate you. but you were the one that made that decision for him. ❞ not even dan feng is protected from the truth, even if that candor is a double edged knife that buries itself deeper in ren’s core each time he wields it. ❝ to think that he once adored you, do you remember that ? all of that ... selfish love. imagine how much hatred you can wring out of that much love. if it were up to me, i would have spared yingxing from the martyr that you are. you never deserved his love, you do not deserve his hatred. ❞ a cough, and the smile on his face completely wilted. ❝ you never deserved him, let this hatred remind you of that for as long as your heart still beats. ❞

It then becomes time forfeited to that fallacy, in his relentless pursuit of retribution something cardinal to those two tethered souls had been irrevocably lost. dan heng had vehemently resisted, insisting that the two existed not as fragments of a whole but as contradictions of one another. dan feng could not be dan heng, it was irrational to shackle them to one another, a ludicrous excuse to justify centuries of anger. one mistake was all it took, one erroneous judgement, a sacrifice to resurrect what was lost. dan feng should have known it was unobtainable but implored by that oppressive grief what other recourse was there. divested of all decorum, reduced to the hollow chasm of despair he had reached for the only hand he could still place his trust in. in the end was it not hubris, casting his lofty gaze upon the fallen and being deluded into thinking for even a moment he had a right to interfere. the harrowing truth left behind, sabotaging the once pristine tapestry of the vidyadhara, was that dan feng had failed on multiple fronts, he was not omnipotent, nor was he infallible; he had failed. that failure had cost him everything, an exigent call for execution lingered upon the horizon and sorrow etched itself into the marrow of that once ethereal creature’s bones. The scent of petrichor had become unbearable, where once it had been redolent of vast, open skies and the soft lull of his comrade’s voices it was now analogous with his imprisonment. dan feng had sought him in that stifling darkness, his soul desperately searching amongst the suffocating stygian sea only to be greeted by silence. that was his punishment, left to rot within that merciless solitude until time came for the preceptors to efface his memories. what does ren know of love, no matter what form it has taken it is not impervious to such despair, mutilated until it was unrecognisable dan feng knows it intimately because, when it came time to bare his throat before his apathetic god, it was all that remained by his side. resentment was effortless, it flows through his veins like the ceaseless churning of a current, exhuming yingxing now, after mourning him for so long, would be nothing short of inhumane.

❝ how could I have known.❞ these two inexorable forces are discordant to their other halves, the shadow of the artisan immured behind ren’s cold, crimson gaze and dan heng’s disconcerted expression lurking beneath a veneer of glacial austerity. his retaliation is barbed but it does not embed itself into the pallid skin of his adversary, it burrows deep between his own fragile ribs and languidly begins carving him open. for how little did his restraint matter, what significance was there in his dignity, when the alluring mouth of a long-dead corpse can still stir a maelstrom within the tempestuous waters of his heart. ❝ what difference would it have made, letting him go or returning to his side none of that was a choice.❞ if only dan feng had acquiesced to the limitations of his own fate, a venerable weapon to be exploited by the preceptors, maybe then no one else would have been hurt by his negligence, his heart had become the very disease that sentenced those closest to him to an early demise. the words ren intends to wound him with are those he has incised into his own skin long ago, still, despite that, the dull, incessant thrum of loss aches all the same. for the fragments of what had once been an unfaltering devotion, an eternity sworn to the disgraced soul before him now, were slick with blood as his inept hands tried and failed to seize them. schooling his features to remain indifferent, an inhospitable landscape of frost, was not a sustainable defense. not when ren showed no reluctance in his fusillades, whether his weapons were efficacious or not was insignificant but dan feng was not impervious, even if those who engrained those lessons into him would have preferred him to be. 

 ❝ my memories do not change his decision, renouncing the high elder’s path, whether he is me or not is not something for you to decide.❞ the myriad of emotions that arise from that revelation are not all awash in contempt, no, there, beneath those roiling ocean tides, resides relief, sorrow, emotions nurtured by this solitary creature, guarded with the ferocity ren had come to fear. breaking that cycle, defying the life intended to incarcerate him, dan heng had accomplished something no other had before him, freedom. anger supersedes all else because it is the only language they’re both fluent in, action taking precedence over words because incendiary arguments were nothing short of futile. if they had spoken would things have transpired differently, would their fates have been anything other than this. ren’s grip relents, suspended now by dan feng’s which refuses to falter, his eyes, however, those caverns of burning vermillion, remain defiant. that elegant hand pulls back abruptly, there is no true portent of that strike, just the resonating sound of it that fills the high elder’s chest, rising and falling unevenly, his pupils withered to pinpricks and his emotions far too apparent. as the hunter reels from the expeditious blow he jerks him back, refuses to allow him to retreat even an inch, even as those words peel back the desiccated husk of his skin, wedging themselves beneath his keening nerves. ❝ …take it back.❞ his voice has pitched low in warning, dan feng, overwhelmed by the barrage of emotions, does not recognize that his eyes are red-rimmed, that he even had the capacity to shed tears any longer. It’s so very petulant, if those arrogant preceptors could witness him now, debased to quivering shoulders and his fury, because what else was there, would they not have averted their gaze in shame. ❝ you are allowed to loathe me, don’t make assumptions about his feelings.❞ that air of reticence fractures, piece by piece, as if it had been gossamer thin this entire time. ❝ If i am not dan heng as you so claim then you… you cannot decide that for him.❞ of course he knows, why else would ire radiate through him so, if he could be ignorant to the fact that he too had fallen from grace, reduced to something so unsightly, then perhaps he would have become hollow as well.

[luveline]

ooo i love that you’re giving me free reign over ideas for pregnant bombshell and spencer.. maybe something really angsty where reader’s hormones are getting the best of her and she’s just really pissed at spencer for absolutely no reason? hope that makes sense

thank you for requesting <3 pregnant!reader

“I’m serious, Spencer Reid, you better leave me alone,” you warn. 

Spencer gawps. Morgan glances between you both in concern, having seen hundreds of your conversations over the years and never one this sour. “But I–”

“I’m not kidding.” You glare at him, press your hand to your mouth, and spin away from him to march up the steps to Hotch’s office. 

Spencer attempts to follow you. Morgan holds him back with one hand to the chest. “I wouldn’t if I were you.” 

Spencer watches you until you’re gone. He frowns, upset in his eyes and his model pout. “I don’t even know what I did.” 

“Is this a common occurrence?” 

“No, never! But these last couple days she’s always angry with me.” 

“It’s the baby hormones,” Morgan assures his friend, patting him and pushing him toward his desk. “Or you did something and don’t remember.” 

“If I did, I really don’t.” 

You stew in Hotch’s office. Morgan can imagine the conversation, your annoyance and Hotch’s light bemusement, your wondering if you’re being too harsh, and Hotch giving an amiable, neutral answer. Morgan can also imagine what Spencer thinks you’re doing, watching as his shoulders sink further and further down. 

Spencer scratches a stressed hand through his hair. “I’ll go say sorry,” he says. 

“Maybe that’s a good idea, but not yet. She needs time to cool down.” 

Spencer frowns at his hands. “I don’t like when she’s mad at me like this. We’re always on the same page, I never have to guess what she’s thinking anymore.” He pulls at the neck of his shirt and his tight tie. “I feel like I’m twenty four again.” 

“This is all new for her,” Morgan says. What Spencer doesn’t know is that he’s making this up as he goes. Spencer messed irretrievably for all he knows. “You just need to remember why she’s doing it in the first place, right? She’s loved you for years, one pregnancy induced moment of rage won’t change that. Probably.”

Spencer isn’t appeased. Worse when you emerge from Hotch’s office and walk straight to your desk without glancing Spencer’s way, and worse again when he attempts to talk to you and you shake your head. “Please, Spencer. Just leave me alone.” 

Spencer spends the day in agony. The worry of what he’s done eats at him, and he attempts to make it up to you, ultimately making it worse. You frown at every cup of tea or water he brings you, glaring at the plate he serves you for lunch. The bullpen of the office sags under your fury. Spencer doesn’t eat a single bite all day.  

It’s by chance that Morgan witnesses the full fallout on his way to the bathroom. You’re in the hallway just on the way to Penelope’s office with Spencer, who’s clearly followed you to give apologies and concern aplenty. He’s caught your hand.

“I don’t even know why you’re mad,” Spencer says hopelessly. He sounds heartbroken.

You look at your hands for a long while, seconds stretching and aching, before you hold your stomach and look to the side. “I’m sorry–” you say, cutting yourself off as your voice wobbles unsurely.

“What?” Spencer asks, startled. 

“I don’t know,” —your breath shudders— “why I’m being so mean to you–”

“Angel–”

“I feel like I’m suffocating in my own skin and you’re just making me so angry hovering because I can look after myself, but I’m starting to think I can’t, and I look really stupid in my maternity clothes–”

“What’s wrong with your clothes?”

You huff sharply.

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding out his hands. “I’m so sorry. I know you’re just really pregnant right now and the hormones are messing with you,” —you scoff, but Spencer soldiers on— “I love how you look, and I love you even when you’re angry with me, and I’m sorry you feel claustrophobic. What can I do?” 

Your glare softens slowly. “You’re not mad at me?” 

“You’re mad at me, lovely.” 

Morgan thinks that last bit is a nice touch. You wipe your blurry eyes and squeeze his hands, still breathing too fast and too hard but the anger having completely drained from your features, returning you to your usual beautiful state. You measure his gaze for a while, before resting your forehead on his chest, your bump in the way of a proper hug. “Do you still love me?” you ask quietly.

“No.” He laughs and kisses your temple, using his index finger to turn your face by your hairline carefully, giving him better view of your face. “Yeah, I still love you. I always do. I’m sorry I upset you that much, I’m not trying to smother you.” 

“You didn’t, Spence, I upset myself, and I took it out on you… I’m sorry I was mean to you, earlier, you didn’t deserve it. It’s just hard.” You shake your head. “You never make me feel bad for being a diva and I wish you would.” 

“Would that make you feel better?” 

You sigh. “No, please keep being my sweetheart. Please.” 

Spencer says something too quiet for Morgan to hear, but can be read from the lips as a promise as he sweeps his hand up and down your back. 

[foldingfittedsheets]

I don’t think most people can really be trusted with home wax kits if I’m honest. That’s a job best left to professionals. I think this because of the one time Brendan and I tried to wax ourselves with disastrous results.

I’ve always hated pubic hair and Brendan was like a satyr of a man so we decided a fun together activity would be waxing each other. We picked up a home kit and sequestered ourselves in the bathroom.

My first sign that things were about to go horribly wrong was that the first thing we saw in the kit were warnings about how to not horrifically burn yourself. But I had not yet developed a healthy sense of fear. We were going to have an adventure.

Brendan and I stripped and crowded around the heating wax, excited and silly, looking forward to our future hairless states. We debated what to wax first and since I loathed having crotch hair I volunteered my pubes to begin.

The first hurdle proved to be getting the wax where we wanted it. The sticky mess resisted the wooden slathering sticks with all its might and adhered to anything else. Arms, countertop, sink, walls, until finally I smeared some where we were trying to go.

I slapped paper onto the malleable wax and waited for it to set. I asked Brendan if he’d pull it but his eyes welled up with sadness and he protested he couldn’t possibly hurt me until I sighed and tried to rip out my own pubes.

I have seldom experienced worse pain than that moment. It was excruciating and I fully screamed and fell off the edge of the tub where I’d been sitting as a fiery relentless burning agony settled into my crotch. The only saving grace was I’d started off to one side rather than going down the landing strip.

Both Brendan and I were horrified to see that every hair follicle I’d ripped up was now welling with blood. I staunched the bleeding and turned watery eyes on him. “Your turn.”

Brendan was not a coward. He would not let me suffer alone. But he also didn’t want a crotch full of blood, so he smeared a bit up the thicket of his leg hair and ripped. He threw his whole body into a painful silent scream, pounding his fist on the counter as all the cells in the bare patch of his leg lodged a formal protest.

We stewed in silence after that, pain throbbing along our bodies with each heartbeat, balefully regarding the wax on the counter. We didn’t want to give up but the pain register of this task was well beyond our capability to bear. We looked at each other. I said, “Maybe it will hurt less on my leg.”

He looked at me dubiously but we both knew my leg hair wasn’t as dense. The last wax that would ever touch me was slathered on a modest patch of shin hair. I stared at it for a long time, steeling myself against the coming fury of my follicles. I ripped. I managed not to scream but I clenched every muscle in my body against the fresh wash of unpleasantness.

My leg didn’t bleed but I tapped out. It was too much, we couldn’t do it. We tidied the bathroom as best we could we kept finding new wax patches where we’d made a mess for weeks afterward. It took a few hours before we could laugh about the misadventure. My two bald spot were stark for the next few weeks, matching Brendan’s single missing strip of leg hair.

We would go on to try to shave Brendan with disposable razors, a Sisyphean task that blunted three disposable razors and resulted in innumerable cuts and ingrown hairs. Eventually we just accepted defeat and Brendan continued on as hairy as he began.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

So request kinda if not just sharing my thoughts in general.

Alex. My boy. What if reader is a civ or even another soldier in a different squad and the whole thing with him joining Farah’s forces indefinitely. I think this can really lend itself to some angst and that good old misunderstanding. Kinda leaning towards civ!reader just because the more miscommunication. I guess it’d have to be an angsty ending though 😳, but regardless-

Love your writing and, as always, feel free to change anything or do whatever gives you the most inspiration

World Caves In

PAIRING: Alex Keller x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Perhaps it would have been better if your husband had died - at the very least you could understand that.

WORD COUNT: 7.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, misunderstandings/miscommunication, hurt/comfort, vulgar language, abandonment?, Alex being an adorable husband, fluff, etc.

A/N: I was gonna make this an angsty ending but I got my period and thinking about that made me cry so here we are, lmao. Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

When you’d been escorted out of work by two uniformed men, you knew the news wasn’t going to be good. Sitting in the back of a large black car, you spare nervous glances as the vehicle jumps, its wheels going over the last speed bump. Your work building begins to become a fraction of a memory and disappears faster than your resolve. 

The men sit on either side of you, silent, and the only comment is to the driver as you all enter the main road. Swallowing, you part your lips and mutter, plain dread in your tone, “Is he alive?”

All you get is a glance from the front mirror and nothing more. You hunch more in your seat and stew in agony, mind far off on the topic of your husband. 

Alex wasn’t overly reckless, you’d managed to snuff most of that out over the course of the many years you’d expressed concern to him about it, but a large chuck of the blond was still too selfless for his own good. It was hard not to think the worst. 

From training to advising, your husband was always off on one mission to another, far from your quaint and quiet home here—where you waited day after day for even a sliver of contact from him. Alex specialized in so many things that trying to wrap your head around it was impossible.

Even now, you only knew the bare minimum. 

The soft-smiled man worked in the SAD division of the CIA. He’s an Operations Officer. Currently, he’s somewhere across the globe. 

Away from you.

Thinning your lips, you take down a deep breath and settle back into the seat, pulse flying. The men were obviously Agents—you’d looked closely at their badges when they’d first shown their faces at the front desk and had kept within view of your work’s security cameras just in case this was a ruse. When you could find nothing out of the ordinary, you had tensely asked them what was happening. 

They would be holding his dog tags if he was dead, you had reasoned, desperately, a flag. 

It was frantic, the way you had thought that up; how could you not be like that? Alex was the light of your life! With him constantly putting his life on the line, it was inevitable for him to get hurt, sometimes seriously. It was ingrained into your mind the way you would help clean his wounds in the middle of the night when the pain woke him up with a grunt stuck in his throat. The way you would sit half-asleep in his lap and re-wrap bandages while he told you to go back to bed half-heartedly. His hands drifting over your warm skin like he was cascading his fingers up and down the spine of an old book.

You never listened. 

“It’s late, Bug, I can’t keep you up like this.” His drawl echoes in your ear as you rub a heavy palm into your eye. Alex’s hands are both on your hips, squeezing the flesh just below your tiny sleep shorts. You have him sitting on the floor, back resting on the wall and shirt discarded to the side only wearing loose gray sweatpants. A long cut up his left pec is the center of your blurry attention—a wet rag held as you dab at it. Blue eyes narrow at you. “I’m just fine with doing it myself, y’know.”

“You’re being stubborn again,” you utter, the soft light of the bathroom placed at half-capacity to at least try and keep some of the veil of sleep over your heads. “I told you to wake me up when you needed it cleaned.” Your skin brushes his and Alex shivers under you, sighing breathily. “And you’re not keeping me here—I’m helping.” 

A small flash of that full smile, mustache flinching up, “Well when you look so pretty sleepin’ I can’t just shake you awake and tell you to fix me up.” 

You take your free hand and pinch his nose, yawning as he grunts out chuckles. A delicate glance is thrown his way as the rag lowers from reddened skin. Like a butterfly's whisper, you study his face gently; reaching and cupping his cheek with your palm. 

Alex’s lids flutter, heavy weight falling into you as if waiting for this—lips pressing to your inner wrist in reverence. You hold back a tired giggle and feel the corner of his mouth pull up when he feels it.

“All that talk, and yet,” pressing a smooch to his forehead you take your hand back and hear the grumble he lets out after, “you still like it better when I’m the one that’s working on you.”

“Can’t complain too much,” he admits slowly as his head leans back to tap the wall, “my wife’s hands are way softer than mine.” 

Alex’s grip on your flesh tightens when you sipe away the last line of crimson from the wound, tattooed arms flexing. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, watching his eyes slightly awash with pain. “Got caught on a stitch.”

“Ah, well,” the blond sighs, shifting “I suppose I can forgive you.” 

Laughing quietly as the house settles, you shake your head and rest your forehead on his. 

“Such a saint,” your lips utter teasingly as Alex smiles wide, his hands moving higher to your waist. You lean into him, stealing his warmth as your tired eyes flutter; feeling his thumbs run circles over the flesh of your lower spine. 

A content breath escapes you.

“Go back to bed, Sweetheart,” Alex whispers, lips brushing yours like silk, the bristles of his facial hair tickling you. “I can do the rest, promise.”

“Know you can,” your mutterings are barely heard, but the man seems to register them, sea-glass gaze incredibly soft. He chuckles at your sleepiness, one hand leaving your waist to capture the back of your head; weaving into your hair and gently massaging your scalp. You practically melt into him, limbs going slack, slurring out, “Quit it. Wanna help, Alex.”

His laughter shakes you, and with a huff escaping, you bury your burning face into his neck and lean into him, careful of his wound even in your fatigued state. 

“No offense, Bug,” Alex shifts, grunting as he easily maneuvers you until you’re laying in his arms, inked forearms under your knees and behind your shoulders with vivid images of grim reapers, snakes, and angels guarding you close. A kiss is firmly pressed to your forehead as the blonde smirks downwards, “But you’re about as helpful to me right now as an empty mag.”

You grumble, trying to disappear into his skin and letting him dig his stubble into your cheek. 

“If you bring me back to bed before you’re done,” you yawn and close your eyes, “I’m divorcing you.”

He laughs deeply into your ear, body shaking as he pulls back and sends you an incredulous look. 

“Hell, we can’t have that, can we, Mrs. Keller? I’d lose my damn mind.” 

It’s a long drive, and you worry through the entirety of it. A primal, whole-body-shaking type of fear. You’d built a life with Alex and loved him more than anything or anyone that had come before. Even if he was gone a lot, that had never dulled what the two of you had—your marriage was nothing short of something you would find in a fairy tale; flashing pictures on pages with vivid colors and tender glances. The very cover itself is made of the finest leather and inlaid with gold calligraphy. 

Please, Alex, you plead in your head as you remember his loving gaze—his back as he makes supper in the kitchen and hums to himself. Please be okay.

The men hold open the car door when it comes to a stop outside a very obviously abandoned apartment complex near the outskirts of town. You get out quickly. Looking around, you take in the overgrown grass and the broken concrete with a knife in your lung; holding back the flood of anxious tears. 

Though, confusion takes president. 

“Where did you…?” You turn to look at the Agents, but they’re already clambering back into their car and snapping the doors shut. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed you watch them speed off as a cloud of dust drifts into the air. 

Pulse echoing in your ears, you watch the vehicle speed down the road and disappear. 

Swallowing, you whisper, “What the actual fuck?” Turning in circles, no one else is around. A part of you starts to worry less for Alex and more for yourself.

They were CIA, you reiterate, I checked their badges—Alex showed me the standard ones. Could I have missed something? 

Expression nervous, you shift on your feet before your stuttering legs take you closer to the abandoned building, not really seeing much choice here. You could imagine the scene from The Wizard Of Oz—when the man pulls back the curtain and all is revealed. 

That said, you could really only hope that was what was actually happening to you and you weren't getting kidnapped or shot. Taking a deep breath, you clench your fists and enter the building through the open front door. 

It was in the wide lobby that you locked eyes with Kate Laswell. You blank, mouth parting as the scent of concrete and decaying furniture get stuck in your nose. 

The woman seems highly agitated, brows tight and jaw clenched. Her white blouse had been flattened multiple times by rough hands, lanyard swaying on her neck like Alex’s dog tags would. She holds a file in her hands; the paper bulky as if holding something more than just paper inside its manila clutches.

“Kate?” You ask, confused, “What are you doing here? What’s all of this about?” Taking quick steps forward you splay your hands as your voice grows more serious. “Where’s my damn husband?” 

You didn’t know Laswell personally, in fact, when you had first got a glimpse of her here, you’d forgotten the older woman’s name for a moment. The first meeting between the two of you had been at a CIA get-together that Alex had been forced to go to because of his position—some celebration because a group of ICBMs had been taken back into US hands after being stolen. Your husband had introduced you to the Station Chief over a drink with a hand on the small of your back.

But it didn’t stop you now from talking to her like you’d known her for years. Not when fear was flooding your veins.

“What the hell is going on?” You say harshly, glancing around the room for any sight of someone else here. 

Kate sighs heavily but wastes no time in speaking, her professional tone and serious face leaving your already fast-paced heart racing.

“Alex isn’t coming back to the United States.” Your eyes blank, staring into icy blue. She holds out her manila folder, jaw tight. Blunt. “He’s a deserter.” 

It’s like your entire being halts; your skin suit feels as if it’s sagging on your bones with the weight of a cinder block connected by hooks to the floor. 

What did she just say?

Opening and closing your mouth you stutter, lids blinking rapidly. 

“I…” Fingers flinching in the air, an exhalation from your nose sounds more like a wheeze. Kate watches stiffly, taking a look at the floor before returning her attention to you; emotion flashes in her eyes. “...W-what?”

“Keller deserted his post—I tried to speak with the Colonel but there’s only so much I can do.” Laswell takes a deep breath as you continue to go through shock. Alex wasn’t coming home? How, why? “He’s staying in Urzikstan to fight with the Liberation Force.”

“Urzikstan?!” You gape, but the woman continues. 

“For all intents and purposes, I shouldn’t be here, but Alex asked me personally to hand these to you.” Again the manilla folder is shown to you, but when you only glare and fight the fear and confusion rampaging in your gut a sigh echoes out and it’s placed on a termite-eaten side table. “Even communicating with you could put you in danger now that he’s gotten on the bad side of the entire SAD and CIA branches. This is all I can do.”

“What the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, hand coming up to capture your mouth. 

“If Alex re-enters the states—he’ll be arrested and tried in a court of law. If he’s not shot on sight for what he knows.” Kate watches you closely, shaking her head in pity. “I’m sorry,” there’s a strained pause, “but he’s made his decision.” 

As she brushes past you, leaving the folder on the side table, you feel your wide eyes well with tears—confused and horrified. But he’s coming back to me, right? Alex…Alex wouldn’t leave me here alone.

It was common knowledge that over the last years the blond had gotten more agitated at his line of work; the orders that he didn’t want to follow but had no choice. No voice. But he can’t just abandon you...could he? You’d taken vows. Had a happy marriage and relationship. Loved each other.

He can’t just…he can’t…

Your hands shake and you’re unable to stop them, gaze locked on that unassuming manilla folder. Kate pauses in the doorway, peeking back and seeing your sickly-looking face, the agony written in the lines of your forehead. Like the picture of a loyal wife being told her husband was never coming home. And Alex wasn’t even dead. Resentment begins to burn. 

But he made his bed. 

“He told me to tell you that he wouldn’t be angry if you wanted to leave him,” was all she said, a final knife being stabbed into your heart and being ripped out like a live wire. Electricity makes your back go stiff in an instant. “It would be best to never tell anyone that we met.” 

You were alone, full body shivers and bile stuck in the back of your throat. Cold sweat coats your palms, a sticky mess of your barebones disturbance. 

“He…” your voice is hoarse, bouncing off the far walls. “Alex left me here? He left me.”

It was easier to say that the sun had exploded and you were waiting for the last beam of light to incinerate you. Inside of your skull your brain pounds as, in a mad dash of desperation, you rush to the manilla folder and rip it open with vibrating arms.

Having Laswell tell you that Alex wouldn’t be mad if you…if you…the hairs on the back of your neck rise and suddenly you’re angry beyond a sliver of a doubt. It was insulting.

“Alex fucking Keller,” the paper opens to the bulk of your husband's dog tags and a flip phone—reports like his own personal file and the patch that he had once worn so proudly on his combat vest. Red, white, and blue dig into your retinas; it was old, worn beyond measure, but that little patch was something that was never removed. Not even to be cleaned. 

“The dirtier it is,” Alex had commented on the American flag patch when you’d offered to mend it for him, cringing at all the blood stains and dirt flecking off it as he slipped his vest off in the foyer of your home. “The luckier I am.” 

“I think the stench of it alone will frighten off anyone who comes near,” you had raised a brow, smirking up at him as he walked over, laughing. A kiss is placed on your lips, Alex’s bright smile transferring over to you as if able to spread from his mouth to yours that simply. You sigh dreamily. 

He pulls back with a tiny wink as you gaze up at him, cheekily stating, “That’s the plan, Sweet Thing. Gotta make sure I come home to you in one piece.”

You brush your hands over it and think that maybe it would have been better if he had died. Then you could understand why he’s doing this to you. Anger spreads into rage. 

Looking next at the phone and dog tags, all you do is shake your head and slam the folder shut, bitter tears tracking your face. You can’t read anything—can’t see his name imprinted on that metal that used to press coldly into your skin as you both slept in bed. You don’t care about the phone or the files. 

None of it mattered.

“He fucking left me here,” it’s like you’re a broken record replaying over and over again. “You absolute bastard, Keller!” Yelling, you press your fingers into your face, hands spreading over your eyes and mouth to muffle your enraged sobs. 

“You’re still alive and you left me alone.” 

Only the abandoned building echoes your pain; replaying it back over and over again as your wails echo around the lobby like a symphony of laughing jesters. 

—

The phone that Laswell had given you had been going off at least three times every day—morning, noon, and at night. You had stared at it with fury, knowing exactly who was calling even if the thing was displaying an unknown number. By now you had steeped in your anger enough that you had found yourself snapping at friends and family alike when asked if you were alright. 

You wished Alex was here so you could hit him upside the head for being so stupid. So you could hate him until you had the pleasure to love him again.

Urzikstan. 

You’d looked up the country after you had spent two days straight in bed, afterward manically cleaning the house with a glare that could light fires. The far-off place was a land utterly divided by war. Russian occupation, a terrorist group; the force that your husband had joined. Mass against mass against mass.

Brick meets wall.

And Alex had chosen to stay—without a doubt because he’d seen the dire situation and had used that damnable good heart of his to empathize to the max. Forget donations, humanitarian work, or anything else, the man had fucking decided to join in a Liberation Force. 

As much as you wanted to say you hated him; had wanted to slam your gold wedding band to the table with a good riddance for betraying you like that…you still had his dog tags around your neck, and the ring was still on your finger. 

“Too good for his own sake,” you grumble, shoving dirty clothes into the washer like they had tried to attack you. “Deserted the fucking CIA, Jesus Alex. Do you even think when I’m not around?” 

There were only so many times you could curse his name until you felt a deceiving needle of pride slither itself into your skull. You could describe Alex as many things but he would always be steadfast in causes that truly needed his help. He often told you that the best missions were the ones where he could do so much more than take out a target—he strived to help the individuals he met. Form bonds. 

God forbid something came in between the blond and the ones he’d chosen to give his loyalty to.

You slam the washer shut and stomp into the living room after starting another cycle. Stress cleaning was really not a good look on you—the entire house was without a single spec of dust but you yourself felt like you’d run seven marathons. Clenching your teeth, you go and drop to the couch, a grunt falling from your lips as your head hits the pillow.

Staring at the ceiling, you finally take in the utter silence of the house—not a home, because it could only be that if Alex was here—with a pained crease forming on your brow. The pipes spit water, and the washer grunted its mechanical garble…but there was no humming man making food in the kitchen. No blond hair visible as a head rests on your chest; your fingers playing in the locks that act like silk as you part them, the man on top of you purring. Body a weighted blanket.

“Was it really that easy,” you whisper to nothing, lip quivering. “Was it really that easy to stay away, Alex? I thought…I…” 

Eyes wrenching shut, you hear the phone right at noon again as it sits on the coffee table. And you let it. 

There were voicemails, no doubt, but you hadn’t thought to listen to those either. This small act of rebellion was all you could act on but for the simple fact that it also harmed you. Barbed wire steadily digging deeper as it kept your hands wound to your sides—neck plastered to the pillow as bright silver spikes glinted. You stare at the unknown caller who really wasn’t all that unknown and watch the screen light, vibrating over the wood in steady intervals. 

What hurt the most was that if he’d asked you to come along—become an Expat just for him—you would have said yes. You could find a new job, a new place to call home. Humanitarian work would have been at the top of your list and Alex…well….he would still be fighting, just as he always had. 

But at the very least you would have been there to clean his wounds. Together. You’d both promised on that altar to do nothing less. He could’ve asked. He should have asked. 

Alex…

“Urzikstan,” you mutter for what seems like the fiftieth time. When the ringing stops a few moments later the new voicemail icon flashes. Placing your arm over your mouth, you clench your hand so tight it starts to shake, whispering into your skin, “Fine. I guess you did make your bed. And…and I won't be there to lie in it with you.” No matter how much I want to.

You slip the wedding band off of your finger and place it beside the phone before turning and burying your head into the cushions; feeling more numb than you ever had before.

—

It carried on like this for three months. The ring didn’t move from the coffee table and neither did the flip phone; the file had all but been tossed in the trash as it sat teetering on the living room desk. You carried on as well as you could, all things considered. 

Work was a blur, going out with friends even harder to enjoy, and any enjoyment of hobbies or activities was dulled to an almost gray existence. Like a ghost, you wafted through experiences with dog tags and a withering appearance. Eventually, you just stopped going out unless it couldn’t be helped. You still bought meals for two at the grocery store out of habit. You placed blankets where Alex used to sleep beside you. You went to work. 

And still, the calls never stopped except for a brief pause after the first month. You’d thought he’d finally given up, but no. Back at it.

It had gotten to a point now where the device was automatically deleting all recent voicemails—too little space in the inbox. 

Angry curiosity was tempting you. It would be easy, you reason, to simply play the first message and listen. The worst part of it was that you’d begun to forget Alex’s voice and perhaps that was why, on that dead-aired Saturday, you snatched the phone and brought it into the kitchen. 

Firmly planting it on the counter, you stand behind one of the island chairs and glare, hands tapping into the wood. 

“I’m giving you three minutes, Alex,” you speak as if he’s still here, as if his form stands right behind you, head tilted like a damn dog with that infectious smile and those sea-glass eyes. “Three minutes,” your fingers snap the device open and you go to your voicemails; jaw tight, “and if you don’t hear you groveling, Keller, I’m deleting all of them and chucking this phone into the sink.” 

You go down the line to the very first message, small buttons clicking, and before you can stop yourself you press play.

It begins with a small moment of silence. A cough. 

“Hey,” he says your first name, not one of your epithets. Your brows deepen their annoyed furrow, but you can’t help the uptick in your heart rate. Inside your flesh, the sinews of your throat close in on itself like a balloon. “I…I’m guessin’ I have a good enough ass-kicking waiting for me since you didn’t answer.” A strained laugh before another pause. You feel acidic tears boil behind your lids. “I’m not surprised—not really. Done some stupid things but never something like this.” You can hear him shake his head, voice going lower in defiance. “But they were asking me to leave Urzikstan in a worse place than when I entered it. This Liberation Force, Bug, it…they’re good people and what they’re asking me to do…” Alex huffs, growling under his throat. “I can’t stand by that. The man you chose to marry, he can’t stand by that. They need me here. I’m not asking you to not be angry—to not hate me for this. I know I damn well deserve it.”

You let your tears hit the counter, head slightly bowing over. That was your Alex. 

“You need a leash,” your strained voice hits the walls, bouncing off picture frames and your husband's cooking utensils. The small pieces that make up the whole picture frame of your life. “God,” you huff wetly, “you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I know I should have talked to you first, figured out some plan. But, uh,” Alex’s throat gets choked up, and you snap a hand to your mouth when you realize he’s close to tears. He clears his throat. “Hell, I should have done a lot of things, Sweetheart.” 

You can hear shouts in the background, calls in Arabic. The pounding of a door and a woman’s voice.

“Alex, we need to move! Everyone is ready—Barkov’s lab cannot be left standing a moment longer.” The hurried hand to the line muffles the words, but you hear him anyway.

“Affirmative!” He comes back. “I don’t have time to explain more, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for… everything. I’d understand if you don’t use the passport Laswell’ll give you, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to stop calling.” Alex laughs and your face freezes.

“Passport?”

“What kind of Husband would I be if I just let the most perfect woman in the world go without a fight, huh? I’ll be waiting until you call to tell me to shut the hell up and leave you alone or that you’re down in the airport waiting.” There’s a large sound of combat vests being clicked on—pistols being situated into holsters and a rifle strap slipped over a chest. Alex suddenly pauses and you stare at the phone blankly. “I know this is a big ask, Doll, and I know I’m horrible for even springin’ this on you when I’m half a world away from our bed. But I had to try, even if it was selfish. I just…I just really need to hear your voice telling me if I’m an idiot or not for thinking this up. Call me back soon…or when you run out of my clothes to burn in the firepit out back…I love you, okay? More…more than anything.” 

There’s a minute or two of nothing, just Alex’s ragged breathing, and then there’s an older man’s voice ordering him to hurry up. The line clicks. 

Your ears ring as it does, wide eyes dripping tears from your bottom lashes as your lungs chill over. Hand slowly flinching out, you ghost over the keys before clicking on the following voicemail. As it plays, your feet start to take you backward at a snail's pace, your spine flattering against the wall as blood drains to your feet. 

“Hey, it’s me again. I still haven’t heard from you—that’s alright. Take your time.” Steadying yourself with a hand, you look out of the kitchen and get a glimpse of the manila folder on the desk, its tan hide sucking you in. Pulse in your throat, you rush out to grab it as Alex’s voice echoes. “I know Laswell gave you the file, I trust her that much at least.” A sigh. “But even if it’s just to yell at me, please pick up the phone soon. Let me save some of my dignity and give me a chance to beg on an open line, huh, Sweetheart…? But I guess that’s all—gotta go. I love you.” 

You don’t play the next message because you’re ripping open the file with rabid hands, seeing exactly as you had when Laswell left it for you. Alex’s mission report; his patch. The dog tags around your neck clink together like a song, some brutal rhythm. 

“Passport?” Grasping the mission report you pick it up, flipping through the multiple pages of blacked-out words and more confused than ever. “Airport?” 

The words come out as whimpers, hands so shaky that the pages slip from your fingers. They slam to the floor in a flurry of bond paper and you curse loudly, snatching for the remnants futilely. Grasping on your hands and knees hitches build in your breath as your fingers dance rapidly before they slip across something distinctly not paper. 

Small, tiny, and blue. Laminate. 

Your very blood seems to stop in your veins. Pushing back one last piece of paper, you come face to face with a singular American passport. Gasping down mute breaths and licking your lips, you pick it up lightly, leaning back on your legs as if you’d just slammed your head into the concrete. 

“Alex…” you whisper to no one. 

Flipping the hard cover open, a small, palm-sized piece of paper slips out to your lap as your own face stares at you in image form. You blink for a moment before going to take the note and separate the ends. Formal script is inside, stiff lettering. Not your husband's handwriting, but you didn’t have to guess who’d written out these directions for you. 

Laswell.

There was a destination in fountain pen ink—an airport near the Urzikstanian and Georgian border. Seeing as Urzikstan was on the travel-ban list due to the turbulence of the government and terrorist threats, you wouldn’t be able to get there directly. 

But you supposed Kate had your back for that too. 

Georgian safehouse - wait for Keller there. It’s secure. More directions and then a small gap. A pause. Good luck.

You don’t know how long you stare at that paper—that passport. The first thing you think about is how could Alex ask you to do this. Uproot yourself with the snap of a finger. You wouldn’t be able to bring anything beyond what could fit in a few suitcases. No furniture, no large amount of clothes, or even sentimental items. You’d have to quit your job; leave behind family and friends to travel to a war-torn country.

But he’d said it was your choice, and he wouldn’t push you to make it. He’d said you could leave him if you wanted—keep all of this that you’d built here.

…But you’d built it together, hadn’t you? 

You think of Alex’s bright smile and his mustache. His tattoos. How he’d hold you so tight in the long hours of sleep that you half-believed he thought you’d disappear if he didn’t; nuzzling his nose into the back of your head and grumbling out nonsense. The way you could trace his scars and watch as he willingly submitted to your praise, delicate lips curving into sheepish grins as you place soft kisses on the raised skin. Red cheeks.

This place wasn’t a home without Alex in it.

You look over at the coffee table and lock onto the gold of your wedding band.

—

Getting into Georgia was a long affair of paperwork and screenings—not days but months of legal jargon that Alex had dodged entirely because of his desertion. By the time you’d landed in country, you were wholly exhausted down to the very marrow of your bones. You get through the checkpoints, pick up your bags, and look out at the entirely new world outside of the airport’s windows. 

“Okay,” you swallow saliva and nod carefully before looking down at Laswell’s directions to the safehouse. 

You slip the paper into your pocket after memorizing the address, tips of your fingers brushing the smooth surface of the flip phone. Clenching your eyes shut, you take your hand back out and go to try and hire a driver. You were here, but that doesn’t mean all of this was forgiven. 

After you find someone able to drive you to where you need to go, you end up standing with a quaint hostel ahead of you, home far behind. Gazing slightly nervous at the strange place you’ve found yourself, you think of Alex’s hand on the small of your back and sigh; caressing the cool metal of the ring around your finger. 

Walking forward, you hitch your bags over your shoulders and grit your teeth against the hot sun. When you meet the owner at the front desk you state your name and ask for a bed. 

The man’s eyes widen for a moment before he looks at something on his countertop, raising a brow in thought. Grabbing at a stack of papers he holds up a finger and begins digging. Too tired and overwhelmed to ask what was wrong, you just watch and rub at your face. 

“Ah,” the man snaps his fingers and laughs to himself, “here it is! I knew I had placed the note somewhere, Mrs. Keller.” You blink, confused, but the man just takes a key from the wall and motions for you to follow. Sparing a glance around for a moment, you slowly slink after, not really having a choice.

“I remember your Husband coming to me—the blond with the tattoos.” The owner looks back, making sure you’re following. He motions to his right side with splayed fingers. “Scars on the side of his head, to reserve a room.”  

Alex was here? How much had he done already pertaining to the chance that you would show up? 

“Y-yeah,” you chuckle stiffly, “that was him. Sorry for being so long I was…preoccupied.”

“You’re lucky he kept up on payments,” the man grumbles, opening a door with the key and motioning you inside. “My pleasure to finally have you, regardless.”

Entering the small and sparse room, you take the key from him with a thankful smile and a quick thank you before he closes the door. As the barrier thuds, you sway on your feet. Blinking. Breathing hard. You drop all of your bags with a heavy thump that echoes off the walls in a single instant. Heart pounding at everything that was striking you in an instant, you walk slowly back to the bed. You don’t bother to take a shower or brush your teeth; even change. 

You fall down on the mattress and pray you don’t have to dream about Alex sending money to this place every week simply on a suffocating hope that you’d come back to him. You pray you don’t dream at all. 

The phone wakes you up only thirty minutes later.

Groaning, you shift your body so your hand can snake into your pocket, grasping it and tossing it to the pillow beside your head. You’d never made it through all of the voicemails without crying, so you just deleted all of them and let the inbox fill back up again. 

Feeling the dog tags press against your chest as you form your chest into the bed, you shove your head downward and listen to it ring. 

Bring-bring, bring-bring, bring-bring

It happens in a flurry of a sleep-addled mind and a horrible desperation to see your husband after nearly a full year of no contact. You flip it open and answer with your nose pressed deeply into the pillow below you. Ears straining and pulse running like a starving cat after a mouse. 

Dead silence. 

“...Sweetheart…?” It’s pitiful how fast the tears flood you at Alex’s shocked and tiny voice. Tight breathing sounds over the line from his end and your other hand digs into your scalp. A small, cut-off laugh. “Hey…I—” 

You hang up with a vicious slam of the screen and let the silence settle again. People walk the hall; the sun dims as night sets in. This isn’t home. Dropping the phone back down to the pillow you curl into a tight ball and cry yourself back to sleep.

If you had to guess, you’d say the small curse was what woke you for the second time, though you didn’t register it until minutes later. That muffled ‘shit’ as a foot hits your dropped bags near the door. But then it’s silent again and your ears only twitch to the gentle sigh that brushes against your face; a thumb and forefinger caressing your cheek as hair is placed back over your ear. 

Perhaps the only reason at all as to why you don’t wake up screaming bloody murder is because of his calluses. They burn your flesh as they slide over it—as ingrained into your very being as your own heart is. As if Alex’s touch was another organ that was needed to survive. More important than a liver or a spleen. 

When your eyes slip open he’s leaning back in a chair he had turned to face you, built form shifting as the rickety wood creaks. No more than five feet away sits your husband, and all you do is suck in a tight breath and lock gazes with soft sea glass. 

Alex freezes at the same time, strong brow line peeling back and mustache stiff as his lips immediately thin. You both stare for a good while, a thread of tension entering the air. The night deepens. 

He speaks first, in the dense hours of confrontation. Your heart feels like it’s been stuck with a spear, vignette at the sides of your vision, and a blooming center of only Alex’s body and his messy hair. The scarf around his neck. The combat vest. 

Had he driven all this way to see if you were here? Because you’d answered the phone? But you hadn’t even said anything. Your head stays on the pillow, wondering if you were hallucinating.

“Hey,” Alex forces a chuff before he glances away, nervous arms crossed. “Hey there, Doll. Sorry that I woke you. I…ah,” your eyes bore into him, hand on the sheets slowly clenching into a fist. “I figured there was an off chance you would be here.” He clears his voice, throat closing on a trying laugh. “Guess I’m glad I looked. You should remember to lock your door, by the way.” 

At the sight of your rising glare, his tone drops, expression falling even more than it already was. Deep well of sadness grew in his eyes, lips pulling back in a strained agony. 

Alex’s gaze drops to the floor. 

“I know,” is what hits the air, “I know, Sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it,” you push your body up as his large shoulders tighten—such an accomplished and strong man brought to a squirming heap when his wife’s sharp words hit him in the chest. “What the hell were you thinking, Alex?!”

Heavy feet hit the floor as you stalk over, fatigue and tiredness pushed all the way to the back of your mind yet also enhancing your emotions. Bitter rage was sparking—held in far too long. Alex’s eyes don’t meet yours, so you grab him by the chin and angle his head up to you. 

At the sight of your red sclera and the baggy gaze he stills. Under your grip his beard tickles you, the soft grip of flesh that makes you want to wrap your arms over him and weep; make him promise to never leave like that again. 

“I…I wasn’t…”

“That’s the thing isn’t it—you didn’t think.” Sea glass floods over, going glossy; hurt etched into both of your faces as if carved from the same stone. But you don’t stop now, growling out as your skin burns. Alex isn’t sad that you’re angry, he’s sad he’s done this to you. “You disappeared, Alex. Laswell had to just drop all of this shit on me. I thought you had died.” You growl. “Do you know what that feels like?!” 

“Sweetheart—”

“Shut up! You let me talk,” he falls silent, hand delicately coming up to grab your wrist. Not to pull you away, just to hold you. To feel your skin and the heat of it. You sniffle and his eyes break. “And the worst part of it was that if you had just asked I would have followed you right then and there.” Alex sharply looks back at you. “But the biggest insult was that you thought I would leave you—that you even considered that.” 

Shock slowly gives way to a blank expression. He was confused, now.

Was that what you were angry about?

“You’re an idiot, Keller. Hot-headed. Cocky.” You shake your head, but a tiny smile begins to bleed onto Alex’s face. Watching you like you’d just sprung a million dollars on him. His grip slightly squeezes, calloused thumb running the span of your knuckles as you shake his head with your hand. “Damn nuisance to my health, is what you are.” Trying to remain angry is tough when he’s looking at you like that—starstruck—but you spit out, “It’s insulting that you thought I’d just give up on us that easily.”

“Most women don’t want a man who’s wanted for desertion, Doll,” Alex whispers, testing a smirk on his lips with his expression still strained. 

“Arrogant!” your voice snaps. “Not a single brain cell in his stupid little head.” You let go of his chin and grip the sides of his skull, feeling the dirty but still soft strands of hair before you huff at him. 

But he just looks at you and smiles, face smooshed. 

“...You really came?” Alex asks quietly. You fall silent and after a moment you deflate.

After the silence of trying to keep the sneer on your face, you let it drop, lips quivering slightly. Anger glints with pain. “I should hit you upside the head, Keller, for all the worry you’ve put me through,” you grunt, eyes flashing over every new bruise on his face—every cut you’d have to re-learn. He looks tired. 

Oh, Alex…

Before the blond can respond to you, you’ve captured the back of his head and shoved it into your chest; face burying itself into his scalp to bring forth that scent of dust and cologne. You whimper out as he grips you around the waist with just as much fervor, “Did you think that I would stay away?”

Alex says nothing, only the slight tremor in his bicep betraying him. You firmly kiss his skull and run your fingers through his hair, the both of you so tight together there’s barely enough room in your ribs to allow your lungs to inflate. 

But holding him was more important than air, a sentiment that Alex seemed to share entirely. 

“I’m so glad you’re here, Bug.” He mutters into your skin. “Feels good to be able to hold my girl again.”

You stay like that for a long time before you pull back and capture his cheeks, face pulling closer before you kiss him deeply. It’s not a fast-paced or desperate thing—no clashing teeth or tongue. That wasn’t what you needed right now. 

All that you needed was Alex. Your home. 

You both separate and the blond grabs the back of your neck, forcing you back so he can lay another on the side of your mouth; nose, cheek. Anywhere that he could reach as his mustache tickled you to a smile. Giggles worm out and you wiggle out of his grip to wipe at your cheeks, spreading away tiny tear tracks and saliva.

“Quit it,” you whisper, and Alex gazes up at you reverently from his chair.

“Negative, Ma’am,” he says, equally as soft, not even blinking. “Don’t wanna.” You roll your eyes, face hot. 

The seconds draw long of only watching one another before you shake your head and move your hands to shimmy out of the dog tags around your neck. Alex’s gaze locks on the metal swiftly, smile shifting.

“You’re horrible.” You huff, quietly, before shoving his dog tags at his chest. “Now put them back on.”

“But I’m not in the—” Your glare shuts him up. Alex clears his throat sheepishly. “Yes, Ma’am.” 

You nod and watch as they’re resituated around his neck. Right where they should be. When you take a step back to really take him in, there’s a moment where you skim over the state of his left leg. After all, the metal was barely noticeable in the dark. But when you do see it every little part of you shrivels up with confused pain.

Alex stands with a noticeable preference to his right and as he towers over you, fingers coming to grab at your face and slowly drag it back up.

A slightly apologetic look washes over him.

“I’m guessing you didn’t listen to all of the voicemails.” 

“Alex…” you slowly cut off. “You…” Staring at the metal limb instead of the real one, you gape. “...how?”

“Y’know,” he laughs, but you don’t find this funny. He notices and kisses your forehead, tapping his scalp to yours and saying after a contemplative pause, “I think it’s better if I don’t explain it. I’m alright, just...” Alex smiles cheekily, the spark that you love coming back easily as it shimmers in his eyes, “just a little more carbon fiber and aluminum than I was before.” 

You hug him tightly.

“I’m sorry, I should have come sooner—I was just angry, and I wasn’t—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Alex sighs, grabbing you and maneuvering the both of you to the bed. He sits and you end up laying in his lap like that moment in the bathroom ages ago. “None of this is your fault, okay? You deserve to be angry. I shouldn’t have put such a burden on you.” 

You sigh in his arms, head under his chin and heart finally able to return to a steady pace. Licking your lips, you ask, “Does it hurt?” 

Sending a glance down, Alex’s lips twitch with a grin before it disappears. He hums.

“Sometimes.” Your hand grips his opposite cheek and you lay a kiss on his chin, caressing his flesh.

It’s a tentative kind of love. An understanding and a plea all at once. 

The blond leans back against the wall and pulls you closer, closing his eyes. Finally relaxing for the first time in what seems like forever. But his girl is in his arms, and he’s never been this calm.

“I have a home in Urzikstan,” he confesses lightly, fingers brushing your body and giving way to shivers. You listen, eyes fluttering at the vibrations of his words. “It’s safe—protected. I…want us to live there.” Alex nods against your head, swallowing. “If you’ll come back with me.”

“Yes,” your answer is immediate. “Anywhere, as long as you’re with me.” 

You feel his breath hitch, soft chuckles brushing your hair far better than any comb. There’s a small tremor in his voice as he says, “I love you. God, do I love you.” 

Your lips pull up, body growing heavy with a final sense of home.

“I love you, too.” Soft kisses and tight arms. Shifting tattoos. “But if you ever do something like that again without talking to me, I’m telling Laswell she has permission to put a bullet in your ass.”

His loud laughs shake your body, and you press your face into his neck to steady yourself; smiling.

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[johnwickb1tsch]

lessons in anatomy VI

a yandere art professor Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU... (also featuring Matt from River's Edge) ->chapter map

VI.

-Stewing in agony after the awkward ending to your otherwise pleasant encounter with Professor Wick, you spend the whole rest of the weekend working on a miniature diorama of a little girl living in the desert with a pet jackalope. It’s actually been a while since you made one, and by the time it’s done you do feel a little more sane. 

A psychologist might have said something about reclaiming the innocence from a conversation you wish had gone differently, or perhaps a longing for girlhood in which you did not have to worry about every conversation with a man turning into a sexual pitfall. Either way, the end result is cute, and weird, and you add it to the shelf with all your other little scenes. 

You are aware that most of your art comes from the bottomless well of dissatisfaction inside you. A part of you fears that if you ever did manage to get your shit together, you might not make art anymore. Maybe someday you’ll beat the game, retire to a cottage in the countryside, and fill your time with paint by numbers and talking to your numerous cats…

Until then, you’re currently living the glamorous life of No Sex In The City…and you have to go to work. 

-A week later, it seems Matt has decided to ignore Wick’s directive, or at least has decided they’re not mutually exclusive. He is meeting your eyes again, even shooting you a shy smile before class begins. It’s silly, what a thrill this gives you, like a glitter bomb gone off inside your heart. Perhaps after spending all weekend torturing yourself over Professor Wick, it just feels good to flirt with someone who is almost your own age. 

Or perhaps you’re a fickle creature in need of an intervention. 

Matt sits with you again under your maple tree, and even though you’re both quiet souls, it is surprisingly easy to talk to him. You talk about where you’re from and your families. You learn he moved here from out of state with his band mates, and that he never really had a happy home life.

He lets you flip through his sketchbook, and with every page you feel yourself softening towards him by the second. He really is very talented, and on top of that his drawings have a dreamlike quality that sucks you in. 

You pause on a two page spread filled with dark black lines and color. It’s a Chagall-esque bird’s eye view of a little town, houses and businesses, people going about their day, a bridge, a forest by a rolling river. It’s a seemingly happy and complex composition, until your eye settles on a pale form by the river bank far in the corner, a woman lying naked and alone in the cold. For some reason an uneasy, icy feeling creeps through your veins. Is she dead? 

“What is this, Matt?” you ask, taking in the details again. 

He seems to panic a little, reaching out to take back his book, closing it and tucking it into his backpack. “It’s just a dream I had,” he tells you, shaking his shoulders like he’s got the creeps. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

So you change the subject, but you still wonder. 

-Maybe Professor Wick was unfairly harsh to Matt, but you’re heartened to see the young man seems to have decided to rise to the challenge. He doubles his effort in his drawing, taking Wick’s direction and then some–the result would be stunning, but he runs out of time. The study is only half finished after three hours, and you can tell from your elevated place in the center of the class that he is miserable about it. 

“Wick is going to fucking annihilate me,” he mourns as you stand beside him looking at the drawing, now dressed in your robe. 

Critique is at the end of the week, and the students are allowed to work on their drawings on their own time until then, but they’re not allowed to take pictures of you for reference for obvious reasons of privacy. You’re afraid he’s right, and your heart goes out to him. He seems like such a sweet young man, and you don’t understand why John seems to have it out for him. 

“How much time do you need?” you ask under your breath, conscious of the man in undertaker’s black at his desk across the room. 

“I dunno. A couple hours?” he laments, and you elbow him to keep his voice down. 

“I could help you.” Finally understanding, he shoots a look with those wide dark eyes over at the teacher, before returning his attention to you. Those plush pink lips part with surprise, and you tell yourself that you’re not offering to do this because he’s the prettiest [and the saddest] boy you’ve ever seen. 

“You’d do that?” 

“You’re really talented, Matt. I want you to succeed.” 

He looks at you through his long hair like no one has ever said anything like that to him before. “That’s…really nice of you.” 

“Maybe I’m just vain,” you deflect. “This is going to be your best work...if you finish it.” You think you can tell that he has it in him to be great at this–maybe no one has ever given him that last nudge before. 

Maybe Wick knew what he was doing, being tough on him? 

Could be, but mostly, it felt like he was being a jerk, and you don’t want Matt to have to go through it again.  

----

TBC...

___

->chapter map pinterest board/ photo credits

[houserautha]

I desperately need to know how Feyd handles his wife going into labor, and how he is during it! I feel like he would be so out of his realm, and in aw of his strong wife but also very distraught

I need to bear this man’s children

Same

I think you’re exactly right! In my head, at first, he’s totally cool about it. Like if his wife’s water breaks or contractions start, he’s holding her hand and coaching her through it.

But then labor really kicks in.

Honestly I think Feyd would feel so fucking helpless and that would frustrate him to no end. There is no enemy for him to vanquish. He can’t solve his wife’s problems with his blade or with his wealth or through intimidation. He just has to endure this with her as she’s doubled over in pain and crying out and cursing his name. And her labor seems to go on and on and on.

And as a result he would snap and bark at anyone who came near her. On a normal day everyone is afraid of Feyd, but now they’re absolutely terrified. It makes it hard for his wife to receive treatment because he glowers at the physician and the servants who bring his wife ice chips. Eventually his wife has to send him out on a walk or an errand or something — anything for him to relieve his molten-hot anger.

And, of course, he would be a good little soldier and obey. Feyd would stew the whole time and probably reflect about his wife’s pregnancy and his upcoming role as a father. And right as he’s wondering what the hell he just got himself into, a servant fetches him to let him know that his wife has started pushing and the baby will arrive sooner rather than later.

Harkonnens know well that labor is just as taxing as battle, so the physicians allow Feyd’s wife to labor however she pleases. His anger would transform into absolute awe and admiration, watching as his wife works through each contraction, body shuddering, covered in sweat and reddened in the face. And he would think that his wife has never looked more beautiful, that all of his victories pale in comparison to the slick thud of his child sliding into the physician’s hands, his wife’s resulting cry of exultation.

Feyd has never felt so many things all at once, or so deeply. It crashes into him like a fucking sucker punch. He uses a ceremonial blade to sever the umbilical cord, the tether between his wife and his son — who sucks in his first breath and releases it with tumultuous fury, bloodied and bruised from his own battle.

And then the physician is handing his wife the infant and Feyd’s entire world shifts. There is nothing more magnificent as his wife, smiling despite her prior agony, holding the babe to her chest as he squirms and writhes and wails. Feyd realizes with dizzying certainty how his family had failed him, had looked at him as a helpless babe and still wreaked havoc upon his life — and how he would never allow the same fate to befall his son. No, Feyd would do anything for his new family and, as far as he was concerned, his only family.

[cryptidcircuswrites]

LEAD ME UP THE GARDEN PATH

! - dubious consent in the beginning, monsterfucking, mentions of teeth and claws, drool, pollen as an aphrodisiac, rutting, non-consensual aphrodisiac, consensual sex, t4t, PIV sex, dom bottom // sub top, mild degradation and mild pet play, jack has multiple tongues and eats pussy, Brian has a vulva and it is referred to primarily as such (clit, pussy, etc)

“Seriously, what is this?”

“It’s literally just a flower,” Toby lies, voice muffled slightly through the gas mask he’d strapped on.

“Then why are you wearing that?” Jack asks, ducking away from the flower that Toby keeps thrusting in his direction.

“Just touch the damn flower!” Toby finally gets the pink pollen-painted petals close enough to Jack’s face for them to be inhaled.

The beast coughs, sneezing. “What is that, Tobias?!” it shrieked. The human laughs.

“You’ll find out.”

•••

Brian has been stewing the entire mission. He’s been moody for days, which means he isn’t getting laid. Tim knows him too well.

The target has been taking down the cameras the two had put up for surveillance. Brian is sick of it. There’s not only the lack of eyes on the target, but also the looming threat of the Operator getting mad that the job isn’t done.

Brian slams a camera against the cement wall nearby, the device already useless. He swears under his breath.

“Brian, can you fucking relax?” Tim snaps. He lights a cigarette and slips his mask off.

“How am I supposed to relax when this fucker keeps taking down the cameras?” he steps towards Tim threateningly.

“You sound like Alex,” Tim mutters, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Brian goes to slap the cigarette out of Tim’s hand, but the stocky man stops him. “Don’t compare me to Alex, yeah, I got it. You’re still being a prick. Go home and figure out how to get Jack to fuck you, or rub one out, or whatever the fuck you need to do because I’m tired of your bitching.”

Brian stops, because he knows Tim is 100% right. He relaxes slightly, pulling away.

“Fine.”

•••

Jack is in agony.

Whatever Toby had put on that plant had shoved him dick-first into the worst rut the creature can remember. Jack can barely even think coherent thoughts. It just paces the cabin on all fours, claws clicking against the wood.

Everything is hot. Jack hasn’t felt too hot in decades, not since leaving Mexico. It pants, its back arches, desperate to alleviate any of the tension anywhere in its body. Nothing is helping.

Jack is in agony, but Brian is a quarter of a mile away, and the wind is at his back.

Jack can wait.

It is an ambush predator, after all.

Brian walks into the cabin six minutes and thirteen seconds later, kicking off his boots. Jack counted. Six minutes and thirteen seconds of agonized waiting, and only a few more as Brian shuts the door, walking further into Jack’s web.

A few more steps in, and then…

Jack pushes Brian into the wall, hard. The beast growls, saliva dripping from the corners of its lips.

Brian’s heart races. He knows Jack is dangerous, he knows what Jack is capable of. He’s seen it in action once or twice; long black claws glistening with blood as it ripped through flesh so easily, jaws swallowing chunks of meat without chewing…

Jack notices Brian’s apprehension. It rests its forehead to the human’s trilling slightly in between heavy gasps. It’s so desperately trying to convey what it can’t verbalize in this state—

Please help me. Please don’t deny me. I need you.

Brian’s lips curl into a sly grin. He relaxes, wrapping his arms around the monster’s neck and shoulders.

“Well hello to you too, mutt.”

The monster chitters, pushing against him. Grey-tinted saliva pools in its mouth, dripping down its chin. Brian presses back, bodies hot against each other.

They’ve always fit so well together. Jack slots itself between Brian’s legs, desperate for attention. It feels so right.

Brian gasps slightly at the sensation. Jack is painfully needy right now; he can feel it through everything, hot and hard and throbbing.

“What in the world has you so riled up, puppy?”

Jack twitches, hips jutting against Brian’s crotch. It whimpers. It’s practically begging like a dog for Brian to make the agony stop.

He hisses, nails digging into Jack’s shirt. “Easy baby, take it slow for me. I’ve had a rough day.”

It whimpers into his neck, then kisses up his jaw. He pulls it by the scalp up to his lips.

Jack is still too hot. Brian’s lips against its mouth is like blessed ice, something finally putting out the fire of agony raging in its very soul.

It needs more.

It grinds against the human desperately. Brian moans into the kiss, grabbing at Jack’s shirt. The kiss only breaks to pull the shirt from the monster’s body, revealing the lean and long and grey torso.

Jack goes in for another kiss, Brian stopping it.

“Uh uh. You’re not fucking me against a wall, we’re doing this on a bed.”

Jack huffs, but picks the human up anyway. It drops Brian onto the bed and continues its assault on his lips. It desperately pulls at his clothes, ripping holes with its careless desperation.

Doesn’t matter. It can be fixed later. Jack needs relief now.

And in order to do that, it needs to get Brian worked up too.

He moans deliciously as thick wet tendrils swipe over his clit and pussy. It lazily works him over, teasing his clit and flicking over his hole. He grips Jack’s scalp, grinding against its mouth. It complies, sliding a tongue just inside his wet heat. The other two tongues continue to tease and pulse around his tdick and lips. He begs and whimpers and wraps his legs around Jack’s head, begging for more.

The monstrous predator teases him, refusing the friction he so desperately needs until he breaks.

“Jack please! Fuck!”

He breaks sooner than expected.

Jack pulls its tongue out, but not away; it teases and licks to keep him going while it fumbles with its pants.

Brian gasps as Jack’s mouth presses to his skin, moving up his hips and chest and finally hovering over his mouth. Jack is still breathing heavily, but it waits for those magic words.

“Please, Jack,” he whispers.

The creature presses its lips to his, pushing its length slowly into his pussy. He moans into the kiss, both relishing the sudden relief the sensation afforded to them.

Jack is desperate again, rutting in and out of Brian like a dog in heat. Lips crash against each other, teeth find flesh, moans spill from both mouths, Brian clenches and hips roll in a needy, sloppy rhythm.

Neither lasts particularly long, Brian going first and then Jack, gushing deep inside its lover as it bites down on his throat.

•••

“Better?” Tim asks with a stupidly smug grin the next morning.

“Whatever the fuck you and Rogers pulled? Don’t do that without warning me next time,” Brian says with a mock firmness.

That mischievous glint is back in his eyes, and Tim is satisfied that his friend is back to normal.

[take-it-on-the-run]

Bridge Over Troubled Water

Dean Winchester, Reaper!Reader

Dean Winchester didn't want to know what life was going to be like without his brother, and he didn't intend to learn

Word Count: 2.5k

Tags: Suicide attempt, angst, major character death, minor injury, typical cannon violence, angst with a happy ending

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reaper!Reader

Read it on AO3!

A/N: Simon & Garfunkel title. This has been stewing in my drafts since August, so I'm very happy I was able to finally finish it! This is set around season 5 (Dean is 30 and Sam is 26). PLEASE heed the warnings, and please don't read further if this story will make you uncomfortable. Unbeta'd and every single mistake is mine :)

Dean Winchester Masterlist | Supernatural Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Rain clung to a man as he peered over the rails of a bridge he couldn’t name. It was big enough to have a name, he was sure of that, but not big enough for people to be driving by at three in the morning.

His hands wrapped around the steel beams meant to keep cars from tipping over into the rushing waters below. They were cold to the touch, but he didn’t feel that. He could barely place one foot in front of the other, let alone feel anything besides the hollowed-out hole in his chest.

His car was parked just off the side of the road less than half a mile away, keys still in the ignition, lights blaring onto the tree trunks that ran on for as far as the eye could see. There was no one for miles, the only souls accompanying him in those moments being those of the rodents scattering into crooks and crannies to hide from the rain.

A heavy weight shifted in his pocket, nudging against his thigh, reminding him why he was standing alone in the rain. He couldn’t comprehend that in the morning, people would come looking for him, that he would be missed; that he would be mourned. He only knew the pain that was engulfing his very being, pushing him closer and closer to life’s edge.

He wanted to compare it to Hell, but he knew that in Hell he’d at least pay for what he’d done in the form of flames and pure, unimaginable agony, like he’d experienced all those years ago. Here, he could only wallow in the fact that he was alive, and the only person he’d give his life for wasn’t.

The first time he tried to pitch himself over the rails, his foot slipped and his head collided with the metal. Blood trickled down his forehead as he remained on the ground. Any other time, he’d be able to climb anything, anywhere; but now all he could hear was the sound of the river below calling for him.

Join me. It said, beckoning him to his feet once again.

Though he couldn’t see me, I was there watching him as he tried to will himself to take his own life. Standing a mere ten feet from him, leaning on the opposing set of rails, I watched as he clambered upright. In complete honesty, I didn’t know if he’d do it or not. I did, however, know that he wasn’t meant to be there. He was meant to pass in a horrible accident three weeks before at his own hands, leaving his brother the only survivor. His name was in my book, and I was meant to take him to the great hereafter, only to find him standing over his brother’s body.

The man didn’t know it, but his brother was there too, watching him on that bridge. He tried to get his brother to hear his pleas, but he couldn’t, so he turned to me.

He begged me and begged me to not let his brother take his life. This had happened many times since I started my life’s work, people trying to offer me their souls in place of a loved one’s, but my duties remained as they were. I’m a pathway to the afterlife. No more, no less. Never once had I prevented someone from dying, never once had someone slipped between my fingers, and never once had I stuck myself in Earthly affairs.

I leaned into the rails silently, letting the rain fall onto my bare skin. I could imagine how cold it was for him, shivering and bleeding as his world seemed to crumble.

His brother clung to my side, clawing and tearing at my skin as he wailed for me to let his brother live, that his soul should be enough for me to have.

I turned to him and looked into his widened eyes, and all I could do was wonder. Wonder why such a young man was content in his own death, and why he didn’t want his brother to die as he did.

“You Winchesters and your family bond. You know Samuel, there aren’t many people out there who aren’t pissed at the person who killed them.” I said as I acknowledged the youngest Winchester for the first time since he started our conversation.

“He didn’t-” Sam looked to his older brother, still oblivious to my presence, “-my death wasn’t his fault. You got your soul, now you can report back to your big boss and just leave Dean alone, please.”

I turned to him, ready to tell him that my kind didn’t deal in souls, but was interrupted when the click of a handgun made Sam and I turn our heads.

“Are you my reaper?” He asked, matter-of-factually, poorly aiming his pistol in my general direction. I took a step toward him, the rain beginning to fall more violently.

“We both know you’re smart enough than to try and use that on me, Dean,” I said, ignoring his question as I took more steps toward him.

“Answer-” Dean readjusted his slipping grip on the gun, eyes wearily trained at me. “-answer me.”

“I was your reaper, yes,” I answered, closing the distance between us, cool metal pressed against my chest.

His eyes were green and sunken; packed with tears, veins, and blood. His pupils darted around my face expectantly, begging me to do something, make his pain simply go away.

I felt a heavy pang in my chest, that hooked onto my heart and sunk to my feet.

I reached up to his face, gently cupping as I skimmed my fingers over untrimmed facial hair. He flinched as my hand made contact, probably expecting to get ripped from his body.

“Don’t be afraid, Dean. He’s safe.” I said gently. His eyes closed, and he leaned into my palm as he let out a heavy breath.

“He isn’t angry at you. You know, he practically begged me to come stop you.” I smiled, smoothing over the gash on his forehead. The deep cut disappeared as my fingers skimmed over it, offering him some relief.

“It’s not fair-” Dean choked out, coughing as the weather around us began to take its toll on his body. “-Sammy, he’s got a whole life ahead of him. College, a big lawyer job, a normal life. All I’ve got is hunting, and waiting to run into someone sharp enough to finally get me.”

His teeth chattered in his mouth, and the metal against my chest disappeared as he let his arms drop to his sides.

“Big talk coming from someone who’s barely thirty,” I said, watching as Dean pulled away from my hands, and returned to leaning on the rails.

“It’s the-” Dean starts.

“-the life, yes. So I’ve heard from a great number of hunters.” I finished his thought as I joined him on the rails. “Why is it that all of you think your lifespans are so short? Hunters back in, I don’t know,” I wave my hand as I’m trying to come up with the words, “the seventeen hundreds still lived longer than a lot your folk do nowadays.”

He creased his eyebrows, his eyes flickering over my face.

“All I’m saying,” I take a long look at the sun starting to crawl its way over the horizon, “is that ‘the life’ doesn’t have to be your life, Dean. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but you don’t have to die in some horrific fight that finally puts you down. Hunters have died of old age, you know.”

He looked at me, the freckles on his face more visible now that the rain was calming down, “but Sammy… he deserved his happy ending more than I ever will. He got out. Got a full-ride scholarship to freakin’ Stanford. Had a girl. I didn’t even have the guts to tell him how proud I was. I’d stand outside his dorm room for hours, trying to figure out a way to come see him without Dad, or without him hating me. I shouldn’t have dragged him back into this, and now he’s dead. In my place.”

“It’s the natural order of things, Dean. If not him, then you, and if not you, then some other person had to die that day.”

“But it didn’t have to be Sam. I would’ve gone just the same way as he did, but at least he’d have something dragging him forward, to move on.” He looked at me again with those tired eyes, letting out a sharp breath as his hands clung to the railing again, leaning his torso off halfway.

“Dean,” I said cautiously, watching his knuckles turn white as his heart quickened and eyes shut, “Dean.”

His feet were moving fast, and in one swift moment, he was off the bridge. His body flung over almost effortlessly and catapulted him down to the rocky waters below.

I turned away, expecting him to appear next to me in a moment, but his voice rose through the air instead.

“What…?”

I looked over the railing, only to see Sam was holding his forearms, holding him from his forearms before he could drop.

I turned to the younger Winchester brother, who was solely focused on trying to save his brother’s life, his spectral hands losing their grip the longer he held on.

“Dean, hold on, please. Please, man, just hold on. Don’t give up on me.”

Dean’s head snapped up, looking straight at his brother.

“Sammy?” Dean choked out, his legs starting to kick frantically as if he were trying to walk on air.

“Help me, help me get him up. Please.” Sam turned to me, struggling to hold onto his brother.

I blinked and I was beside him, yanking up on an almost-limp Dean, and throwing him onto the road of the bridge.

Dean lay on the ground, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Sam knelt beside him, his eyes filled with remorse.

“I didn’t want to give up on you, Sammy,” Dean whispered, his voice barely audible over the gentle rustle of the damp morning breeze.

Sam’s heart clenched at the sound of his brother’s voice, filled with a mixture of pain and regret. “I know, Dean,” he replied, his voice choked with emotion. “It’s not your fault. You never gave up on me. You took all of dad’s crap, and I mean all of it. The yelling. The hunting. The abuse.”

Dean looked at his brother before he went still, not saying a word as he clutched his chest with pale blue hands. His breaths grew shallower, his body beginning to tremble from the exertion and the cold rain that drenched him throughout the night. Sam glanced around frantically, feeling helpless in the face of his brother’s suffering.

“He needs help. Help him,” Sam said, his voice urgent as he looked up at me, desperation clear in his eyes.

I nodded, my heart heavy with the weight of the situation. “I’ll do what I can,” I replied, my voice solemn. “But I can’t interfere with the natural order of things.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged in defeat, but he refused to give up. “There has to be something you can do,” he pleaded, his voice cracking with emotion. “Please, just help him.”

I hesitated, the pull that the Winchester seemed to have with the universe was something even Death couldn’t withstand; but who was I to interfere? As I looked down at Dean, lying battered and broken on the ground, I could hear the cracking of his ribs drowning out my thoughts.

With a heavy sigh, I knelt beside Sam and Dean, moving Dean’s hands away from his chest with little force. “I’ll do what I can,” I said, my voice softer.

I laid my hands on Dean’s chest, warmth spread through his body, chasing away the chill of the rain and easing his pain. His breaths grew steadier, his trembling subsiding as color started returning to his hands.

Sam looked on in awe, tears welling in his eyes as he watched his brother’s condition improve before his very eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with gratitude.

I nodded, a small smile touching my lips. “Take care of him,” Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper, and I nodded. “He’s gotta lot of fight left in him, and someone has to keep him up and running.”

I chuckled, moving to the side of Sam as I waited for him to pull away from Dean. The two of them sat there in perfect silence, staring into the blankness in front of them. I could barely hear Dean’s breath through the wind that curved between the air around us.

“I have to go, Dean,” Sam said, turning to face them as they both sat on the edge of the empty road.

“I can’t do this without you Sammy, I don’t want to,” Dean said, catching stray tears with the back of his hand. He took his brother into a firm hug; it was as if he was holding him to Earth, and to life itself.

“I love you so much,” Sam said as he rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, Dean taking in a shuddered breath. Sam slowly pulled away from him, and stood beside me, trying his best to smile, “bye, Dean.”

Dean looked up at his brother, nose red and raw from the tears that coated his face, hiccuping as he failed to drown his emotions with a weak smile, not saying a word. He scooted away from the road, sitting himself up against the rails as he watched me and Sam walk down the bridge, and out of view.

I can’t say that I forgot that day, especially when I was called again for Dean. He lay on a hospital bed, his once dirty blonde hair replaced with silver tufts, complemented by wrinkles brought on from years of stories to tell, and different kinds of scars in new places.

He looked just as he did that day on the bridge when he came to stand by me, watching the woman beside him, hair just as gray as his, holding onto his hand. An anti-possession tattoo peaked out from under her long sleeve as she reached over to plant a kiss on his forehead, watching as his heart monitor ran flat. After a few moments of silence, nurses came into the room, looking over Dean’s body as the woman shuffled out of the room and walked through Dean and me with a shudder.

“Hello, Dean,” I said, smiling gently, preparing to lead him out of the room when there was a laugh from behind us. Two hands were placed firmly around Dean before I could realize who it was.

“You ready? We’ve got a lot to catch up on, you know.” Sam said as he pulled away from his brother, the both of them smiling like I’d never seen before.

[seramilla]

verusika surprising odette by making breakfast in bed

Odette is sick. Really sick. She's not even certain how one can get this sick in Hell. She hasn't been this down-and-out since she caught the bubonic plague as a child. Clara had caught it at the same time, which had been a rough 3 weeks for Carmilla. But this is somehow worse. Maybe a new mortal soul brought a previously undescribed Hell-virus with them when they died. Either way, she wishes she were double dead. It would be better than dealing with this misery. It's impossible to breathe through her nostrils.

Verosika seems completely unfazed. She doesn't normally get sick. Not the way other Hellborn do. Something about succubi/incubi and always visiting Earth and having stronger immune systems against whatever the Sinners catch, or something like that. She'd tried to explain it to her, but honestly, Odette had just wanted her to bring her the humidifier. She'd been delirious and hadn't really been paying attention at the time.

She's going on a week straight of staying in bed, in the dark, stewing in her own snot and phlegm when suddenly, Verosika and her unusually cheerful morning voice (the succubus normally sleeps until noon most days, what the fuck is she doing up so early???) chirps outside the room. She busts open the bedroom door, two plates in hand, piled high with sugary dough and syrup and way too much carbon for something that was supposed to be made on the stove.

"Mornin', babydoll!" Verosika trills, making Odette bury her head under her pillow in agony. She groans. Her sinuses are so stopped up, even her ears are muffled at the sound of her girlfriend's voice. It has nothing to do with the mound of pillows.

"Verosika, not now," Odette groans, barely audible under the barrier of fluffy down and silk cloth. Verosika smacks Odette's butt playfully from where it's sticking out under the covers. She whistles one of her most well-known love ballads under her breath, as she places a hefty plate on Odette's nightstand.

"Is that any way to talk to your wonderful girlfriend when she went out of her way to make you breakfast?" Verosika asks, voice reaching a lower register, like the fact that Odette is ignoring her is physically painful.

Verosika puts the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically. "I slaved away in the kitchen for an hour trying to make these. The least you can do is show me that pretty face."

Odette grunts. Her glasses are on the nightstand, behind the tray laden with...something resembling pancakes. She reaches over the plate of food, and once her lenses are in front of her eyes, balks at what she sees.

"What...what are those?" Odette asks, face screwed up in confusion.

"Those are pancakes, bitch!" Verosika says in triumph, rubbing the top of Odette's head where it isn't still covered by her blanket. Odette isn't offended by Verosika's flim-flammy overuse of the word bitch. It's a term of endearment, at this point. "I followed a Sinstagram recipe to make them in the air fryer. It only took 10 minutes!"

"I thought you said it took over an hour?" Odette asks, picking up her fork, and poking the overly charred edges of the dough in front of her.

"This is the fifth batch," Verosika states, as if this should be obvious. "Once I got the instructions right, it was much smoother sailing!"

"Why didn't you just make them on the stove...like a normal person?" Odette asks, completely flummoxed at her girlfriend's choice to not use the perfectly serviceable appliances in Carmilla's elaborate kitchen. One that would make any chef worth their salt drool at the mouth.

Instead, her girlfriend had used the cheap air fryer she'd seen on social media. Because she has to follow the latest trends. Velvette is the absolute worst influence on the popstar.

"Like fuck I'm going to dirty all those dishes. This worked out just fine. Dig in, babydoll!"

Odette shoots the plate another questioning glance. The pancakes are a bit more...burned than she'd normally like on the edges. Maybe too undercooked in the middle. But she lives in Hell, for fuck's sake. She probably breathes in more carbon and sulfur on a daily basis than is currently present on that plate alone.

She tentatively lifts the fork. Uses it to cut through three layers of sugary, crispy dough. There is so much syrup, it almost breaches the edge of the plate as she's cutting. She lifts the mixture to her face, not noting anything else too egregious as she takes a bite. Closes her eyes as she chews.

It's...fine. There is way too much syrup. She prefers the crispiness of the outsides to the gooeyness of the insides. But she can't smell anything anyway, so her taste buds are a bit numbed to the effect of her breakfast. She's had worse service placing a breakfast order at Wackdonald's. She swallows another big bite, and goes in for a third. Honestly, the more bites she takes, the easier it is to think...it isn't too bad. Sweet, even.

Verosika, likewise, is beaming at her girlfriend eating what she's made. Verosika wraps one arm loosely around Odette's neck, and rubs her cheeks against her girlfriend's affectionately, kissing the bridge of her nose.

"I did okay?" Odette asks, eagerly waiting for Odette's approval.

Odette smiles, and takes another bite for good measure. "Yeah, sweetie. You did good."

"Fuck yeah!" Verosika shouts, pumping her fist dramatically, before settling in next to Odette on the bed to eat her portion of the diabetes on a plate.

Odette giggles, despite herself. She's not sure what she did to deserve a partner like Verosika, but as she finishes off her perfectly adequate, nothing-to-write-home-about-but-still-very-sweet stack of pancakes, she considers herself the happiest woman in Hell.

If someone like Verosika makes you breakfast in bed, you better sure as fuck count your blessings!

[thatboreddrake]

Ruthlessness is Mercy

Alright, so now that I've got my incoherent ravings and memes about Epic: the Musical, the Vengeance Saga out of the way, I have some THOUGHTS about the musical symbolism in this new album! Speaking specifically about Get in the Water.

Because really, this song is a reflection of Ruthlessness, the song in the Ocean Saga where Odysseus faces off against Poseidon for the first time.

These parallels can be seen even from the opening lines of each song. Think about Poseidon's opening in Ruthlessness:

"Odysseus of Ithaca Do you know who I am?"

(Okay, so this is technically the end of Keep Your Friends Closer, but still, it's Poseidon's introduction). But recall Poseidon's behavior and attitude here: he's loud, he's proud, he's bombastic, he's in-your-face. He addresses Odysseus by his name as an intentional callback to when he taunted Polyphemus. Contrast this against the opening line of Get in the Water:

"There you are, coward."

There's a familiarity here that isn't present in Ruthlessness. Of course there is, Odysseus has narrowly evaded Poseidon's wrath once before (twice if you count Storm), and he's had 10 years to stew on that failure. Both of them know what this is about, it's just about putting an end to unfinished business. Poseidon is not proud, he is not overly aggressive. He's much calmer here than he was in Ruthlessness.

This is even reflected in the music. Ruthlessness features a piano playing in triplet and trumpets to accompany Poseidon. The god of waves has come to bring retribution on the one who dared to harm his son. On the other hand, Get in the Water, features a much more synthetic sound, oscillating back and forth. This motif is used a lot in Epic to denote the presence or usage of godly powers (think Calypso's reveal of her nature in Love in Paradise). Furthermore, the piano is much slower, more menacing, more methodical. Poseidon is not acting in a heat of rage. As I said before, he's had a long time to think about this.

Poseidon's choice of words punctuates this point as well. He has a point to make in Ruthlessness. He's not just here to kill Ody and his crew, he's here to explain exactly what it is that they've done and why they deserve to die for it.

"I've gotta make you bleed, I need to see you drown But before you go, I need to make you learn how Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves"

It's not just about the fact that Odysseus got into a fight with Polyphemus. It almost seems that Poseidon couldn't care less about that. After all:

"I mean, you totally could have avoided all this had you just killed my son"

Poseidon's problem is not that Ody hurt his son, those things happen in the world of mythology. No, his issue is that Ody refused to finish the job. Instead of granting Polyphemus a quick death, he instead elects to "spare" him, leaving him to suffer a lifetime of agony to live with his blindness. Poseidon goes on and on about this (it is the main theme of the song after all).

But in Get in the Water? It's all about salvaging Poseidon's reputation and finishing what he started.

"I've got a reputation I've got a name to uphold So I can't go letting you walk or else the world forgets I'm cold"

By this point, Poseidon has killed hundreds of Odysseus's men and subjected him to horrible torment. By any normal metric, the debt has been repaid. Ody didn't kill Polyphemus, so strictly speaking there's no need to kill him necessarily. The lines listed above almost seem to be a callback to this line from Monster:

"Or does he keep us in check So we must respect him And now no one dares to piss him off?"

Anyway, by the time of Get in the Water it's no longer about avenging his son for Poseidon. In fact, Poseidon makes no mention of his son throughout the entire song! Granted, Poseidon threatens Telemachus with the same fate that Odysseus gave to Polyphemus, but this strikes me more as incentive for Odysseus than anything else. This is all about finishing his business with Odysseus, and Poseidon's command to Odysseus reflects this:

"Now get in the water"

Poseidon says this so nonchalantly. He almost sounds as tired of this feud as Odysseus is. In fact, it's not until the second half of the song that Poseidon regains a portion of the fury that he exudes throughout the entirety of Ruthlessness. And this culminates in the same command in both songs:

"Die"

And here's where the parallels get particularly interesting to me. Because both outbursts follow an attempt by Odysseus to assuage Poseidon's wrath. In Ruthlessness, he appeals to his men's relative innocence in the matter:

"Poseidon, we meant no harm We only hurt him to disarm him We took no pleasure in his pain We only wanted to escape"

Here, Poseidon's reaction is a realization that Odysseus has completely misunderstood the very nature of the interaction. He realizes that Odysseus is arguing out of ignorance, and so the reply does nothing to enrage him. He's not having fun with it like he was before, this is just something he has to do. And so:

"Ruthlessness is mercy Die"

Compare this with the same interaction in Get in the Water. Odysseus once again tries to encourage Poseidon to put the past behind them and move on. To forgive and forget.

"We're both hurting from losses So why not leave this here and just go home?"

Here again, Poseidon does not get angry from Odysseus's suggestion. He merely offers a defeated:

"I can't"

Misunderstanding Poseidon's quietude for passivity, Odysseus attempts to press his advantage, insinuating that, even if it seems impossible to Poseidon, it is still possible for him to learn how to forgive Odysseus.

"Maybe you could learn to forgive?"

And here's where Poseidon really snaps. Because for ten years, he's been waiting to kill the man who blinded his son and had the audacity to escape his retribution. Odysseus broke into his son's home, killed his sheep, and stabbed him in the eye. And now he thinks he can get away without getting his due consequences?

"No Ruthlessness is... Mercy upon... Ourselves Die"

In Ruthlessness, "Die" is a statement of fact. It's a sure thing that Odysseus will die, so Poseidon puts very little emotion behind it. It's a command, surely to be obeyed. In Get in the Water, however, "Die" is an exclamation of fury. Poseidon screams it out because, in that moment, he wants nothing more to kill Odysseus.

In Ruthlessness, Poseidon begins in a state of almost glee but ends in a state of resignation. He isn't enjoying it, but still it has to be done. In Get in the Water, however, Poseidon begins with a sense of quiet fury. There's no rage, no wild temper, he's just finally getting to do what he's waited to do for ten years. And yet, he ends with a greater feeling of anger and hatred towards Odysseus than is shown even in Ruthlessness. Because Ody was supposed to have learned his lesson. He was supposed to know better now. And yet he still wants to offer mercy, and expects his foe to do the same.

So yeah.

[kstewdeux]

@inukag-week | InuKag Week 2024 | Yearning

Summary: Inuyasha had a craving for ramen after Kagome’s return and Kagome tried to deliver. | Also on Ao3

Staring down at the steaming bowl of stew Kagome had presented him, Inuyasha tried to keep his expectations in check. Tried being the operative word here because, in the years Kagome was gone, he’d tried - oh how he tried - to recreate the taste of those sinful noodles. He had missed ramen almost as much as he missed the woman that was now his wife. The combination of spices, the texture of the noodles, and the comforting warmth had been unlike anything he had ever tasted. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn't replicate the complex flavors with the ingredients available in his time. He couldn’t even get close to the smell.

It was Kagome’s damn fault for introducing the salty futuristic bastards in the first place. She should’ve known better than to give him a taste of the finer things in life. Things that were quite literally impossible to get without her.

But, but this particular stew smelled close or, at least, close enough. There weren’t noodles, sure, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and it was the broth that really stole the show anyway. As the stew had simmered, Inuyasha’s expectations had reached dangerously high levels. Now the moment arrived. God, if Kagome really had managed to recreate it, they could put that broth in everything.

Hesitant but hopeful, he took a tentative sip.

He barely repressed his gag. Despite the scent being on point, the flavor and consistency was not. The piss poor stew was overly salty, the spices were unbalanced and dear god, there just weren’t enough insults in the world to describe the after taste. Even ass wasn’t good enough. Something, somewhere had gone horribly, horribly wrong. Despite the nauseating concoction making him want to puke, Inuyasha looked up at Kagome’s eager face and couldn't bring himself to dampen her enthusiasm. Against his better judgment, he took another sip and immediately regretted it but nothing was off the table when it came to protecting Kagome in every possible way so, with god as his witness, he was going to finish this before coming up with some excuse and leaving to go puke it up in the woods.

“Do you not like it?” Kagome asked worried as she wrung her hands, “I know there aren’t noodles but I thought the smell…”

“Nah, s’good woman. Quit your worrying,” he mumbled hoarsely before steeling himself and knocking back the whole bowl to get it over with.

That…oh boy…that was a mistake.

“Think…” a bit of vomit filled his mouth that he quickly swallowed down, “Think somethin’ in…” a gag he couldn’t repress as a cold sweat broke out. He stumbled towards the door and prayed, “Woods,” the world began to spin, “Stay. Be back.”

“Inuyasha, wait-“

He ran begging for this feeling to pass because his damn woman was too smart for her own good and would definitely get pissed at him despite this being entirely her fault. Three long years waiting for his woman to finally get her pretty face back here only for him and his stupid ass was managing to ruin everything over ramen.

Figures.

The agony building in his stomach hit new levels when he tried to launch. The jolt then rapid ascent nearly had him spewing everywhere.

God, what did she use?!

The landscape around him had melted and his ears were ringing by the time he finally, mercifully made it into the woods. Unable to hold it in any longer, Inuyasha doubled over and vomited violently by a cluster of trees. The harsh taste of the stew mixed with the bitter bile, and he retched again, emptying his stomach. Over and over and over again because the persistent, nauseating taste lingered.

His breathing became ragged and labored between bouts of retching. His normally top notch vision blurred. Each wave of sickness seemed more intense than the last, leaving the hanyou who could toss demons ten times his weight trembling and drained until the convulsions eventually subsided and he stumbled over to a nearby tree to simply collapse.

If he didn’t know better, he would’ve said Kagome had just tried to kill him. He didn’t even have the strength to move further away from the putrid stench that had his stomach churning all over again. Another trickle of vomit bubbled over his lips. His mind screamed at him to black out and free him from this torment.

“That bad, huh?” Kagome’s nervous chuckle came from far too close and bleary golden eyes blinked open to find his wife kneeling in front of him.

Ah shit. So much for keeping how utterly disgusting that thoughtful attempt really was. Dumb woman. Following him. Her fault if she got her feelings hurt.

“What the hell did you put in that?” he mumbled miserably as Kagome gently grabbed his hands and helped him to his feet. She draped one of his arms around her shoulder and together they began the journey back.

“Chicken broth. Um some herbs. Vegetables. Some mushrooms I found and-“

Inuyasha sent her a miserable glare as something clicked. He immediately made a mental note to have Kaede teach Kagome about plants in general not just medicinal herbs because this whole fiasco could’ve been ten times worse.

“What the mushrooms look like?”

“They were just normal white mushrooms,” Kagome clipped defensively and Inuyasha wrinkled his nose.

“Did you eat any of that shit?” he asked - god his voice was so raw.

“Well no, I wanted to-“

“Do not eat that shit until you show me what mushroom you used,” Inuyasha muttered before his stomach decided to convulse again. Another dribble of bile found its way onto his robe before the ground came up to meet him.

By the time he reopened his eyes, Kagome was kneeling there looking guilty as hell. Her hands smoothed out a few wrinkles of her kimono like she was trying to buy time.

“Okay, so, don’t get mad-”

Inuyasha snorted softly as he rolled his sore body into its side and listened to his wife nervously explain that she might’ve accidentally kinda sorta poisoned him because she didn’t know how to identify poisonous mushrooms for what they were. An innocent mistake and thankfully one that didn’t kill her.

“S’fine,” Inuyasha mumbled as he grabbed her hand and led it to his ear. He hummed happily when she gave it a hesitant stroke, “Didn’t kill me.”

Kagome let out a shuddering breath.

“Could have. Apparently I’m not allowed to help with foraging anymore. Officially banned,” she offered with a weary laugh.

“I’ll talk with ‘em. How else you supposed to learn?” he offered hoarsely, “Dumbasses should’ve taught you. Not your fault you didn’t know.”

“I’d prefer you try to teach me,” Kagome countered shakily, “I’ve never been on the receiving end of Sango’s anger before. She raked me over the coals before dumping out everything we gathered this morning and storming off.”

Inuyasha’s lips twitched upwards at the visual.

“Yeah, I can do that. Learned the hard way what you can eat and what you can’t. Not the first time a mushroom took me down,” he snickered tiredly. Kagome’s fingers lightly traced his jaw.

“My poor baby,” she hummed sadly.

“Yeah, yours,” he agreed with an affectionate yet exhausted smirk before an echo of nausea had his expression falling. He groaned and closed his eyes. A moment later a damp cloth was pressed against his neck.

“You’re going to spoil me,” he muttered miserably, “Make me weak. Taking care of me like this.”

He shifted and added before Kagome could protest, “S’the best though. Getting spoiled. Don’t mind.”

He could hear Kagome’s smile in her voice as she carded her fingers through his hair.

“Then spoil you I shall.”

[holocene-sims]

next // previous

august 26, 2021 12:50 a.m. square-k convenience store

[yunha] first of all, i would want dr. pepper.

[yunha] i don’t like sodas that much, but i love dr. pepper. it’s the kfc of sodas.

[grant] 11 secret herbs and spices? but liquid?

[yunha] exactly! it’s like cola and not cola, root beer and not root beer, spicy and not spicy.

[yunha] maybe it sounds dumb, but...

[grant] no, no, not at all! honestly, you're doing big-brain science over there, decoding all the flavors.

[grant] have you heard of hot dr. pepper?

[yunha] what?

[grant] hot dr. pepper. it’s a thing, i swear! like a sixties thing but some people are still into it. i'm not making it up.

[grant] and speaking of coffee and hot dr. pepper, one of my aunts drinks it in the morning instead of coffee.

[yunha] that’s so strange. why hot?

[yunha] won't it just lose the carbonation?

[grant] i don't know, i don't really want to partake in drinking it, but if i were a betting man, i would say yeah, that's probably the outcome.

[grant] anyway, continue! dr. pepper. i respect that. great choice. i'm loyal to faygo but i do fuck with dr. pepper.

[yunha] how can i continue after that sudden trauma?

[grant] would you like me to procure you a cold dr. pepper to rinse out the agony?

[yunha] no, it's okay!

[grant] well, the offer is still on the table! i'm not evil.

[yunha] anyway, the last part of my meal would be seolleongtang.

[grant] oh, that's ox bone stew, isn't it?

[yunha] yes! it's not even my favorite food, but if i knew my expiration date, i'd want to prepare it and eat it one more time.

[grant] why choose that then?

[yunha] it reminds me of my family. we had some, hm, difficult times, and i remember my dad making this for us, especially for my mom to improve her mood. it's actually her favorite food.

[grant] that's very sweet. like beyond sweet. it's more about invoking that feeling of love again than the literal food, yeah?

[yunha] of course. i would like to feel that love again and also share it, and thank my parents for everything.

[yunha] i wouldn't need anything else.

[grant] you really love your family.

[yunha] more than anything.

[yunha] okay, now tell me your final meal!

[grant] i can tell you the ideal one would not be as humble as yours.

[grant] i mean, my logic for myself is, like, alright, i'm about to slowly turn back into cosmic dust, with or without a consciousness somehow floating around the universe, so screw it, do whatever.

[grant] i'm already going "home," so why not go big?

[grant] so, it’s my last day on earth. i'm at my place chilling with my cat.

[yunha] you have a cat?

[grant] his name is turtle. he’s very cute. he wears sweaters. he was a stray. i picked him up years ago from underneath a dumpster at IHOP at two in the morning, and i nursed him back to health.

[yunha] aww, i always wanted a cat. like some cuddly, fat, fluffy cat.

[grant] you should get one! i highly recommend it.

[yunha] i can’t! not yet.

[grant] do you want to see a picture of turtle before i imagine my untimely death? funny, i was just saying to someone else earlier that i want a timely one.

[grant] there he is, right on my home screen.

[yunha] oh my goshhhhh, i love him.

[grant] he's the best. no joke. but again, last meal. turtle and i are chilling, and yeah.

[grant] i absolutely have to have my grandma’s macaroni and cheese. it’s perfection and also my favorite food of all time. uhh, let’s see, i think you almost always need potatoes with a meal. i'd be happy with my grandma’s colcannon, like mashed potatoes and cabbage. what else? i mean, not to talk about coffee again, but i do love it, so maybe a vanilla latte for liquid consumption. oh, and fuck, coconut cake is a must. that’s my grandma’s recipe, too

[grant] i'd also have pizza for sure. pineapple is nonnegotiable, it's going on there. pineapple, pepperoni, the whole works.

[yunha] so, you’re a big fan of dairy products and your grandma?

[grant] that about sums it up!

[yunha] did you, like, grow up on a dairy farm?

[grant] no, but my grandma did!

[yunha] ah, i see. it's all connected.

[yunha] so, you like talking about death?

[grant] i don't. it just seems to come up a lot accidentally.

[grant] but really, i asked you this question because it's just, i don't know, an interesting way to get at people's values in life?

[grant] and it was just what came out of my mouth first.

[yunha] we answered kind of similarly. what did you learn about me?

[grant] same values, different approaches, i'd say.

[yunha] by the way, my other value is pineapple belongs on pizza.

[grant] oh, thank god! finally, someone else agrees!

[yunha] corn is also really good as a topping.

[grant] man, i feel deprived now. where have you been the last thirty years? you could have told me such a feat of engineering exists!

[secretwhumplair]

Found & Lost

1,264 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to The Outpost)

Content | Multiple whumpees, broken bones, starvation, mute whumpee, mentioned/implied: painful healing, death

Notes | Say hello to the prince! Surely nothing heartbreaking can happen now that he is safely with his people.

Taglist | @echo-goes-aaa @whump-blog

Orafin’s vision went black for a moment when he slid off the horse, bending his broken legs in all the wrong ways.

Despite wanting to get away as quickly as possible, he hadn’t been able to help being glad Elgar couldn’t make the horse more than walk. Even so, everything was a haze of agony, his legs only the sharpest among the bruises and welts and open cuts all over his body, and the painful void inside his stomach.

He could hardly think, even now that General Tarrev’s familiar face struck relief from his tormented heart like a gold vein from raw stone. Barring his siblings, there could not have been a more welcome view than the man who taught him how to fight when he was a child, who could protect him as well as he helped protect the kingdom.

He distantly heard Tarrev order a medic and food to his quarters, and a messenger to ready themself. Then his voice turned quieter as he arranged Orafin into a bridal carry. »What have they done to you, my Prince.«

Orafin could barely process what was being said, but one thought broke through the haze. Something—someone—was missing.

It took all the effort he could spare, but he managed to grab Elgar’s hand as Tarrev turned away.

Tarrev looked into his pleading eyes, and thankfully understood. »You want your companion to come with us?« He switched to the Rekkshuran Elgar had used to communicate. »Can you walk, good sir?«

Orafin didn’t register Elgar’s answer. He found his head leaning against Tarrev’s arm; it was so nice and warm. Then what felt like moments later, he was set down into a cot that felt as comfortable, no, better than his four-poster at home.

He was going to go home.

All thanks to the poor creature who had been enslaved alongside him, and had the courage to run when he couldn’t.

Elgar’s hand hadn’t slipped from his, and now that he was almost comfortably reclined, aside from the pain, and flooding with what joy his exhausted body could handle, he found it less strenuous to turn his head and look at him.

He looked frightened, and Orafin gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

He had promised he would protect the man who had saved him, tonight in an act of unfathomable bravery but in truth probably a dozen times over, and he would keep his promise. He wanted nothing more than to tell him he was safe, that no one would dare lay a hand on him ever again, or else that he could go home when he had recovered his strength; but all he could do was squeeze his hand like they had done dozens of times.

»Here, your Highness.« Tarrev sat down on his other side with a bowl of—it could have been anything, for all Orafin cared. It was food.

He managed to take it in his feeble hands. It felt wrong, freely being handed food, like he would definitely be punished if he simply accepted it; he looked at Tarrev’s face to fight the horrific instinct that had been implanted in him, finding kind worry rather than lurking malice.

»I know it is not much, your Highness. I apologize, but it is dangerous for a starved man to eat too much, too quickly. You will not have to wait long on your next meal, on my word.«

Orafin thought he might cry from the care he was being shown. Elgar had done what he could with what he had, but he had never been quite able to make a material difference, except leaving him a tiny little more of his own food—and how grateful Orafin had been, knowing they were both hungry. He was almost ashamed a proper meal made him feel so much better, when it was so easily given.

He couldn’t focus too much on his concerns, though. It was all he could do to spoon the stew up rather than simply drink it out of the bowl in one go. It was difficult enough, even physically; he had not been allowed to even use his hands to eat for months.

He only distantly noticed the medic entering.

»Your Highness. May I attend to you legs?«

When he didn’t answer—he couldn’t simply nod when he wanted to beg for them to be careful—, the medic frowned. »Your Highness, can you not speak?«

He swallowed before opening his mouth in reply. Tarrev took in a sharp breath, and the medic’s shoulders sagged.

»Let him finish eating,« Tarrev told the medic in his stead, and Orafin instantly knew why. This would hurt. Tarrev got up and went over to his desk. »Wait…«

Orafin was already wiping the bowl clean with his fingers. There would be no way around it, and he shouldn’t be looking for one—they were goint to heal him, not pointlessly hurt him out of cruelty.

Tarrev returned with a slate and pencil. »Can you write, your Highness?«

Orafin took them with trembling hands, setting the cleared bowl down. His hands felt awfully unsteady, but he scrawled thank you on the slate, in the largest letters he could fit.

»I am your servant, your Highness,« Tarrev only replied quietly.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed being able to communicate. There were so many things he suddenly felt the need to talk about.

But first, he held the slate up to Elgar. He had, Orafin noticed only now that the worst of his own hunger was sated, been given his own bowl of stew. He would have been surprised if Elgar could read Ochurian, but Tarrev picked up on his intentions. »His Highness wishes to thank you.«

Elgar only nodded timidly, ducking his head in a clumsy bow.

Orafin wanted to tell him a thousand things more, not the least that there was no need to bow to him, but Tarrev continued while he was wiping the slate, so he merely noted a quick, Please speak Rekkshuran, for the benefit of my companion.

»I wrote to their Majesty, your sibling,« Tarrev said, half-turning to the medic, and then repeated himself according to Orafin’s orders, continuing on in a language Elgar could understand. »If nothing holds them up, they can be here tomorrow night. They will be able to heal you if you prefer to wait.«

The medic nodded, hesitantly. »I can just give you something for the pain for now, then. But it’s always better with these things not to wait too long, even for a mage.«

But Orafin barely registered any of that. Their Majesty, your sibling. He stared at Tarrev, desperate for this not to mean what it had to mean.

Tarrev noticed the moment that had caught him, and his face fell. »Oh.« Orafin wasn’t sure he had ever heard the man’s voice go this soft, and he felt dizzy, knowing that this could not bode well. »Have… Had you not heard?«

Orafin blinked back tears. Only rumours.

Tarrev nodded slowly, lowering his eyes. »I am so sorry. Her Majesty passed from injuries sustained in battle… four months ago now.«

Without ever seeing her youngest son again, believing him dead. Without Orafin there to say his final goodbyes, or hear his mother’s last words, or even attend the funeral. With his siblings believing this to be the second loss in such short time.

Without him.

Orafin had thought he had run out of tears some hours ago, but now he covered his face in his hands and wept more.

[lewkwoodnco]

Hi I want to request Anthony Lockwood×fem!reader with the song False God, I want it to be best friends to lovers, with the miscommunication trope. Like they were best friends and started falling for each other, and try to hide their feelings. Then then after a case they got into an argument, about Lockwood throwing himself in danger again and he kisses her, but she just gets even more confused and mad, she thinks that he only did it because he wanted to distract her from what happened, so she gets even angrier. The argument gets even more heated and they start even yelling at each other, then they stop talking to each other for days, and the reader just has enough and leaves and Anthony is heartbroken, and tries to find a way to get her back. The ending is happy. He gets her back, and they confess to each other.

I'm sorry this is very confusing. You can obviously add more things, so there is the miscommunication trope, and also, so the plot suits the song more. Thank you, you're amazing, I absolutely loved the I can see you fic, and it was everything I hoped for when I requested it.

False God - Lockwood x Reader

A/N: No worries, its not confusing at all! I'm really glad you liked the i can see you fic cuz its one of my favs too!! hope you like this one toooo :) 4k!

She groaned, shifting in her window seat, forehead fused against the window pane. It was too bright to be looking straight ahead at the glowing skyline, so she was staring down at the pavement baking in the sweltering heat. Summer was in full force, and today it took form by enveloping 35 Portland Row and every building in a five-mile radius with its heat. It was too hot to think straight, too hot to do anything but brood and stew in resentment. Even as she unseeingly looked out at the shimmering roads, all she felt was the same agony growing inside of her being reflected back into her eyes. Loving Lockwood truly was a special kind of hell.

It had been a funny sort of week. On Monday, Lockwood had used a napkin to wipe some sugar off her nose after she had bitten into one of Arif's doughnuts, and he looked just as confused as her when he realised what he was doing. On Wednesday's job, she tripped on a loose floorboard so badly that her knees buckled under her, leading to some very ungraceful stumbling in Lockwood's arms, and when she was finally able to find her feet she brushed past him, face beet red, mumbling an apology.

On Thursday, Lockwood was bandaging up a scrape on her wrist, and she had been so transfixed by his swift, confident movements that she hadn't even realised he was done until he snapped the first aid box close. Later that night, while they were scouting out a new location, his fingers drifted on the edge of her bandage occasionally, as if checking to see if it was alright. Part of her love-addled brain couldn't help but hope that he was checking if she was alright. He apologised profusely each time, stepping back in an attempt to at force at least some physical distance between them. She nodded absent-mindedly, trying to soothe the somersaults her stomach made when she felt his rapier-calloused fingers graze her palm.

So when they were dividing themselves up for Friday's case, a part of her knew it wasn't smart to team up with someone in front of whom she became a stuttering, vacant fool. It wasn't that she daydreamed about him or felt butterflies in her stomach, but there was something about him that short-circuited her systems when he got too close. But now, Lockwood looked so cool, so nonchalant. She couldn't avoid him forever. She had to work through whatever this was, and spending time with him was how she was going to do it.

"Yeah, sure, those teams sound great. Lockwood and I together works." But even as she raised her mug to take a sip, she briefly met Lockwood's gaze, and the look in his eyes triggered this sudden vision of the entire mission going up in flames. Her eyes darted away, and when she looked back, he was looking at something on the thinking cloth interestedly. She struggled to take a sip of her tea with the lump in her throat. Must have been a trick of the light. Not that it helped her get it out of her head.

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Lucy and George were starting on the first two floors, so Lockwood and her took the elevator up to the third floor. Two floors away, they could no longer hear George and Lucy's footsteps or voices, as if they were in an entirely different building. They split up, and she was relieved for the distance between them, the chance to finally think straight for a while.

However, they weren't having much luck. She ran her fingers over the walls for what felt like the hundredth time, frowning and straining her ears. Every time she felt like she had just gotten the right focus, Lockwood would shift somewhere behind her and break her concentration.

"Quit it."

"What?"

"The shifting. I can't hear."

"What shifting?"

She pulled her ear from the wall to look at Lockwood and immediately felt her spirits dry up. Lockwood was looking at her questioningly, not far from the position she had left him in, and right behind him was a Spectre a split second away from lunging at Lockwood.

It all happened so fast; even now she wasn't quite sure how she had managed to recover her wits so quickly. She barrelled towards the ghost, fingers closing over Lockwood's bicep as she closed her eyes and thrust her rapier in front of her, hoping her blade met the visitor before she did. There was a hissing sound, and then silence. She opened her eyes to see the Spectre gone, and Lockwood looking as pale and shaken as she felt. His lips quivered, forming amorphous words, and she feared she might break down if she looked at him being vulnerable for too long.

She turned detachedly, sheathing her rapier, considering the objects around them until she found one with overwhelming psychic charge. She pulled out her iron net and draped it over the source, and the temperature went up considerably. By then, Lockwood look mostly alright, if a little nervous.

They returned to the elevator, and as the doors shuddered to a close he tilted his head towards her, coughing awkwardly, though his eyes were still fixed to the floor. "You didn't need to...foolish t-to, what you did there...erm-"

"Lockwood, shut up. I'd die for you." She hadn't meant to sound so aggressive, but it made her heart stumble erratically when she saw him sprawled on the floor, moments away from certain death. It made her want to strangle him for being so stupid, then fling her arms around him and hold him close. For so much of her life she had felt like an island, alone and desolate, and she had so little, but Lockwood would forever be something for her to keep, even if it was only all in her head.

She looked up, startled by the dark look in his eyes, rushing to get the words out, but it was a bit too late. "And Lucy. And George." Even she could hear how flimsy that sounded, echoing in the starkly lit rattling elevator. Yes, she would lay her life on the ground for them, but with Lockwood, it was just...different. Anything to do with Lockwood just had to be complicated.

"I know. But still. Thank you."

She gasped, scrambling to her feet, hand clutching the sleeve of his coat before her brain caught up to what she was doing. It was almost comical, the way she had to blink at her hand and Lockwood's face before realising what she had done. She dropped her hand immediately, straightening, but Lockwood's expression didn't change. It was a weird mix of curiosity, contemplation and what looked to be worry. So it hadn't been a trick of the light.

She inhaled, raising her chin to meet his gaze. His eyebrows raised imperceptibly and she felt the air around them shift. She blinked hesitantly, much less confident than she was a few moments ago.

They silently boarded the elevator again, which was miraculously still working, and an uneasy feeling starting to grow in the pit of her stomach. For once, neither of them had made any effort to sweep the electricity between them under the rug, so now it hung in the open, the elephant in the room. It was pure insanity - no, idiocy, to acknowledge the charged air between them. She didn't know about Lockwood, but she was having a hard enough time dealing with the urges that compelled her to run to his side at the first sign of danger.

This was new territory, and these uncharted waters frightened her so. As soon as her attention drifted elsewhere and this tension between them took a backseat, she would look into Lockwood's eyes or feel him brush against her, and she would be certain that it was only a matter of time before she was pulled under. It made her head spin, and yet, she craved it.

Her hand trembled as she pushed her hair back from her eyes, and Lockwood reached out and interlocked her fingers with his own, still staring straight ahead at the dull metal doors. His stoic expression belied the intimacy of the action, and she felt the first strains of annoyance begin to bubble up. How could he just stand there so unaffected, as if he had every right to make her fight for her own breath?

The elevator doors opened to the ground floor, and not a moment too soon. The thick floors had meant that the two groups had no idea what was going on with the other group, and Lucy and George were fighting by the skin of their teeth to stay alive among the hoard of ghosts surrounding them. Lucy was keeping the visitors back while George ducked and rolled around the lobby, frantically looking for sources. Lockwood and her joined Lucy, and soon enough they had the upper hand.

Once the final source was neutralised, they sat in silence, only the sound of them catching their breath filling the room. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lockwood tugging at his rapier that was somehow embedded in the wall, before he suddenly stilled. He was looking in her direction, a familiar fear clouding his eyes. Somehow, a part of her realised exactly what was happening.

She turned, hand on her rapier, stopping short. She certainly felt the chill, and there seemed to be a haze in the air, but she couldn't quite make out anything tangible. She reached out, almost as if in a trance, before she had the wind knocked out of her.

One minute she was standing, and the next she was lying on the floor, a figure crouching over her, blocking her vision, as if shielding her. A few moments passed before the figure looked up and straightened, kneeling now, light falling on the gaunt face of Lockwood. George was sheepishly holding up a musical box draped in a silver net. "Sorry, missed a source. They should all be gone now."

Lockwood turned back to her, offering a hand to pull her up, but there was this weird sort of static buzzing between her ears now. She propped herself up on her own, shoving him, and walked away fuming while he toppled over in an undignified manner.

Fucking Lockwood.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air of the group was fraught with tension on the way back. She signed the report with such force that she ripped a hole in one of them, and she kept rebuffing all of Lockwood's attempts to try to talk to her. Now, they were back at 35 Portland Row. She went straight to the kitchen and started making tea, slamming the drawers, uncommonly violent. Lockwood stood a few feet away from the table, closer to the door, as if furiously working out what exactly he wanted to say to the floor. She saved him the trouble.

"What the hell was that?"

"It was a Phantasm."

"Yeah, I guessed. I mean the part about you rushing in without any equipment."

"I was out of flares and my rapier was stuck. I didn't choose to do that."

"No Lockwood, you did choose. You made that choice when you decided to run in-"

"What the hell was I supposed to do? Watch you get ghost-touched?"

"-throw all caution to the wind, playing the hero-"

"I only play the hero because I have to. You're all my responsibility."

"-because never mind the three people who work in your agency, live in your house, and care so deeply about you that they wouldn't know what to do with themselves if you died-"

"So I'm just supposed to stand around and watch the rest of you die?!"

"-but no, the great Anthony Lockwood has bigger plans, like being an absolute - you won't even look at me!"

She sat down at the table, cradling her growing migraine, muttering to herself. "God, I can't talk to you when you're like this."

"Like what?" Lockwood gripped the chair opposite hers aggressively.

"This! You get so-so distant, like you couldn't be more disinterested in other people. In me. You detach yourself and step away and I know it's all a lie." She felt her heart rate further destabilise. "I see it when you look at me, like I'm some fresh, exciting thing to marvel at. You can get mad at me, or hate me, or strangle me, but I never bore you, Lockwood."

He bent forward by two inches, angling her head in his hand, pressing a bruising kiss to her lips. It couldn't have lasted longer than a second, but they were both breathless when they broke away, faces no further than a few inches apart. Her rage was barely quelled, if not aggravated. Her face was white with anger. Even now, all he wanted to do was distract her, as if he knew it wouldn't take much. In a brief flicker of panic, a part of her worried that he knew how she felt, that he knew all along, and all of this was some sick game to screw her over. She wanted to smash his facade, watch him come undone the way she was on the inside, goad him into feeling something. "Go on, then. Do it."

"Do what?" Her breathing was uneven. The past few weeks of fleeting stolen glances were bad enough, but with his face so close to hers, she could feel her brain turning into jelly. Part of her knew what she was about to do wasn't fair to him, but their relationship had gone too haywire for her to care. There was nothing fair about the way he consumed her anyways. Whoever said it hadn't loved anybody as hard as she loved Lockwood: nothing is fair in love.

"Get rid of me. Wake up to happier mornings where I'm not around, since I'm such a burden." She wasn't entirely aware of what she was saying, or if she meant it. She was grasping desperately for any respite from the brutal assault of her emotions, so all she could do was the one thing she did best - withdraw. She leaned back, welcoming cool, grounding air into her lungs as her tears threatened to spill over the ruins of their crumbling friendship. It was as though she had been struck for having the sin of hubris, for believing her and Lockwood were built to weather the storms of affection beyond platonic love. "Fire me, whatever. Oh, you'd just love that, wouldn't you? Being all official and important? Because all Anthony Lockwood cares about is being the biggest prat in the room, whether it be by throwing his precious life away-"

"So my life is 'precious', but yours is fair game?"

"I didn't say that!"

"You didn't NEED TO!" Lockwood was gripping the chair so tightly he looked just about ready to smash it into bits. He took a few ragged breaths, as if physically trying to control his emotions. "Words only express so much-"

"But they express just enough for you, don't they?" she said bitterly. He set his jaw, hardening against the venom of her words. She placed a hand on her forehead weakly, stumbling out of the kitchen up to the attic. There she sat now, cynically judging the trees for being too green.

Over the next few days, she stayed in the attic, forcing down morsels of the food Lucy brought up to her, preferring to communicate non-verbally. After three days, she began to feel as cold and long-forgotten as that tea she was in the middle of making that day. She watched them gear up and lug their equipment into cabs from the window, but none did so as resolutely or with as much mechanical efficiency as Lockwood. She missed them, she missed working, but she wasn't about to go running down the stairs to Lockwood's room, begging for forgiveness. No; she had more pride than that.

Instead, she wiled away the hours staring at the clock and then staring out the window, until her eyes ached. It was so hot, time seemed to be slowing to a stop. The seconds hand ticked occasionally, when it felt like it, and her shirt plastered itself on her back. The heat was so oppressive and glued her eyelids shut, and it felt as though the whole room was submerged in molasses. It just wasn't the right kind of weather to reconcile.

Occasionally, her thoughts drifted to when she first joined the agency, and the words of advice Lucy had given her. "Lockwood, er, he's hard to read," she had said. "Best to leave him to it, most of the time. It takes a special kind of trust to really get to know him. You need a lot of blind faith, and it's certainly not easy terrain...but I think it's all worth it in the end."

Still, she couldn't live at the window forever. Which is why she went down to the kitchen after a fitful sleep on the third night, gingerly choking down some toast, when the rest returned from the job. Lucy hugged her from behind and George immediately set out four cups as he started to brew some tea. Despite all that, Lockwood still regarded her as stiffly as before, speaking into the distance rather than to her.

"I'm not going to fire you, if that's what you're waiting for."

In that moment, when Lockwood disowned any kind of feeling for her yet again, the last vestiges of her hope slipped away. She thought she knew him. Hell, she thought she loved him. But life was full of mistakes and disappointments, and this was yet another she had to contend with. "Fine. I quit."

Even Lockwood was momentarily stunned as she slipped past him up to the attic, blurrily throwing in anything that looked vaguely like hers into a her bags. Lucy had followed her, trying to talk some sense into her, but it all fell on deaf ears. Only George was in the kitchen by the time she was done packing, and he looked oddly forlorn as he waved at her distractedly. The door to the library was open as she shouldered past the memories of the life they had on her way to the front door. Lockwood was in his chair facing the fireplace, back to the door, glaring a hole into his book, looking as furious as she was just a few days ago.

She didn't have anything to say to him, which was just as well, because he clearly didn't have anything to say to her. She stepped out into the night, twisting sprigs of lavender in her hair, walking off into the night. George came up to the library, sighing loudly at the door, and Lockwood jerked up irritatedly.

"What?"

"Couldn't wait till after tea, could you?"

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Three weeks later, her memories of the three of them were more diluted than she would have liked. With the little savings she had, she managed to rent a cramped apartment which didn't leave much room for decoration, which was just as well, as she didn't have many mementos. She wasn't the best at preserving memories, so all she had were some odd photos on the few times she remembered her camera.

Lockwood was in the pictures too. As hard as she tried, she couldn't just cut him and his presence out of her life; they were too irrevocably tied together. Some nights, before sleeping, she would trace the outline of his face on the one focused photograph she had of him, and wonder if she'd still recognise his voice. In spite of herself, she wondered if he ever thought about her the way she dreamt about him.

The summer heat faded, and these days rain drizzled from the sky like a leaky tap. In her case, that also meant a leaking roof, and the constant drip of the water into the bucket drove her nuts. It was the little things like the leaking roof and the refrigerator with a loud hum that never allowed her to truly rest, always kept her on the edge, that made her new life distinctly more uncomfortable than her old.

She heard a faint disjointed knock on her door. She opened the door to see a gaunt and wane Lockwood, significantly paler than she remembered. She was speechless, not quite sure what to do, and he just seemed relieved enough to see her in person. He still stood the same way he did when meeting new clients, with an air of formality, and she half-expected him to shake her hand. Instead, he pulled her into a hug; a proper one, where his arms went all the way around her. The kind of hug that made you want to cry.

She gripped the sleeve of his coat not unlike the way she did all those weeks ago, and she was suddenly aware of how little the weeks passed meant. Nothing had changed between them, except for this deep yearning tainting the fervour of their grip on each other. He still felt this need to protect her but sucked at communicating, she still reached out to him instinctively in danger but yelled at him for not putting himself first. Strife and misunderstandings were still rife in their relationship, but she had never missed fighting and loving someone the way she had missed Lockwood.

"I'm sorry," he was mumbling into her hair. "I don't know why it took me so long to realise you felt the same way I did. I guess we just express fear in different ways."

"You always were slow."

He pulled back, softly smiling in a way that erased some of his wrinkles. But the smile slipped away, and she felt the worry tugging down the corners of his mouth. "It's just...I've never felt this way about anyone before. I don't know how to express it all the time so sometimes it just feels easier to convince myself it's not there. But it Smooths things over, you know?" He inhaled shakily, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb. She could feel how hard it was for him to admit all this. "I felt it most when you were gone. It...it weighed on my mind. Never let me be fully at peace." His lips quirked into a small smile. "Much like you. I'd do anything for you, and I think that scares me."

"It scares me too. I guess the only way I could think of handling it was proving you were more scared than me. As if that would somehow make me strong and not...weak. Or vulnerable." She sighed, as if all the exhaustion of the past few weeks had all caught up to her in this very moment. "You make me crumble, Lockwood, but I've never felt stronger."

His eyes unfocused as his hand on her cheekbone slipped. "What if I can't protect you? What if I can't drive away every single visitor in time? What if you get hurt? How do people live like this?"

She held his hands, stopping his spiral. "I think I have enough experience driving away people who are more than a little obsessed with me."

He laughed, pulling her into a hug. What once felt overstimulating was now oddly comforting. The beat of his heart, the rhythm of his breath, the vibrations of his laughter...she wanted to feel that every day for the rest of her life.

"What I did...it really was different. You do realise that, right?"

"Yes."

"I had my rapier with me."

"You did."

"You didn't have anything."

"Hmm, I panicked." He continued hastily under her stern gaze. "What I mean is, I will try to be more careful. Promise." He put on his most angelic expression. She rolled her eyes. She took his hand as they stepped out in the final drops of summer rain. Life together wasn't always going to be smooth-sailing, or even remotely manageable, but she had a feeling that they would be alright.

[fisheito]

how would you eat/cook each nukani character

oh noooooooooo (holds my face in great contemplative agony) u can't do this to me

Eiden: oh mein gotTtTtt getting my hands on eiden would be like receiving an entire cart of summer fresh-from-farm produce. or an entire cow carcass . i would have SO MANY PARTS and SO MANY WAYS to prepare him and every part of him would taste delicious in its own way. there's no way i can ONLY cook eiden one way. i'd have to put him thru every process possible (true to his versatility). i thought about spitroasting him (for the joke) but that's too much eiden for one method. i need to covet him like the king tuna at the fish market as i take him apart piece by piece look. i am frying him like egg for a fast breakfast. i am meticulously grinding him to a paste in a traditional mortar and pestle. i am using him as pesto AND as dipping sauce. i will dehydrate him and drink him as tea. he will be roasted . braised. devoured raw in ceviche. i'll infuse him with vinegars! syrups! oils!! is there a way to make a sourdough starter but it's eidough starter so i can just keep him on my shelf and feed him every day and pass him down for generations? i want eiden for every meal of the day prepared 1000 ways

Aster: would aster taste like blood or the absence of it? hmmmm..... i guess it depends on when he feeds! maybe if i bite into him after a feeding session, he'll burst like a cherry tomato. but otherwise i feel like giving aster the sashimi treatment. put him all fancy on the plate with some garnishes after i treat him with a light citrus wash or smth. a fresh cool flavour!! i'm tempted to make some sort of beverage out of him. dilute him into a fancy mocktail of strange spirits and woody spices. aster juice?!?! looks like pink wine???! i have to treat this one like i'm spoiling him with gifts. he'll probably end up on the artisanal charcuterie board with the fusion jams and marmalades...

Morvay: i feel like he would have a very...particular aroma. he eats a very specialised diet so of everyone in the clan, he has to follow "you are what you eat", right?? my first instinct for some reason is to cure him. like, turn him into prosciutto. if he's gonna have a funky smell, might as well turn up the salt and cure him. tie him up and lock him in the carefully controlled environment of the curing basement. dark... surrounded by other meatbags... slap him around every now and then. slice him up thin and put him on that fancy cheese board with a bunch of other strong smelling foods. slurp him down him with a glass of astringent aster juice to balance out the richness of the morv

Yakumo: soup. he's getting souped. it's only right. might split him half and half into one soup and one stew. maybe the soup will just be a concentrated essence of snek-style broth. like a clear, warming bowl of pho that is DISTILLED YAKUMO and doesn't need much else besides some fave spices to accompany the flavour. as for the stew? i just straight up like stew and it can be so nutritionally complete. so he's going in the classic comfort stew. chunks of yakumo and seasonal vegetables simmered to make a thick hearty pot of glorp. maybe add some alcohol to it if i want to live dangerously. he will sustain me for days to come. anything that i do not turn into soup? i'm going to steam him. a mild little parcel of wrapped yakumo, gently steamed for a hot minute. yakumo tastes best to me when a little wet.

Edmond: to honour his thick sugary ass, i have to turn edmond into some sorta dessert. turn the defrosted ice queen into ice cream? now i could just put edmond in a pot and reduce him until he turns into a syrup but then i would waste all the extra good bits that make up edomon. u need the tsun with the dere and reducing him to pure dere is NOT balanced. he can withstand quite a bit of punishment so maybe i'll whip him up like a custard (by hand FIRST. if that's not strong enough, i'll use an electric hand mixer). turn him into an earl grey creme brulee where u can set him on fire then smack that caramelised crust before spooning out the goopy insides.

Olivine: i feel like i'd wanna enjoy olivine in his least processed form. just enjoy the pure marbled goodness of well-exercised, tender oli. so why not a steak? medium rare to rare? just a little pan-sear and we can chew on him all we want. (i considered searing on a grill, but it's easier around here to get a pan instead of a grill. and oli is all about being accessible to the greatest number of people.) on the other hand, that might not honour oli's nature. he, too, can stand up to a lot of punishment. he might even like it. so part of him can be the relatively unprocessed slab and the other can be a cutlet. that way i can beat him with a hammer, dredge and bread him, then toss him into the deep fryer. to be served with a variety of heavy or creamy sauces.

Quincy: this man is OLD and TOUGH and he probably tastes like every bit of wildlife in the forest combined. then again, he's also always sleeping so does that mean his meat is quite relaxed and i don't have to tenderise forever to be able to chew it? quincy probably eats the simplest diet (no processed microwave preservative type cocktails in here) so he'd be best appreciated in an equally simple dish?? i'd like to skewer him. make him bite-size and cook him over a campfire. alternating with simple salt vs. intricate dry rubs bc i'm not sure which i'd prefer. if he ends up being tough, i'll let him hang out in a savoury marinade for however many days he needs (do NOT make me put a pineapple in there, mister).

Kuya: i lied. **THIS** man is OLD and TOUGH and SINEWY and A BITCHASS to deal with and i bet if i cut him at *just slightly near the wrong spot* then some mystery sac of foul gunk will explode all over me like a punk'd prank. i will take any excuse during the cooking process to abuse this one. grate his rind to infuse in the sauce. mince him for the physical satisfaction then throw him into the blender anyway. toss him violently into a fiery wok and start saute-ing him with every other ingredient ever. i hope you get stabbed by a bunch of pointy carrots. i'll broil him as if he's not already crispy. and I BET at the end of all this work, i'll have somehow have messed up and made him inedible. skill issue. at this point i give up, toss the entire kuya into the pressure cooker, and turn him into stew.

G/Karu: i wanna toss them like a salad (i think they'll have fun with that). i could go the traditional way and make wolf jerky. bring it on the road for a durable snack! if i could somehow chop these two up and turn them into furikake, they could become my convenient, reliable flavour injector for a quick bowl of rice. it's tricky because there are two distinct flavours and they gotta be treated differently to bring out their full potential. but they're also inseparable. what do i do??? i might just put them into my party-type foods where flavours are supposed to mix and it's the wildness of the combos that make it all fun. he's going on the 12-topping pizza!! he's being melted onto the giant tray of nachos!!!

Blade: CAN I EAT THIS? WILL I DIE? WILL MY TEETH BREAK OFF? i have to debone him. i bet there are pointy bits hiding everywhere. get my special tools out and pluck at him for over an hour (i must be thorough). might just put him in the microwave (he'd probably enjoy that). i feel like essence of Blade would also do well as a bubbly drink. mix a simple edroid syrup with some club soda and some edible flowers to look pretty (low calories too!). if the legends are true and blade can adapt to any flavour, i might just turn him into a condiment or special spice mix. grind him to dust and put him in a nice glass container near my stove so i can add him to various foods (the weirder the combo, the better). keep the spirit of experimentation alive with Blade popcorn seasoning!!

Dante: i am gonna make him fragrant as hell. gonna smoke him over intricate spice combos or tea leaves and impart him with the most alluring lung-punchiest sniffs. i don't wanna be too harsh with him but i trust that he'll at least stand up to heat well. he'd probably complain about wasting time, but i'm not rushing the process. u will sit in the smoker and steadily break down over time. maybe after the smoke, i can tuck the odds and ends into a savoury saucy pie. bake him for an hour surrounded by a flaky buttery crust? i might also experiment with some fermentation, like a dante kimchi. i'm curious as to how he'd change flavours given time to age (and just relax for a bit, really).

Rei: i am pickling him. he's gonna become that sour salty lil accompaniment to every meal i have. he'll last forever and somehow never mould and no matter how long i leave him chillin in the fridge, when the time comes to put him on a bun, i know i can rely on him to not suddenly go limp. i still gotta be careful with him tho. can't just stick my fingers in the jar and introduce contaminants all the day because it IS possible to Spoil the Goods idk i just feel like i'd have to let him sit in SOME sort of marinade or brine. if i try to eat him raw i might turn 14 shades of purple before dissolving into radioactive bile

[multi-fandom-bullshittery]

Okay now I'm thinking about domestic S.Q. and Genesis.

Doc being exasperated and annoyed by Genesis' weakness and struggles, until he gets around to getting x-rays and MRI's. Upon seeing the damage, he just... stares at it for a long time, occasionally glancing from the images to Genesis, shocked and horrified, but stoic nonetheless. All he can manage is a soft, "I'm... sorry. I.. didn't know how much pain you were in."

Genesis, hopped up on The Good Painkillers, drowsy and a little delirious, but in so much less pain for the first time in so long, the constant stabbing agony reduced to a dull throb in comparison, partially laying in [really anyone]'s lap, purring quietly (oh yeah, Genesis can purr) while they soothe it into sleep. It sleeps for hours without being interrupted by random spikes of pain, for the first time in... god, it can't even remember when.

When it wakes up, it gets real, proper food for the first time in forever. Not the nearly flavorless gruel Nexus Labs used to feed it, not the far-too-crunchy ration bars the A.A.H.W provided alongside something similar to that gruel. Real food. Soft fruits carefully cut into small pieces to make eating less painful. Bowls of broth. Soups and stews. Stuff that actually tastes. Stuff that's easy to eat, with real nutrients.

Obviously, it can't be hopped up on painkillers constantly. Genesis may be frail, with very little actual mass, but it's still large in size, and the amount of painkillers needed to keep the pain level low for long periods of time... it's a lot. And even if that wasn't an issue, being high on pain meds constantly probably isn't great health-wise.

But it falls asleep every night on a soft bed (a real bed, not a cold, hard floor or a worn-out old mattress from a storage room), surrounded by soft blankets and pillows carefully arranged to support its odd anatomy, with various heating pads it can turn on to ease the pain and provide comfort. It gets to experience real meals, designed for nutrition and comfort rather than just survival. It gets real comfort and help and care.

And yes; it's scared of it at first. It's so sure that something will go wrong. It's a trap, to lure it into cooperating with more experiments. Or it's a dream of some sort, and it has to wake up soon.

It struggles to accept the improvements, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it even starts acting out a little bit, self-sabotaging in a subconscious search for the treatment it's familiar with.

But whether it knows how to accept it or not, things are better. It's.. safe. More comfortable.

Happy?