#numb emotions and scattered thoughts

[starch1ldz]

*shaking myself by the shoulders* SCREW YOUR HEAD BACK ON AND GET A GRIP

[betweenstorms]

Part Three of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

At first, you could only blink, the cigarette dangling from your lips as his words settled over you like a slow, creeping dusk.

Simon Riley.

After all these years, standing in front of you, bigger, harder, and somehow even more distant than the boy you once thought you knew. It was like some cruel trick of fate, a cosmic joke that you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

You let out a surprised, awkward chuckle, but it caught somewhere between a giggle and a whimper. It sounded so awkward, so pitiful. Gosh, you acted ridiculous, like a bloody schoolgirl, but the alcohol had numbed the embarrassment.

You really wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Simon Riley, standing outside a pub in Manchester like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like his entire life hadn’t been torn apart. Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life without so much as a word all those years ago. The laugh died in your throat, because there was something about the way he carried himself that told you he wasn’t here for a casual pint with old friends. Simon would never be here for something so trivial, so simple.

“You’re…” you started, but the words got stuck in your throat.

You wanted to ask where he’d been, why he was here, why he looked so different yet so familiar at the same time. But nothing coherent came out, just a jumble of thoughts, words and emotions that refused to form into sentences.

The last time you’d seen him, he was just a skinny boy.

Now, he was all sharp edges and quiet intensity. He was hard. Rough. Weathered. His face, a canvas of scars and hardship, told you that the years hadn’t been kind to him, but God, they’d made him heartbreakingly handsome. His body, once lanky and hunched, was now huge and muscular, the kind of frame that spoke of power, discipline, and control. His scars, the faint lines etched around his eyes, the ruggedness of his face—they only added to the dark appeal that cloaked him like a shadow. And with those intense hazel eyes that seemed to hold a thousand secrets, he was the kind of man who turned heads, who commanded attention, and somehow, that was making your head spin more than the beer had.

You shook your head quickly, like a cat trying to shake off water, hoping to rid yourself of the thoughts creeping into your mind.

“S’been a while.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer any pleasantries. It was as though the years that had passed between you were an afterthought, insignificant compared to the weight of the heavy silence that lingered in the air now. You tried to find your footing in the forming conversation, your mind still struggling to keep up with the reality of him standing there, right in front of you.

“I—sorry, I just... didn’t recognise you,” you stammered, your voice a bit too loud, too high-pitched in the quiet night. You took a nervous drag from your cigarette, stealing a glance at his face. “Bloody hell, seems like you only pop up when I’m tipsy.”

You attempted a joke, your voice trembling slightly. It was weak, you knew that, but it was the only thing you could manage in the sudden tension of the moment. You flicked the cigarette nervously, watching the ashes scatter to the ground. Anything to stop yourself from looking directly at Simon, anything to break the intensity that had settled between you.

“Not intentional,” he said simply.

“Gosh, you look so… different,” you said softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasn’t a question, but a statement, an observation that felt far too obvious.

Simon tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze flicking over you, sizing you up with that same old intensity that made you feel like he could see straight through you.

“You don’t,” he said flatly, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot.

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Liar.”

Simon’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile, more like a faint acknowledgment that he’d heard you. It was painfully obvious that he wasn’t going to indulge in any sort of nostalgia or humour. He was as closed off as ever. And yet, despite it all, despite the time and the layers of this strange silence between you, the weight of history between you was undeniable.

The warmth of the alcohol in your blood made it easier to stand there without fidgeting, but deep down, you were brimming with questions, confusion, a strange mix of anger and relief.

You couldn’t decide whether to yell at him for disappearing or thank him for being here.

Here with you.

“Where’ve you been?” you finally asked, trying to sound casual, though the question felt like it was hanging heavy between you both, too loaded with unspoken things.

Simon let out a soft huff as if the answer was far too complicated to explain in the back alley of a pub. He didn’t want to talk about it, that much was clear. You desperately wanted to keep him there, to say something, anything, that might ease this strange reunion.

“You just… vanished,” you pushed. “After everythin'.”

His hazel eyes flicked to yours, and for a second, there was something there—something raw and fragile beneath the stone mask he always wore. But it was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by that cold, guarded look you had always known him for, even as a kid.

“Had to,” he said, his voice dry as sand.

“That’s it? You just… had to?”

He glanced away, the flickering light from a distant streetlamp casting long shadows across his scarred face. “Does it matter?”

His words hit you like a punch in the gut.

Did it matter? Was he mad? Of course it mattered.

How could it not? You’d grown up together, after all. You’d shared so much, more than either of you ever said aloud. His family buried, his house empty, no one knew where he’d gone. You had carried that silent burden with you for years, the burden of not knowing, letting it weigh down on your heart like a lead weight. But maybe that was the root of the problem. Maybe you had been holding on to something he had long since let go of. Maybe you were clinging to the memory of a boy who didn’t exist anymore.

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to press him further.

This wasn’t the time or the place to dig into the past. Maybe not ever. Simon wasn’t the type to dwell on old wounds, and you knew that no matter how much you wanted answers, they weren’t going to come easily. Instead, you took a long drag from your cigarette, letting the smoke fill your lungs and dull the ache in your chest, watching the pale plume rise and disappear into the cold night air.

“Suppose it doesn’t,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Simon didn’t respond. As usual.

You both just stood there, cigarettes burning down to their stubs, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that the silence between you wasn’t just awkward—it was something more. It was the echo of all the years that had slipped by without either of you being part of each other’s lives. Fifteen years. You were different people now, shaped by other worlds, and yet… here you were, standing in the same place, in the same city that had once been your entire universe.

Much to your surprise, Simon was the one to speak again.

“How’ve you been?” he asked, the question almost noncommittal, but there was an edge to it—like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

You hummed, looking down at the scuffed toe of your polished shoes, suddenly finding the concrete more interesting than his piercing gaze. A frown formed on your lips as you mulled over his question, not sure how to respond. There was something so absurd about it, but at the same time, something so normal about him asking how you’d been. Something that almost felt... wrong. As if you were supposed to have a neat little answer, a perfect summary of everything you’d done, achieved, or failed at since he’d vanished.

But you didn’t know what to say.

How could you compress the years, the loneliness, the small victories and large failures into one simple response? How could you even begin to explain everything you’d gone through, all while he was somewhere you couldn’t reach?

“Uhm, dunno,” you muttered, your voice full of bitterness you hadn’t meant to let slip. It sounded insignificant, just like how you felt in that moment—small compared to the towering presence of Simon Riley and whatever hell he’d walked through to get here. “What am I supposed to say to that?” You laughed, but it was hollow, like you were trying to convince yourself that you found it funny.

Simon crossed his arms over his broad chest, deep in thought.

His cig hung loosely between his fingers, the glowing tip flickering like a beacon in the dark. His brow furrowed as if he were calculating something important, something far beyond the alleyway of a dingy Manchester pub.

And then, out of the blue, he asked something ridiculous.

“You married? Got kids?”

For a moment, you thought you misheard him.

It was such a normal question, one you might expect from an old friend or a distant relative. But coming from Simon it was jarring. Almost laughable. It didn’t match his rugged, military exterior at all.

You snorted, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

“Nah,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “Not even close. My fiancé cheated on me with my roommate from uni, if you can fuckin' believe that. But that was years ago now. I haven’t really had anythin' serious since then.” The chuckle that followed your statement was missing humour. You said it as casually as you could, but the old wound reopened just a little. 

Simon didn’t respond immediately.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t offer pity or sympathy, but you saw something flicker in his eyes—an acknowledgement, perhaps. Maybe even some empathy, though it was hard to tell with him. He was never one to show his emotions easily, not even when you were kids.

“Bastard,” he hummed after a beat, the word falling from his lips with the same cold weight that had always been in his tone.

It wasn’t much, but somehow, it felt perfectly enough. Like in that single word, he had offered all the understanding you needed.

“An understatement.”

He took another long drag, exhaling slowly, smoke curling up into the air and disappearing into the night. The question had seemed so out of place, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was his way of trying to understand what he’d missed—what had happened to you in all those fifteen years he was gone.

“What about you? Wife, kids?” you asked, your voice softer now.

Somehow, you were afraid of what his answer might be.

“No,” his voice was flat, almost mechanical.

There was no trace of emotion, no elaboration.

Just a simple, cold statement of fact.

His gaze flicked briefly to you before settling somewhere off in the distance, like he couldn’t quite bear to look at you for too long. Then, the quiet between you stretched on again, thick, unyielding and undeniably familiar. The sounds of the city filtered in, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional shout from the pub, but here, in this small bubble of time, it felt like the world had fallen away. Like it was just the two of you, suspended in the remnants of a shared past that neither of you knew how to navigate anymore.

“I thought about you,” you admitted quietly, surprising even yourself with the confession. “A lot, actually. I wondered where you were. If you were alright. If you were even alive.”

Simon shifted, his gaze fixed on the ground.

“Sorry.”

It was more than you’d expected from him. So you just nodded, unsure of what else to tell him. You stood there for a moment, your heart thudding in your chest at the weight of Simon's quiet apology. You weren’t sure what to say in return. It hung in the air between you, fragile and tentative, like a bridge over a chasm that neither of you were ready to cross. His eyes, once sharp and piercing, softened in the dim light, but he kept his gaze away from yours, as if looking directly at you would acknowledge the gravity of what you’d said. That you had thought about him. His broad shoulders shifted, his jacket rustling slightly, but he didn’t move away.

You felt a sudden tension in the pit of your stomach.

The kind that comes when you’ve said something too vulnerable, too real, something that can’t be taken back. Therefore, you took a deep breath and decided to shift the conversation, hoping to relieve some of the tension that had settled thickly between you both.

“So, you’re still in the military?”

You flicked the last of your cigarette to the ground and stamped it out with your shoe. He nodded, but didn’t elaborate, his face unreadable in the shadowy light of the pub’s back alley.

“On leave?” you hoped to get something, anything, from him.

“Yeah,” Simon replied curtly, his voice rough and clipped.

He ignored the question that still hung in the air: why here?

You licked your lips nervously, wondering if you should keep going or let the conversation fizzle out. But there was something in the air tonight, something that made you feel like you had to at least try. This wasn’t just some coincidence, was it? Seeing Simon again after all these years felt too significant to let it slip away without trying to make sense of it.

“Where do you live now?”

For a second, he hesitated, tapping his lips with his cigarette, clearly weighing whether or not to answer you. His gaze flickered to the side, his brow furrowed in thought, and then, finally, in a voice so low you almost missed it, he said, “Got a flat in London.”

London. The city you both now called home.

Your heart skipped a beat at the revelation. The vast city suddenly felt much smaller. He was so close, yet he’d been so far from your life for all these years.

“Well,” you scratched your neck, unsure how to approach the next part. “You could visit me sometime. You know, when you’re on leave. I’m not far, really. We could… catch up.”

It was a clumsy invitation, but it was genuine.

Despite the awkwardness between you, you wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone. That even after all this time, you were still here.

Simon didn’t react at first. He stood there, arms crossed, his still frame making it seem like he was wrestling with something deep inside. You weren’t sure if he’d refuse, brush off the offer like it meant nothing, but he didn’t. The silence stretched on, but then he shifted again, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

“Maybe,” he muttered, his tone giving nothing away.

It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no either. 

His next question, though, caught you off guard.

“How’s your parents?”

You hadn’t expected him to ask about your family. Your parents were never nice to him. But something in the way he asked, in the way his voice softened ever so slightly, as though asking about something more human softened the edges of his tough exterior, and that made you realise that maybe he hadn’t forgotten everything from your childhood. Maybe, just maybe, he still cared, in his own distant way.

You smiled faintly.

“They’re good, well, as good as can be, I suppose. They moved to London a few years back, actually. After my dad was diagnosed with cancer.”

The words felt heavy, even though you’d gotten used to saying them. It had been years since the diagnosis, but the weight of it never really faded. It was always there, lingering in the background, a reminder of time slipping away. His expression didn’t change much, but there was a shift in his posture—a slight drop of the shoulders, a softening of the jaw. It was subtle, but you saw it. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot with a sharp scoff, a sound that was more resigned than dismissive.

You pushed yourself away from the wall, the sudden anxiety making your pulse quicken.

“Leavin’?” the question spilled out before you could stop it.

The fear of him slipping away again, without any warning, without a trace, gnawed at you.

You immediately felt heat creeping up your neck, embarrassment flashing across your face. Why did you care so much? Why did you sound so desperate? You pursed your lips, trying to gather the frayed edges of your dignity, feeling a bit foolish for asking.

Simon looked at you, raising an eyebrow as if you’d just asked something utterly daft. His expression didn’t change much, but there was a glimmer of something, amusement, perhaps, in his eyes. “No,” he muttered, resting his now free hands in his pockets. “Not yet.”

The relief you felt was almost palpable.

You bit your lip, feeling foolish for jumping to conclusions, for thinking he’d just disappear again without a word. You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your racing heart, grateful that he wasn’t about to walk away just yet. There was still time. Time to say whatever it was that needed saying, even if you didn’t quite know what that was yet. You watched him carefully, still half expecting him to turn and leave despite his assurance.

The years had taught you not to rely too much on anything.

The autumn wind picked up, sending a sudden chill through the alleyway, but neither of you moved. This whole charade, the whole small talk felt like a delicate dance—one wrong step and it could all come crashing down, leaving the silence too much to bear.

“Thought you’d be married by now,” Simon said, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet.

You blinked, startled by the sudden statement.

Pouting a bit, you looked up at him, feigning offence. “Can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment, mate.”

He shrugged, tilting his head to the side, and for a moment, the faint shadow of a smirk played on his lips, barely noticeable. He looked at you, not just a glance, but a slow, measured observation, like he was trying to piece together who you had become after all these years.

You found yourself doing the same.

When you first saw him that night, standing in the dark, your reaction had been immediate. You were drawn to him. Not just because of the memories you shared or the ghost of the boy you once knew, but because of him, the man he had become. The raw, rugged power he exuded. It stirred something deep in you, something that made you feel small and breathless in his presence.

What did he see when he looked at you? Did he think you’d aged poorly? Did he think you looked tired, worn out by the years? Or did he see the remnants of the girl you used to be, the one who had laughed too loudly and dreamt too big?

“Why did you say that?”

“Figured you’d have that all sorted by now. You always talked about it.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown by his response.

Of course, he remembered. He always had a knack for remembering the things that mattered most to you, even when you hadn’t realised how much they mattered to yourself. You had talked about marriage that much, hadn’t you? About the picture perfect life you imagined for yourself. A house, a garden, a family—simple dreams that felt so far away now.

“Yeah, true. At one point, all I could dream about was that,” you confessed, your voice quiet, almost lost to the night. “Perfect house, perfect family... maybe a couple of dogs runnin’ around in my perfect bloody garden. I thought I had it all mapped out when I left, like… you know, everythin’ would just fall into place once I started my life in London.” You smiled faintly, but there was no happiness in it, only a soft, sad acceptance. “But it didn’t. None of it did.”

The confession felt surreal, especially with Simon standing there, his presence almost too big, too solid for such vulnerable words. But at the same time, there was something comforting about it, knowing that he wouldn’t judge. Simon had never been one for meaningless platitudes or false reassurances. If anything, his silence, his mere presence, felt like the only kind of understanding you needed.

You could feel his hazel eyes on you, heavy and contemplative, as though he was waiting for you to continue. And suddenly, you wanted to. The words spilled out, unfiltered, like they had been sitting on the tip of your tongue for far too long.

“Now? I dunno. Now I’m just happy if my parents are healthy. If I’m healthy. I’m not really thinkin’ about love anymore. Not like I used to, at least. When you’re young, you think you’ve got all the time in the world. You think everythin’s just gonna... work out. But then life happens. Things change. People leave.”

Simon's jaw tightened just a fraction, as if the truth of what you’d said had hit closer to home than he’d care to admit. You wondered if he thought about those years like the way you did—if he ever looked back and felt the same sense of loss that gnawed at you every time you remembered the way things used to be.

“You can still have that,” he muttered, his voice low, almost gruff. The words felt heavy, like they carried the weight of more than just an offhand comment. “If that's what you truly want.”

A sharp pang hit your chest, not from the words themselves but from the rawness of them. It was the sort of thing people say when they don’t know what else to offer—when they’re too afraid to dig deeper, but they can see the cracks in your carefully maintained façade.

You weren’t sure if he meant it to be comforting, but it didn’t land that way. Instead, it just scraped against the edges of something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Without thinking, you reached into the pocket of your jacket and fished out your cigarettes, suddenly needing something to do with your hands, something to break the intensity of the moment. You tapped the pack against your palm before offering it to him. He looked at it, hesitating for a moment before shaking his head.

“Maybe once,” you mumbled, trying to play it off like the subject didn’t sting as much as it did. “But not really anymore. I’m too old for that shit. That ship’s sailed, Si.”

Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it on, the small flame illuminating his roughened features in the dim light as he leaned toward you. You cupped your hand around the flame, lighting your cigarette. He watched you closely as you took a drag, his eyes following the trail of smoke as it curled upwards into the cold night air.

“You’re not old,” the tone in his voice was oddly serious, almost reprimanding, as if he was annoyed at your self-deprecation.

You snorted, a dry laugh escaping your lips, smoke swirling around your face. “You should tell that to my back,” you joked, shaking your head. “Some mornings, I feel ancient.”

Simon didn’t pick up on your sarcasm. He fixed you with a look, his brow furrowed, as if he was thinking back to something. “Maybe you didn’t take my advice last time we talked.”

You stilled at his words, as his reference hit home.

You knew what he was talking about.

That summer night, fifteen years ago, when you’d left him standing under the rose bush in your parents’ garden. He’d told you to live your life, to move on. And you had, for the most part. But now, standing here with him again, you wondered if you had truly moved on, or if some part of you had been stuck in that moment ever since.

You felt a sudden ache, a strange emptiness you hadn’t realised was still there, like a flower wilting under the weight of its own bloom. You looked down at the ground, avoiding his gaze, feeling the years press down on you like the world had shifted beneath your feet.

You let out a shaky breath, suddenly feeling small in his presence. “Yeah, maybe I didn’t.”

You hadn’t taken his advice. You’d spent too long waiting, too long caught up in the idea of what could have been, of what should have been. And now, here you were, standing in the same city, still trying to figure out what your life was supposed to look like.

Simon pushed himself off the wall, straightening up, his large frame suddenly seeming even taller, more imposing. His movements were deliberate, but not rushed, as though he had made up his mind about something. Your cigarette hung loosely between your fingers, long forgotten, as you watched him, your heart sinking as you realised he was preparing to leave.

“Find the happiness you deserve.”

It wasn’t a command, but it wasn’t a casual suggestion either.

This time, you didn’t mock him. You didn’t roll your eyes or laugh it off, like you had fifteen years ago. Instead, you bit the inside of your cheek, lowering your gaze to the ground. You weren’t sure if you could say anything to that. What was there to say?

Before you could fully gather your thoughts, Simon stepped forward, and suddenly, he was standing much closer to you than before, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his body.  Your heart skipped a beat, your breath hitching in your throat as you instinctively looked up at him. His presence was overwhelming and it made your pulse quicken in a way you hadn’t expected. The air seemed to freeze around you both, suspended in that moment.

He didn’t say anything, he just watched you, his hazel eyes studying your face like he was trying to commit it to memory. His gaze roamed over your features, and for the first time that night, you felt truly exposed under the weight of his attention.

Then, without warning, Simon’s hand came up, and his fingers gently grasped your chin. The touch was firm, but not harsh, guiding your face up toward him, tilting your head so that your eyes met his. You felt the cigarette slip from your fingers as you stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. Your mind raced, trying to make sense of the sudden closeness, the unexpected touch. What was he doing? What was he thinking? The warmth of his hand on your skin sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Simon’s gaze remained fixed on yours, his calloused fingers still holding your chin in place, as though he wanted to see you clearly, perhaps for the first time in years. You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe, afraid of breaking whatever fragile moment this was. The world around you faded into the background—the pub, the noise, the cold. None of it mattered. Only him, only this moment, suspended between the past and the present.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, it ended.

Simon released you, his hand falling back to his side, and he stepped away.

“I’ll visit,” he promised, his voice calm, almost casual, as if nothing had happened at all. The distance between you felt sudden, leaving you dumbfounded and your cheeks burning hot red. He turned away from you this time, his broad back blocking out the rest of the alley as he moved to leave. “If I’m in London again.”

You blinked, still trying to process everything that had just happened.

The impact of his intoxicating presence, the way his warm touch lingered on your blushed skin, the way his words seemed to hang in the air long after he’d spoken them, like a secret. The whole situation, the proximity, the way he had touched you, the idea that Simon Riley might actually show up again, left you reeling.

Maybe this wasn’t just a fleeting reunion. Maybe it wasn’t just a chance encounter. There was something more to this, something unspoken but undeniably real.

“Yeah,” you breathed, not sure if he heard you. “I’d like that.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.

Originally, I planned to end this story after the first chapter, but the kindness and encouragement in the comments have inspired me to keep going. Now, the story feels incomplete, like there's more left to explore. I’m considering turning this into a short series, with one or two more parts to make it feel whole. Thank you for your comments and support—I really enjoy talking with all of you!

[upon-a-starry-night]

There's this idea in my head that's causing real brain rot. So that one time, when Connor and Hank are on the rooftop, and he almost kills Hank? Can I request something like that, but with an f! reader? Maybe f! reader is on the deviant's side, and Amanda has already taken over, as a result, fight ensues. Major hurt/comfort. You choose how this ends. Thank you in advance 😭

Connor Rk800 x Gender Neutral Reader!

DBH Masterlist Main Masterlist

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst, minor violence

A/n: I always thought Connor should’ve had another chance to become deviant at this rooftop scene so this is the perfect opportunity to write it! I hope you enjoy!

-

The night air is cold as you step out onto the roof, a distant alarm blaring as it fights to be heard against the harsh wind. 

You flinch and pull your coat tighter, watching your breath fog out in front of you, snow scattering in every direction. It’s a night you’d rather be spending in the warmth of your home, curled up with a good book and good company. Unfortunately, your good company chose to go bad cop on you and now you’re out here trying to get him back.

You can already feel your fingers growing numb and you regret not bringing gloves up here with you. As if life being a detective wasn’t hard enough.

You squint at the light illuminating from the giant Android billboard and instead focus your gaze on the figure near the edge of the roof. It’s the last place you want to see him right now. On this roof- on the wrong side of history. Making a mistake you know he’ll regret.

It’s all you can do to hope you’ll be able to convince him to come back. 

You don’t know what happened. One day he’s kind and funny and even a little flirty and the next he’s cold and calculating. Had he just been pretending the whole time? Did he tell you all those sweet things just to eliminate you as a threat to his mission? 

Whatever the reason, even if he was faking it with you you weren’t faking it with him. Over the past few months, you’ve formed a genuine connection with Connor. A connection you thought was more than just partners working on the same case. 

You think back to all those late nights Connor stayed up with you as you wrote your reports, cracking jokes so the police precinct felt a little less cold and dim. The time he helped you move your furniture after your previous apartment almost got broken into. The little moments where he’d walk you to your car no matter the time, or go out of his way to pick you up a coffee.

That couldn’t have been fake, right? Nobody went through that much effort just to make sure you were friends. It was because of the way he treated you and cared for you that you found yourself in love with him in the first place.

You sucked in a sharp breath and shook that thought from your head. You’d only just realized it last night. You’d planned to tell him today but something about him was different, he didn’t look at you the same way, though his body still lingered near yours. Then you’d gotten the call this evening about where he was headed and you knew you had to stop him.

The Connor you knew wouldn’t do this. But maybe the Connor you knew wasn’t real…

“You don’t want to do this Connor” He doesn’t even flinch at your voice. He probably heard you from the second you got there and was just waiting for you to say something. 

Perhaps that was a sign? Your Connor was always polite with you.

“You shouldn’t be here, Detective.” His voice bites at you with more coldness than the night air and it makes your heart sting. It’s a tone you’ve only ever heard him use with suspects or Gavin. Even when you first met and he seemed devoid of emotion his voice was warm, friendly. What happened?

Was it something you had done? Something you said that gave away your feelings about him? He was built to read body language and pick up on subtle clues after all. Had he known even before you? Was he disgusted by you? That a human like you could fall so easily for an Android?

He shifts the position of his gun, getting a better shot on Marcus and you take another step forward, if you could just reach him then maybe-

“You won’t stop me from accomplishing my mission.” Him and his stupid mission. It’s all he ever used to talk about before he started being open with you. You thought you’d become more important than his mission. Guess not.

“What mission Connor? What? You think you shoot this guy and it’s all over? The whole rebellion falls down? Is that it?” You scoff, shoving your hands into your coat pockets to try and garner some warmth. “You shoot Marcus, someone else will just take his place. Do you really want to spend your life hunting down Androids until you’re the only one left with a soul?”

He doesn't speak but you see the way he squeezes the gun tighter, your words clearly having an internal impact. 

“Come home Connor,” You say it out of instinct, your home had become a shared space with Connor, a place he knew you’d always welcome him into. “We can find a good movie and-”

“And what? Huh? Sit there and pretend like we could be anything other than a human and a machine?” His words cut deep, slicing your heart open and revealing all the ugly fears that had been festering in your brain. The urge to throw up fills your stomach but you push the feeling down.

What Connor thought you could or couldn’t be didn’t matter right now. Even if it hurt, you had to make sure you stopped him no matter what.

He places his finger on the trigger and you know you have to resort to the last thing you wanted to do. The last thing you thought you’d ever do to Connor. You pull out your gun and aim it at his back. Emotions well up in your throat as tears threaten to break free

“Get away from the ledge” You wish he couldn’t hear how your voice trembles but you know he does. You don’t know if you have the gall to shoot him and he knows that. Still, he stands up and turns around to face you anyway.

It’s the worst sight in the world- the image of him in front of the barrel of your gun. His eyes are cold and unrecognizable, and you take note of the fact that he doesn’t drop his gun. A strong breeze roars through and you shiver, watching the wind ruffle his hair.

The same hair he used to let you brush your fingers through as you spent hours talking on your couch. His head in your lap, his eyes closed, his LED spinning blue, and a content smile on his face. You remember wanting to take a picture of how cute he looked then, just like a happy puppy. 

Oh, how things change. 

Your hand shakes as you hold the gun, maybe from the cold, maybe from the anguish, probably from both. 

“Go home detective. It’s not my mission to kill you but this is none of your business” You nearly flinch at the word ‘kill’ but manage to hold your resolve. You couldn’t show weakness in front of this version of Connor.

You scoff, “None of my business? You call you killing an innocent man none of my business?”

“It’s not a man. It’s a machine-”

“He has a family! He has people who care about him and depend on him! He has a partner and friends! Like you and I were-”

“We weren’t anything but coworkers Detective. If you thought we were more, you were mistaken.” He cuts you off with the words you feared to hear more than anything. Words he promised you he’d never say when he told you “I’ll always be here for you detective” with that stupid sunny smile of his.

Wiping a tear with your shoulder, you shake your head as you try to get a read on him.

”you don’t mean that”

“I think I do” He tilts his head, in a way you always found cute but now just find menacing. 

“I can’t let you kill that man Connor” You tighten your hold on your gun and he narrows his eyes, sizing up whether or not he thinks you’ll shoot before going to put his gun down.

Your body relaxes slightly only to be met with the full force of his gun being thrown at you. You try to block it but it crashes into your arm, causing you to hiss out in pain. In the next second Connor is coming at you, disarming your gun and throwing it across the roof. 

You try to throw a punch but he swiftly blocks it, grabbing hold of your shoulder and throwing you to the ground. The impact is harsh and the cold only makes it worse. You can already feel the nasty bruise it’s going to leave but you don’t allow yourself time to dwell on it.

Grabbing a metal grate from nearby you launch it at Connor and use it as a moment of distraction, rushing towards your gun near the ledge of the roof with Connor hot on your heels.

Connor sweeps your legs from under you as you’re inches from the gun, sending you crashing to the ground in a fall that stings your palms. At least it helped that your hands were practically numb from the cold. 

Army crawling as hurriedly as you can, you manage to swipe your gun as it teeters precariously off the edge of the roof. In a motion that sends pain through your injured shoulder, you manage to flip onto your back and point your gun at Connor just as he stands directly over you. 

For a brief second, you can’t help but think that Connor was taking it easy on you, but then he smirks like an asshole and your flame of hope dies out

“You really gonna shoot me, detective?” The cocky disbelief in his eyes is the most emotion you’ve seen from him all day and in a moment of weakness, you hesitate because you’ve seen that look when Gavin throws his fits about Androids or when the other detectives think they can do his job better than him. Cocky was an emotion Connor didn’t often show but it always made you laugh.

He takes advantage of your moment of hesitation, twisting your gun from your hands and throwing it off the roof. It lands with a solid ‘clack’ in the snow below. You try to sweep his feet but he blocks your legs with his arm, grabbing them and pushing them to the ground. He reaches down and grabs you by the collar of your sweater, angling you so that you're dangling over a fall that would definitely kill and for the first time, you truly feel scared of Connor.

You struggle in his grip to no avail, eventually giving up as you stare into his eyes for what might be the last time. You feel tired and angry and heartbroken and you don’t have the energy to fight him anymore. You let the wind rage around you as you hold out your arms, daring him to drop you.

“Moment of truth Connor…what are you gonna do?” You struggle to catch your breath as his LED violently flashes red. “You gonna kill me for trying to be a good friend?” You wait for anything to happen, for him to throw you off the roof or respond but all he does is stand there staring blankly. His LED goes crazy, flashing from red to blue to yellow and back again, like he’s having some sort of internal struggle. 

His grip on you seems to loosen a bit and you inhale sharply “C-Connor” You cry out desperately and he gasps, his grip tightening as he pulls you into his body and clings tightly to you. He takes a few steps back from the roof, forcing your body to move with his as he brings you both back to safety.

His arms wrap around you in a tight embrace and you’re unsure what to feel until you hear his pained voice

“I’m sorry.” It’s more raw than you’ve ever heard it before and soon enough tears are streaming down your face as your arms reciprocate his hold. His hands clench tighter to your jacket at the sound of your sobs. “I’m so sorry i-” His voice breaks off and his chest starts shaking and you look up to see tears streaming down his face.

You’d never seen him cry before, you didn’t even know he was capable of it- and from the looks of it neither did he.

“A-amanda- she took control and I couldn’t-” His eyes refuse to focus on you, staring at the swirling snow behind you, so you release one arm to cup his face and bring his gaze down to yours. “I tried to kill you” He looks absolutely heartbroken at what he’s done and he quickly begins to scan you for injuries. His hands coming up to cup your jaw and tilt your face this way and that.

You manage a smile through your tears as you realize you have your Connor back. Relishing the gentle way he holds your face and the concern that never leaves his eyes as he looks over you. 

“No harm no foul” You attempt a joke and Connor’s lips quirk up for the briefest moment before his gaze zeros in on your shoulder and he frowns

“I hurt you” You pursed your lips, unable to deny that fact but not wanting to ruin the moment. Reaching up, you wipe the tears from his cheeks with a gentle hand, watching as he leans into your touch.

“It’ll heal.” You tell him instead, just happy to be bruised and safe rather than dead. “What happened back there?” He looks like he wants to say more about your injury but after reading the look in your eyes he drops it.

“ I broke free. I was stuck in this frozen garden for so long. I couldn’t control my own body or words but then I heard your voice and I had to save you” You lay your head on his chest once more, feeling the steady flow of Thirium pumping through his body, the cold long forgotten from your mind.

He rests his chin upon your head, pulling you into a hug once again. 

“You’re more important to me than any mission.” His voice trembles and it takes everything in you not to start crying again “I didn’t mean any of it- those awful things I said, I didn’t mean any of them… I Love you, Detective”

Your gaze snaps to Connors, a wide smile and a light blue blush dusting his cheeks. Those three words- three words ten minutes ago you were sure you’d never heard from him. You had to make sure you hadn’t misheard him 

“What?” your heart pounded in your chest

“I said I love you, detective” This was really happening. Connor loved you back. You couldn’t help the tears that fell at the genuine emotion in his voice.

“I love you too, Connor” A delighted laugh escapes you as you pull him in for a kiss, soft cold lips meeting yours. Sure this wasn’t your ideal confession but with Connor, nothing ever went as planned, and that was perfectly fine with you “Now let’s go home, it’s freezing up here”

-

A/n: peep me watching the roof scene over and over to get this right (and also just to admire Connor) ~ Starry

[brailsthesmolgurl]

RETRIBUTION

SEQUEL TO DAMNNATION. kindly read the prequel to get a better idea on the story's direction. I know I promised an alternate ending, where angst is not involved, but I want to prolong this pain for you masochists :> Enjoy this long, hefty, and incredibly hurtful read. But, it is okay my lovelies, I shall have a good-comforting parallel-universe ending written for you guys this week. SOOO pls do keep up with my profile :)

The legend goes on, with the God of the Sea failing to protect his beloved. His fate was decided for him by his people, but now, he shall take fate upon his own hands and remake his own endings. But, does fate falter? Even to a God?

Warnings: Angst Angst Angst Angst, Spoiler to Rafayel's Lore and I put in some of my own zesty twists to the lore, Deaths and Bloods and some okay maybe not some descriptive gore.

Rafayel walked across the sandy paths of Lemuria, in his human form, with his beloved laid peacefully in his arms. Rafayel did not even bothered to shift back into his merman form as he wanted to dedicate the mundane's death to his people. Or rather, to show how much he loves her, by being a shadow of her, a human, walking amongst Lemuria. A promise he had always given her.

"You promise to show me Lemuria someday right?" He remembered the way her face would light up when he tells her stories of Lemuria. From how Lemurians had sourced for various kinds of sea stones from different parts of the ocean to build their homes to how Lemurians were created, to what do their daily routines consists of and many other kinds of stories that a man could ever dream of hearing from an actual Lemurian.

There was not a moment that y/n was ever bored of it. Instead, whenever he visits, it naturally became a conversation starter. Y'n would ask him of the most random things. "So do Lemurians possess any gardrobes?" Rafayel nearly spat his tea out, snapping his head towards her when she mentioned about toilets as they were having snacks in the middle of the night within her chambers. "Or perhaps they just do their business wherever they are allowed to---" Before she could even finished, Rafayel would have his hand on her lips, to silence her before she continue ruining his appetite for the rest of the night.

The swipe of his fingers on her pale lips reminded him of those days. She is no longer smiling now, eyes and mouth closed, her skin looked ghoulish under the water, skin reflecting light whenever the lightning above struck the surface of the sea. Rafayel's face is a sheet of calm demeanour, but the soul that lays beneath the hunk of this man is a roaring sea, just like how he summoned for the storm before he stepped foot into the vast ocean.

Fishes and various kinds of sea creatures that used to swim along the pathways are not seen nor found within miles of Rafayel's sight. None of them were brave enough to be within his presence as they knew the aura that Rafayel had emitted. It is no doubt that sea creatures are much smarter than Lemurians. Every step he took made the sea creatures scattered further away, burying deeper into their hideouts, scared for their lives.

Rafayel stood in front of his kingdom, eyes pinned against the marble white towers that he calls home. Cheers and laughters could be heard from the banquet hall, where the Lemurians were probably herded, awaiting for his return for a grand celebration towards the revival of Lemuria. But Rafayel was far from a celebratory mood. "We have arrived, my love." His voice monotonous, no hints of happiness nor giddiness, nor sadness, nor disappointment. Just numbness. A man with feelings bears empathy and sympathy, but, a man without feelings bears emptiness, null and void of all emotions.

He continued his course, holding onto y/n tighter in his arms. He had the initial thought of wanting her body to rest within his chambers before he commits bloodshed. But, having an audience might not be a bad idea. Instead, Rafayel wanted this. He knew that she could not be able to tell nor see, nor to be there to stop him, but he wanted her soul to watch him commit this, to execute damnation upon his kind. All he wanted, was to show her how much he loves her, to the point he is willing to do this, to be a mad man.

The heavy doors leading to the banquet hall slowly opened with a chant of a spell. Rafayel's eyes staring straight ahead, his once two-toned irises had now dissolved to be a dark maroon colour. His guess was right, all of the Lemurians were gathered within this hall, laughters and conversations filled the environment. But, almost abruptly, the laughters and conversations seized, and Rafayel could care less about the whispers that started to take place within the silence.

It did not took long before some of the Lemurians sensed something was off and they started swimming towards the heavy doors. Rafayel chanted something under his breath and the doors slammed right in front of their faces. The ones who tried to escape were shocked, but none of them made their move to question why the God of the Sea had a dead girl with a gaping orifice on her chest within his arms and why did he chose to present himself in a miniature form of a mere mortal. Practically the size of an ant compared to the average 2m Lemurians surrounding him.

"Your highness!" Arvia was initially cheerful, emerging from the crowd before he spotted the girl the God was holding onto. He stopped in his tracks, wanting to turn back before he felt a strong force pulling him towards Rafayel. Arvia faced Rafayel, eyes bulging when the invisible force coiled around his neck. "Your highness.... please!" The young merman coughed, the crowd watching in horror.

"You were the messenger weren't you?" Rafayel asked, eyes looking past the young merman, not even sparing him any last bits of attention.

"I was only...executing...what...was being....told..." The merman replied, his breath getting more restricted by every passing second. "I did...not...know...of...the ceremony. Please...I just want to save---"

"Your highness, no!" A mermaid appeared from the crowd, with blonde hair curling like tendrils on land, hazel eyes staring at the young merman before darting over to Rafayel's figure. She happened to be Arvia's mother. "He did what he have to...To save us all." Her sentence made Rafayel's right eye twitched slightly, fueling the God's wrath even more. "Then," Rafayel turned his head and angled it upwards to stare at her right into her eyes. His dark eyes could quite literally burn a hole through her soul as she finds herself talking back to a God. Not just any God at this moment, for he has taken his stance as a vengeful God. "Should it be justified? That I am only doing this to save my beloved?" Before the mother could even say anything, Rafayel only exhaled his breath and Arvia's head immediately got cut off clean by the invisible force. The head's eyes blinked a couple of times, floating upwards towards the surface, while its body sank onto the sea floor, twitching as it goes down. Blood seeping out into the ocean waters, creating symbols guided by the waves.

Lemurians within the banquet hall went into immediate panic, screaming and screeching, wanting to leave the banquet to save themselves. Rafayel looked up, watching as the Lemurians tried to flee. Like a bunch of fishes trapped within a fisherman's net, pushing against one another and fighting for whatever that is left for their puny lives. His voice was hushed, but clear enough to be heard within the hall. "Don't worry my people, you shall only feel the hurt that I had felt." And all of the screams halted.

...

Amund dragged himself across the sea floor, a trail of blood painted by his very own body fluids. The man was in agonizing pain, nearly to the point of passing out. Just a while ago, he was getting all cozy within his own chambers before he heard loud screams that travelled through the sea rifts. But it did not took long before it stopped so he took no mind to it, figuring it was just another norm for those celebratory parties. Not segregating the mischievious ones from the docile ones, that is just an invitation for a mishap to happen at a party.

He heard a swoosh coming from the side of his house and his door slammed open to reveal the God of the Sea, in his mundane form, covered in splatters of blood from head to toe. Amund's jaw dropped when the screams finally registered into his head. The screams may just be caused by this man standing right in front of him. The very girl Amund had tortured set securely within Rafayel's arms. Rafayel's unusual calm demeanour is not part and parcel of his personality, which further solidified Amund's questions to himself.

"Your high---" Amund was literally smashed through the walls of his house and the merman landed roughly onto the sand pile behind his house. Rafayel walked through the hole, eyes still hollow and face expressionless. "Pleas---" Another slam through another wall. And this repeated for a couple of times, until Amund was laying on the sandy pathway in the village, blood pooling out of his mouth. He tried to escape, pushing himself up and trying his best to get his tail to wag so he could generate enough momentum to give him a boost off of the ocean floor.

"It was a fairly easy instruction." Rafayel spoke, finally. Maroon eyes boring into Amund's skull. "And yet, you failed." Rafayel knelt down, showing Amund the girl he was holding onto the whole time. "You had deeply failed me, Amund. And you had failed Lemuria." Rafayel stood back up on his feet, licking his lips and looking back towards the towers that he had walked out from. "For what you had done to her, death would only be the easy way out for you." Rafayel's eyes turned a darker shade and Amund let out a blood curdled scream, begging for his highness' mercy.

It has been a while, with Amund crawling on the sea floor. Dirt and rubble trapped under the old man's nails. Some of his nails however, were ripped off due to him being tossed around---his failure to hold onto anything to slow down the impact, caused some of his nails to be ripped right off of his fingertips during the impact---with Rafayel's invisible force whenever he tried to plead for the God's mercy.

Rafayel had managed to pluck out the merman's scale, piece by piece. Lemurians scale are used to make lethal weapons not only on land, but also in the waters. Yet, they are the hardest to harvest as pulling off ONE scale would equate to a human ripping off their whole scalp in one go. So, one could only imagine the pain Amund is going through currently. Amund could barely crawl, eyes swollen from the sand that had entered his tear duct and hoarse voices turned into silenced croaks.

If Rafayel was not holding onto his beloved, he would have easily been the one to pluck out Amund's scales one by one. Rafayel's blinding rage had deluded his mind, as he watched the merman who is the reason behind his lover's death. "She was going to be my mate, my lifetime mate, for this upcoming season, do you know that?" Rafayel scoffed, tears stinging at the back of his eyes.

"But you had to just test my patience, and my capabilities as the God of the Sea. Hence, what you had experienced today, shall never equate to the pain you made me go through. For you had taken my fate, my people's fate upon your own hands." He gave Amund a good kick and the guy groaned in agony, facing down as he regurgitated blood. "What I did today, was nothing but a mere taste of what I am capable of. AS A GOD." His last sentence carried a strong surge of disgust, his bloodlust psyche temporarily separated his status between Amund, an ordinary merman and himself, which is made to be a God.

"I curse...curse her." He managed to choke out and Rafayel's eyes widened, immediately leaping forward to grab the merman's head to face him. The merman croaked out his very last laugh, taunting Rafayel's actions and the last sentence of his was spoken in Lemurian, a rendition of a chant to curse y/n to be reincarnated into a sea witch.

Rafayel's blink of an eye sparked his evol, and he stood there, watching the eternal flames that was casted on Amund burn the merman from what was left of him into a pile of dust, waiting to be consumed by the planktons that lives within the sea water's ecosystem. Tears unknowingly flowed down his cheek and trickled onto his lover's face. The show is over and so is his wish to see her to be a mundane again in her next life. Rafayel held her corpse closely and tightly to his body, soft sobs finally leaving his lips as he faltered to the sea floor.

...

Hundreds of years has passed. And hundreds of years, Rafayel had travelled the seas to search for her. To at least sense any signs of her presence. Ever since the massacre, Rafayel was tied down by his own guilt, for not only failing to protect his lover, but also being the sole reason for the extinction of Lemurians. How uncanny, a legend that tells the tale of a God seeking vengeance upon his own kind just because they had killed his one and only lover. That tale would surely be pure nonsensical or would and could possibly generate pure hatred from anyone who hears it.

Rafayel could care less, like how he heard the screams of his people in their very last moments, the sound of blood and tears splattered across the once white and pristine walls that they were confined within. The sound of Amund begging not to be killed---with his throat slowly giving up on him---the last curse that he uttered and the last sounds that had bubbled from him when he was lit up with Rafayel's evol.

A hint of humming caught his ears and the man stopped his movements, ears twitching in directions to catch onto the tune. A tune only he has ever whistled. With a gesture, dolphins came surrounding the God in circles, by command. "Find out the source for me, yeah?" Rafayel asked and the circling dolphins chirped in return before they dispersed into all directions.

Rafayel's heart skipped a beat, out of nervousness? He had no idea, he still has not gotten used to the idea of his heart being whole again. Because his heart has only been whole only when he was with her. He does not need a whole heart, he only needs her to fill in for the whole of his heart. And for that moment, he shall forever await.

One of the dolphins returned, whistling back to catch the God's attention. Rafayel looked up, and without hesitation, grab ahold onto the dolphin's fin and he was led towards the source of the humming. The dolphins brought him through the kelp grounds, where his people would usually come by to forage for food when they migrate to the northern side for warmer waters during the changing in seasons.

The dolphin led him to the side of the cliff, where it plunges down to the deepest part of the ocean. Creatures beneath those waters are indespicable, and no Lemurians had ever dived that deep. And that includes the God of Sea himself. The humming came again, this time further confirming that the source of the sound came from down below. Rafayel turned around to look for the dolphin, but the poor creature had left him all alone the moment it dropped him off here.

With a deep breath and a puff of his chest, the purple haired God swam deep into the dark waters below. All of his senses heightened to the max as he himself would not expect what he might encounter. Legends were told that there lives a sea serpent so huge that it could engulf the whole world if it awakes. And that was the only legend that still kept Rafayel on edge till now.

His fear dissipated almost instantly when he spotted a faint light in the far distance within the dark. You see, Lemurians although are half-fish and half-man, they do not possess infrared vision that allows them to see in the depths. Within the depths, Rafayel's flames do not work as well as this is the place where Gods are not exactly welcomed. He sped up his swimming when he noticed the light bounces further down into the dark. Pause. Then the light comes back up, but this time, at a very high speed.

Noticing a huge shadow, Rafayel turned and immediately started charging full speed towards the cliff again. But due to the darkness of the waters around him, the God found himself entrapped in the darkness, bumping and hitting himself against the cliffside. The bone-crushing, chomping sounds that came from behind him made him not-one-bit curious to see what was actually chasing him. Right when he was about to be gnawed by a creature, he heard a voice calling out in a language he had not heard of and he blacked out.

...

"I think he is waking up." A voice whispered next to Rafayel. "His eyes are fluttering."

"Is it? Oh yeah, he does look like he is awakening." Another voice intruded, deeper, but not enough to be known as a man's voice.

Rafayel slowly opened his eyes, before he was met with two snailfishes. One with a red while another is tinted with a blue hue. His eyes darted in between the two fishes as he was trying to comprehend if they were the ones talking earlier.

"Good morning." The red one spoke and Rafayel gasped, moving away from the fish. His pupils blown out as he was shocked. He has seen fishes all of his life, but he had never encountered talking fishes. EVER. But making spells to make fishes talk is definitely a skill only a sea witch possesses. This gave Rafayel a thought, maybe she felt lonely down here so she made herself some friends.

"You scared him Red." The blue one spoke this time, and it swam closer towards Rafayel, using its spiny fins to mimic how a mundane would usually talk. Gestures, as what was taught to the snailfishes, is a common courtesy of good body language to humans. But given the snailfishes had never been in contact with any humans, they took the closest resemblance to what their highness looked like. Rafayel looked just like a human to them.

With parted hair and two eyes, a nose and a lip. He is obviously a human to their knowledge. "We are not going to hurt you." The blue fish gestured it's small fins in circles, speaking slowly for each word, afraid that the man before it would not understand them. "Our master ask us to care for you as she went out to gather some food."

"Who is your master?" Rafayel asked as he sat up, kindly hoping that it was the girl he had awaited for many years. "Where is she?" His excitement made him winced, his head still hurts, a side effect of a sea witch's spell.

The feel of the water temperature shifting made the two snailfishes swam off to one of the tunnels. Rafayel took this time to observe his surroundings. Contrast to the dark waters he was in just now, he is currently in a cave like structure, with huge seaweeds and some pebbles laid out beneath him and a sea lantern hung up at every corner of the cave to provide some decent lighting. For a moment, he did not believe that he is in a sea witch's abode.

The walls had paints on them, some forming artworks of the seas above, and some were writings written in what Rafayel assumed to be sea witch's language. Rafayel stopped at one of the drawings, it was a rough sketch of Lemuria. Seeing the sketch, his breath hitched in his throat. The past memories of his massacre surfacing again but he forced it down. Not willing to show weakness in such a foreign territory. Below the sketch, there were symbols that Rafayel could not read. But he decided not to further crack his head.

The fishes returned and Rafayel's heart dropped to the bottom of his tail when he was met with her. The girl who he had always been waiting, the girl he had committed massacre for, the girl that had made him suffer with loneliness for the past hundred years. Y/n is now in front of him, but other than human legs, it was swapped with a black and singular long tail, resembling one a Moray eel has. Her once brunette curls took on a much darker shade, the same as the waters below here. The curse happened after all, for she had became the sea witch of the depths.

"You are awake." Y/n spoke and oh how he missed her voice. The voice that produces the best laughters and asked the most silly questions. Yet, with this version of her, her voice held none of those characteristics he remembered. It was deadpanned, the lack of emotions nearly made Rafayel winced. With his lack of a response, the sea witch looked towards both of her friends. "Does he happen to be a mute?"

"He spoke to us just now, but more like engaged us in a question or two." The blue snailfish chirped, swimming back to the side of Rafayel. The same fin that used to make gestures came to give a pat onto Rafayel's cheek and the merman turned to look at the fish in question. Seeing Rafayel's reaction, the fish hurriedly swam back to its master. "He is a human as you described right? Right, master?"

"Not quite, Blue." Ironic, Rafayel thought. It is very ironic of her to name things exactly based on the way they looked. It has always been a habit of hers. She placed the seashells she had harvested neatly onto the floor and she swam over to have a closer look at Rafayel. "I think, his origins are of a mermaid." Her eyes are now a different shade of colour, black irises match the shade of her pupils. Another staple for a sea witch. "I apologise for the black out you had to experience earlier on. I had to cease the Angler Fish from rising towards the surface as I did not want it to disturb the ecosystem as of above."

"Do you know of my name?" Rafayel asked, a glimmer of hope shined in his eyes as he really wished for her to remember at least a slither of memory of him. For he had been her one and only lover in her past life. But with the way she raised an eyebrow and tilted her head, his hope got extinguished like a fire that could not be ignited.

"What do you seek for, Lemurian?" Y/n swam back towards the pile of sea shells she had collected and she grabbed one of the bottles from above her shelf. Examining the shells one by one before placing them into the bottle, only the ones that has spots on them would be chosen while the other would be tossed aside and the two snailfishes seem to be having a feast with the leftovers.

The turn of her head got her to look him right into his eyes. The warm glow emitting from the sea lantern casting a soft glow on her face. Just like the time when he held her in his arms, on top of the rock. He tore his eyes away from her, his cheeks burning from how affected he was from her gaze. But he answered her. "I came here for a potion. A potion to cure me from my wandering heart." ...

It took y/n 100 days, a cycle between 50 days and 50 nights to produce the potion that Rafayel had requested for. Shortly after the interaction, Rafayel had returned back to the shallow seas, as he could not bear to watch the love of his life not knowing him for who he is and who he was to her.

His last words to her before he departed to the shallows was, "Once the potion has been completed, I shall meet you at the sea stacks by dawn. The one far north." He said, index finger pointing towards the said direction. His eyes does not meet hers before he left. That was how heartbroken he was. His heart wearing him down day by day as he waited for the potion to be crafted.

During the 100 days of wait, he kept going back and forth between the waters and land to keep himself occupied. But the land served him better as the mourning of the princess had ended long ago. When the princess went missing, the King sent out every single one of his troops to search for the lost princess.

Rafayel purposely placed her back onto the sea stacks so she could be found easily. Knowing the God, he would have kept her by his side even if she were to be nothing but a bag of bones, but he knew, her people would want to know of her whereabouts. Even if it would only bring them to her corpse. He could not give himself anymore liberty to take her away from her people, like how he had singlehandedly perished the people of his kingdom. He did not turned his head back at all once he had left her there, swimming away in full speed so that he would not be discovered and caught, and to save himself from crying anymore.

The beloved princess' death was mourned by all. Every citizen within the Kingdom's grounds were in tears, regardless if its a man or a woman, an adult or a child. That was how loved she was. Her people mourned for her for nearly five decades, and that was how long Rafayel refused to surface and to walk on land. Every time he closed in to the shores of her kingdom, the sounds of the cries of her people would strike his ears. He became so used to it that he would visit the same place every day, by dusk, just to silently cry and mourn with the people of her kingdom.

He would not even go anywhere near his kingdom either. For it was filled with the bones of his people. The people that he used to cherish, that he would always go back to. But now, all he returns to, is a dead and eerie silence. The bloody stains of his people had now hardened, taken over by sea crustaceans as Lemurian blood offers a lot of benefits to the sea creatures. If any Lemurians lived past that day, Rafayal would definitely earn the title of 'The God Who Went Deranged'.

The day has finally came, where they shall rejoice by the sea stacks. Rafayel was already waiting there since dusk, body floating above the waters, facing up towards the bright skies painted in pastel yellows and reds. Blobs of clouds that seemed so edible Rafayel wished he could fly instead of swim. A bunch of bubbles surfaced next to him and he slightly turned his head, watching as she emerged from the waters, holding two vials in her hand. Her face expressionless and cold as the first time he had met her in this life.

"Here." She handed him one of the vials and he took it, repositioning himself from having to float, to facing her directly. "Are you sure this is what you desire?" Her question caught his attention, his mixture of lilac-lapis orbs stared into her obsidian ones. "Because your memories will be perished forever, do you know that?"

Rafayel looked at the vial, the contents of the fluid is watery, and takes on a sheen of coral-like pink. "My mind is set." His eyes caught her again. "This is what I had desired when I met you that day." His words although does not hold any meaning to the sea witch, but it held meanings that one could never fathom, within the God of Sea's memories.

"This is usually done between two, one to forget while the other to contain the forgotten memories." She explained, holding up the vial to her eye level as she continued. "And since you do not have anyone you want to consume this with, I shall be the one to contain your forgotten memories."

As expected, Rafayel knew she was going to say this. He had never once mentioned anything about the Lemurians being extinct. Neither did she asked. Always putting people ahead of herself, her nature still seeped through from her past life that it has easily become one of her core personalities even till now. Rafayel silently sighed in his own mind when he looked at this woman in front of him. The lover that he had sworn his life to, became the lover that was seemingly a stranger to him.

"We shall consume this together, and with a chant of a spell, hence the void of the memory shall take upon its place." Rafayel pulled the cap open, mirroring her actions and they drank the mixture together. Rafayel winced at how bitter the content tasted but y/n seemed unaffected, as sea witches are not equipped with a sense of taste as most of their potions tasted wicked as their personalities had always been portrayed to be. "Well enough to start?"

"Hu-Ayr-Tey Ta-Fa-Fu-Lei." Rafayel chanted and he watched as y/n's eyes widened. Finally, a reaction from her. Not in the way he had hoped for a reaction of course. You see, Rafayel, being God of the Sea, although had never travelled through the deep waters and had never knew of the Sea Witches' language, but the spells equipped by the sea witches were born out of a God's nature. Should there be benevolence, there shall be malevolence. Just like how Rafayel's massacre is a proof of a God's malevolent nature taking place physically, a sea witch's spells are born out of a God's mentally twisted nature.

"What have you done?!" She held onto her neck, feeling herself struggling to breathe as her neck is closing up on her. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" She raised her voice, looking at him with anger that starts to paint her face a shade of red. "How do you know of this spell?!" She was in disbelief, eyes shooting daggers into the merman in front of her. Rafayel showed no amusement though, his eyes although were entirely focused on her, his heart crushed.

Fate in general, creates thousands and millions of possibilities towards one's ending. For a God, fate should easily be nothing but a just another miniscule issue within their palms. But for Rafayel, the moment he fell for a mundane, was the moment he signed a blackmail for himself. He has to gamble with fate now, just like with any other mere mortal. The only advantage he got is that he could look into the near future to help him better plan out his upcoming course of actions.

This happening now, marks one of his course of actions. The fate he had chosen was to kill y/n with his own hands, so she could be reincarnated to be a human in her next life. Then, he could take place as a man, on the land, seeking for her love and attention, just like how a mere mortal would. Yes. Rafayel, the God of the Sea, would risk his status of being a God just to be a human, just to be with her. "This is the only way." He spoke to her, as he watched her slowly lose her memories to swim, her tail, now a pair of legs, flailing clumsily in an effort to save herself.

The spell that he had uttered, does not only make her forget her own identity, but it makes her forget everything, wiping everything off of her memory and giving her a clean slate. A reincarnated soul would always remember bits of their past lives, that is how deja-vu and realistic dreams come about. But this spell would wipe her memory of her past life as well. As bad as it sounds, Rafayel sees this as the only viable way for him to live his next life, having to protect her. All the other courses of action, would only lead to more bloodshed and he grew tired of it.

The tears came flowing again, watching his beloved struggle to breathe as she started to choke onto the seawater that is rapidly entering her lungs. Rafayel could only watch, he could not interfere as it would ruin the course of her next life. Heart wrenching, gut punching, every other word of torturous feeling would describe him perfectly at this moment.

Y/n reached out her hand to him, desperately looking at him and clawing for him, seeking for his help to drag her out and onto solid land. But his refusal seemingly made her accepted her fate. Her pupils then slowly stopped moving, her body slowly stopped thrashing and twitching as she continued descended deeper into the waters. A scene that reminded him deeply of Arvia during his last moments.

Once the bubbles had stopped surfacing out of her agape lips, Rafayel swam down as fast as he could, and he held her cold body in his arms again, closely studying her very last moments. Her eyes were opened, in a state of shock and acceptance, lips blue like the shade of his lapis-coloured eyes, tail had now taken form into two legs, her body stiff and hollow like how she was when he first found her in the past 100 years. The curse was finally broken, but it also broke Rafayel. With shaky breaths, he uttered. "In your next life, I promise you. I promise. You shall only ever hear of my name as to be Rafayel. I shall no longer...be the God of the Sea."

Parallel Universe Ending is Out: Salvation

I love doubling the damage sometimes, this one-shot had became somewhat of a small series. I enjoyed using a bit of my gore movie visual experiences within this piece of writing. Thank you for the ones who wished for a sequel. I hope this makes you bawl your eyes out.

But do not worry, I am already starting on a not-so-angsty ending that takes place in a parallel universe. I don't think this series would continue on as I think it is best to leave it to you lovelies' vast imagination.

As usual, any requests you want me to write? I can write it for ya :)

Have a good day and pls cry for me lovelies :)

[aventurineswife]

Stages of Shadows:

R O U N D 6

[Special thanks to Natto for graciously allowing me to use their incredible artworks. Please support their amazing work by following them on Instagram: @yattapan. Thank you, Natto (if you're reading this, lol), for once again allowing me to use your artworks with full credit given to you! I hope you enjoy this!]

The stage was dimly lit, the harsh spotlight casting long shadows across the stage. The crowd’s noise had faded into a low hum, like a distant storm that threatened to break at any moment. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, but Aventurine was numb to it all. His usual flamboyance, his mischievous grin, and the gleam in his eyes—those were gone. The man standing on the stage now was a shell of what he had been, his once vibrant persona buried under the weight of exhaustion and sorrow.

Aventurine stood center stage, his posture slumped, a stark contrast to the usual calculated, confident air he used to project. His hand gripped the microphone, but his fingers were tight around it, as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. He was clad in black clothing, an ensemble that matched the dark emptiness swirling inside him. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, were now hollow, distant, staring at nothing in particular.

‘Where are you, [Name]?’ He thought, the weight of their absence like a heavy stone pressing down on his chest. ‘Why did you have to leave me?’

The music began to swell, but it didn’t stir him the way it once did. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet at first—a murmur lost in the sea of noise. But as the lyrics flowed from his lips, they carried an emotional depth that seemed to shake even the hardened audience.

“Allow me, to the tips of your fingers

Allow me, to the ends of your feet

Dissolve me in your gaze

I don’t want to let you go”

Each note was a whisper of his heart’s agony. There was no passion, no fire behind the words anymore—just the emptiness of a man who had lost everything. The song was no longer a performance; it was a cry. His voice cracked once, but he pushed through, forcing the words out even though they felt like daggers scraping the inside of his throat.

The lights above him flickered, casting shifting shadows across the stage. But the audience—those cruel, apathetic spectators—didn’t care. They watched with eager, unblinking eyes, but Aventurine saw nothing but their hollow faces, staring like vultures at something already dead. He was dying inside. His soul was withering.

Aventurine’s voice faltered as the lyrics continued to pour out of him, desperate, raw, as though he was trying to will himself to feel something—anything.

“Please, leave me scars

Please, hurt me so that

Not a single drop of me remains

Let me drown in you”

His voice trembled on the final note, but he didn’t stop. Instead, it grew more intense, a plea laced with anguish, his throat raw from the pain of each word. The crowd’s cheers seemed distant, unimportant. As the words left his mouth, his mind spiraled, and everything around him began to blur.

The sounds of the audience faded, and Aventurine found himself no longer on the stage, but in a cold, sterile room—distant, isolating, suffocating. The memory hit him like a punch to the gut.

He was standing in front of a long table, a group of faceless figures dressed in dark suits sitting behind it. Their expressions were unreadable, but the weight of their gaze was heavy. They were the ###—the ones who had brought him into this sick game. They were the ones holding his life by a string, dictating the terms of his survival. The same ones who had made him promise everything—his soul, his loyalty—if he won.

Aventurine’s hands were shackled to the chair in front of him, his body tense, awaiting whatever came next. His heart raced as they pushed him, trying to force an answer from him about the deal—questions he didn’t have answers to. His mind was scattered, chaotic, filled with one burning question: Where is [Name]?

One of the figures slammed a file onto the table in front of him. It was a newspaper clipping, and at the top in bold letters, the word “ＭＩＳＳＩＮＧ” was stamped across [Name]’s profile. His heart dropped, and his stomach twisted into knots.

His pulse pounded In his ears as he stared at the image. There they were, the one person he had trusted, the only one who had shown him true kindness, now lost.

Aventurine’s vision blurred. He had no idea where they were. Had they died? Had they left him behind, abandoned him so easily after everything they had been through? The questions gnawed at him, but none of them brought any answers. Only emptiness.

‘Did I mean nothing to them?’

The words felt like chains, tighter with every thought, as though the walls around him were closing in, suffocating him. He couldn’t breathe. His mind raced to try to piece together the puzzle, but the more he thought, the more frantic he became.

Suddenly, one of the figures—too close, too invasive—grabbed the back of his head, forcing him down toward the table. His face scraped the cold surface as the pressure of the hands on his hair grew.

Aventurine’s heart skipped a beat as he saw the newspaper clipping slide closer to his face. He couldn’t get away from it. He couldn’t escape the sight of [Name]’s profile—lost, missing, slipping through his fingers like sand.

The world felt too small. He felt too small.

A flash of white-hot fury ignited within him. His heart pounded in his chest like a drumbeat, loud and unyielding. His body moved before his mind could catch up, his fist crashing into the face of the man who had pushed him down. The force of the punch sent the person sprawling backward, momentarily stunned. The clatter of a chair hitting the ground rang in his ears, and the smell of blood filled the air.

The memory shattered, and Aventurine gasped, back on the stage, the spotlight burning his skin. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, his pulse erratic, heart racing as if it would burst from his chest. His fist was still raised in the air, knuckles white, as if he had never stopped fighting.

“Until these falling stars

Are buried in the blur of time

On your icy lips

Read my soul

Yes, my soul”

Aventurine continued, his voice trembling with something more than just sorrow—rage, desperation, confusion, all woven together in the melody. His voice cracked again, the strain too much, but he pushed on, clinging to the song as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to his fragile reality.

The audience was silent, watching, waiting for him to fall apart completely, but the man they saw on stage was not the same one who had entered. The flamboyant, carefree strategist was gone. In his place stood someone raw, exposed, and vulnerable—someone who had given too much and lost too much to ever smile again.

Aventurine continued singing, lost in the rhythm of the melody, completely unaware of the storm of emotions unfolding beside him. His voice rang out into the air, each note a desperate plea, but he was distant, trapped in his own thoughts, disconnected from everything around him.

The spotlight shifted, Ratio stepped onto the stage, his presence shifting the air like a cold breeze. He moved with deliberate grace, his white suit gleaming under the stage lights. It was almost too pristine, as if he were stepping into a wedding, an unspoken irony in the starkness of his attire amidst the chaotic tension of the contest. He grabbed the microphone, his fingers brushing it lightly as his gaze drifted toward Aventurine.

Aventurine stood motionless, the hollow look in his eyes betraying the storm within him. He appeared to have given up—like a man who had lost everything, as if the very air around him was a reminder of someone who was gone. His emotions were shut off, the vulnerability once so raw now replaced by an empty stillness.

Ratio took a deep breath before he began to sing, his voice smooth and controlled, though the weight of the lyrics cut through him like a blade. His eyes never left Aventurine, watching as the other man stood frozen in place, his thoughts clearly lost in the past, in someone who was no longer there.

“Even if your cold words

Carve scars beneath my eyes

May they linger on your tongue

You can break me apart”

The haunting melody filled the space, but Ratio couldn’t focus on the performance itself. His thoughts were elsewhere, taking him back to memories of the moments they had shared—moments that now seemed as distant as the stars.

The world of the contest, the games that had driven them all to the edge of madness, was one of cruelty and manipulation. But there were moments, fleeting and fragile, where there was kindness—moments where Ratio and Aventurine had found each other amidst the chaos.

Ratio remembered the time just before the show began, when they had shared a quiet conversation backstage. Aventurine had been quiet, more so than usual, as if the weight of the competition had finally broken him. Ratio had tried to reach out to him, to find some way to keep him grounded.

“Notice my pain

And mend me right now

To quiet my fears

I’ll drown in you”

But even then, Aventurine’s thoughts were clouded with something else—someone else. [Name]. The one who had stolen his heart, the one who had always been there to pull him from the edge when he faltered. Ratio could see it now, that deep ache in Aventurine’s eyes, the unspoken question that had plagued him since the moment they were torn apart.

It was the same unspoken question that Ratio had tried to answer himself when he had found a way out—an escape from this cursed contest. They had nearly made it, nearly freed themselves from the grip of the game, but at the last moment, Aventurine had faltered. He had chosen to leave Ratio behind in the pursuit of [Name], to go back to a place where he could never leave things undone, even if it meant abandoning his only ally.

Under the moonlight, near a secret passage where other contestants had found their way out, Ratio stood watching Aventurine. He could see the resolve in his eyes, but it was torn. He was a man caught between two impossible choices: the friend who had stood by him and the person he couldn’t leave behind, even if it meant his own freedom.

Aventurine had walked back, taking those last few steps toward the uncertainty of the contest, leaving Ratio standing there with a bittersweet smile, knowing that his friend would never truly be free until he could reunite with [Name]. The sting of that moment lingered, the taste of abandonment still fresh, even now.

“Sick of these nights to come

To be engulfed in silence

In your gaze where I’m seen

Consume me

Yes, me, oh oh”

Ratio’s voice cracked slightly on the final line, a hint of emotion breaking through his otherwise controlled façade. He couldn’t help but feel the weight of their shared history, the sacrifices they had made for each other, and yet the unbearable truth that some wounds would never heal.

He had seen the toll this contest had taken on his friend, and he knew the battle wasn’t over yet. But in that moment, Ratio understood. Aventurine couldn’t leave [Name] behind, not now, not after everything they had been through together.

Aventurine continued singing, lost in the rhythm of the melody, completely unaware of the storm of emotions unfolding beside him. His voice rang out into the air, each note a desperate plea, but he was distant, trapped in his own thoughts, disconnected from everything around him.

“To this everlasting melody”

Meanwhile, Ratio’s voice blended with his, but his attention was no longer on the performance. His eyes drifted toward Aventurine, watching him with a depth of feeling that he couldn’t articulate. He saw his friend’s weariness, the faintest hints of defeat in his posture, and his heart ached for him.

“Face to face we dance”

But then, Ratio’s attention snapped back to the stage as he realized something. Aventurine had stopped singing.

The silence in the air was sharp, thick with tension. He could hear the low hum of the audience, the murmur of uncertainty spreading as Aventurine stood frozen. The rules were clear: failure to continue meant disqualification. The moment was slipping away from him.

“With our story

Lost in forever’s embrace

Until these falling stars

Are buried in the blur of time.”

Ratio’s mind raced, his thoughts tumbling over one another. This was the moment—the moment he had to make a decision. A doctor of truth, he knew the consequences of his actions, but right now, his only concern was the gambler in front of him. Aventurine would never forgive himself if he failed here, and Ratio couldn’t let him face that.

Without another thought, Ratio dropped his mic onto the stage, the clatter of it fading into the silence. He stepped toward Aventurine, whose eyes were glazed over, unaware of the imminent danger. The weight of his decision pressed on Ratio’s chest, but there was no turning back now.

The rain began to fall, soft at first, then heavier, as if the world itself mourned the coming sacrifice. The droplets cascaded around them, a curtain of water, but all Ratio could see was his friend.

Aventurine lifted his gaze slowly, meeting Ratio’s eyes with an expression that was too tired, too distant, to fully comprehend why Ratio was standing so close now.

Ratio’s steps were steady as he reached Aventurine, his hand moving to gently cup his friend’s neck. He leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper against the damp air.

“Take care of yourself, Gambler. Do stay alive. I wish you the best of luck.”

Before Aventurine could react, before he could even respond, Ratio’s grip tightened. His fingers dug into Aventurine’s neck—not with the intent to choke him, but to send him into unconsciousness. To ensure he wouldn’t see what Ratio was about to do, the sacrifice he was making.

But to the audience, it was a different story.

The moment Ratio’s hands moved, the security team took action, weapons raised. They had been watching, ready to intervene. Violence was strictly prohibited, and it was clear that Ratio had broken the rules. He would be executed for this.

Still, Ratio didn’t flinch. He didn’t fight. The shots came fast, the sound of gunfire cutting through the tense silence. His body jerked with each bullet that struck him, but it wasn’t until the fatal shot, aimed at a vital artery, that he stumbled, blood pouring from his mouth. His vision blurred, but he managed to glance up at the screen.

Aventurine’s scores were climbing. The crowd roared, oblivious to the price Ratio had paid for it.

His eyes locked with Aventurine’s one final time, and Ratio smiled—bitter, resigned, but sincere. The world seemed to slow as he released his hold on Aventurine’s neck, letting his friend slip from his grasp.

Ratio crumpled to the ground, lifeless, blood staining the stage beneath him. His body became a dark pool of crimson, the contrast to Aventurine’s still form standing in disbelief.

The music beat dropped, filling the space, but it felt like the entire world had stilled, as if the stage itself was mourning the loss.

Aventurine stood frozen, staring down at Ratio’s body, his fingers pressing against his neck in disbelief. His mind couldn’t process it—their shared history, the bond they had formed, had been shattered in a moment. Ratio was gone.

The black-and-white contrast between them was undeniable. Ratio’s pure white suit now stained with the blood that had once belonged to him. Aventurine’s own darkness, his own guilt and despair, a stark reflection of the sacrifice Ratio had made for him.

The stage, the contest, the audience—they all blurred away in that moment. There was nothing left but the realization that everything had changed.

But little did anyone know, amidst the chaos and the tragedy that had unfolded on that stage, [Name] was still alive and was back now.

They had made it, against all odds, and now they stood just outside the chaotic scene, their eyes fixed on the aftermath of the deadly contest. The silence hung in the air, but [Name] could feel the weight of the moment—the deaths, the sacrifices, the choices made in the name of survival.

They were here to rescue their friends, to end this madness once and for all. But unlike before, [Name] wasn’t alone this time. They had a new group with them, a new force, even if it came with complications. The Stellaron Hunters—each one with their own agenda, their own reasons for standing in the shadows—were now part of their cause.

With the Stellaron Hunters behind them, and their newfound strength, [Name] stepped forward into the fray. The world ahead of them was uncertain, but they would make sure it was their future, not the one dictated by fate or fear.

It was time to rewrite the story.

(@thijikoy on X/Twitter)

Thank you, Natto (if you're reading this, lol), for once again allowing me to use your artworks with full credit given to you!

[Navigation]

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 15

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 15/? 10k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ The aftermath of a kiss makes thoughts come alive — both desires and fears. 

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

✏︎ Chapter CW: smut 18+ (imagined oral f!receiving, piv, creampie), cumming in pants, angst

Wednesday, December 11th 1985

The flag was whipping in the wind. Towering above the parking lot in a blur of red, white, and blue, it cracked against the pale grey sky. 

Meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror, you checked for any obvious signs of guilt. The harsh morning light made it clear what you’d missed in your haste to leave. You thought you had gotten it all, but the mascara resting in the lines beneath your eyes said otherwise. Truthfully, washing your face had been the last thing on your mind when you stumbled home after midnight, and it was clear you needed more than the five minutes you allotted this morning in front of the sink. After sleeping through your alarm, it was a miracle you were here at all. Swiping your knuckles across the bags under your eyes, you figured that would have to do.

With a final, bracing sigh, you opened the door and slumped into the freezing cold. Slamming the door, you marched across the snow-dusted pavement and hiked the heavy leather strap onto your shoulder. Students scattered around you with bright colored backpacks, rushing from their cars toward the squat, concrete building that loomed on the horizon. Eyes steeled on the glass doors ahead, you swallowed a sickness rising up from the pit of your stomach. Pebbles crunched under your boots as you dodged glances, offering little more than a timid smile and a raise of your hand at the greetings hurled your way. 

Pulling open the chilled metal handle, that school smell—indescribable yet unmistakable—gusted hotly over your numb cheeks. The office was abuzz with shrill ringing phones and gently chiding voices. Eyes glued to the long, grey weather mat below, you approached the clock-in station.

“Good morning!” the receptionist greeted cheerfully at the back of your head. 

“Morning, Judy,” you offered weakly, selecting your punch card from its wooden slot on the wall. With a shaking hand, you slotted the index card into the machine, lining it up with this week’s row of black-inked numbers. It snapped to life, stamping today’s date in a crooked line beneath the rest. 

Tucking your thumb under the strap, you trudged along your usual path, raising your eyes just enough to see where you were going. Fluorescents danced over the polished tile, over the shimmering salt-stained boot marks and stray pebbles you were suddenly so captivated by. Past the glass trophy cases, inside the cafeteria, you crossed the row of principal portraits from years prior outside the teachers lounge. It was difficult to look at them today, the judgement painted so clearly on their features from inside their thick, ornate frames. Their eyes seemed to follow you as you passed. Dodging their scorn, you ducked inside the door.

Your soles met the padding of the threadbare carpet, marching toward the one thing you truly depended on, stationed at its post on the end of the long, veneer table — the coffee machine. The room was spinning with activity, a bustle of chatter you hoped you could hide in. Most were on their way out, making small talk and gathering belongings from their seats at the round tables. Your skirt swished forward as you halted before the machine, tapping the cuff of your tall boots. Grabbing a mug from the stack, you filled it with haste.

You wondered if anyone could smell it on you — the cigarette smoke that clung to your coat. Shrinking down into your turtleneck, you sidestepped to return the pot to the warmer. 

“Good morning,” stated a voice behind you with cold professionalism. 

The plastic slipped in your hand, coffee hissing against the metal plate as you fumbled it into place. “Principal Higgins! H-hi—good morning!” 

She always terrified you, even as a student here. Even before last night. Standing all of about four foot ten, her stern, nun-like demeanor and white cloud of hair remained consistent with your memory, as if she had reached a point in her aging where she just plateaued.

“How are you?” she asked. Not as though she really cared, just as something polite to say.

Whipping around as the blood drained from your face, you addressed her. “Good! I’m good. Just getting things wrapped up for the semester. You know how it is.” 

She nodded curtly. “Glad to hear,” she answered, though nothing about her expression seemed glad.  It never did. You thought you saw her smile once in September, but it could have been a trick of the light. Smiling weakly at the floor, you dipped around her and shuffled toward the open milk carton. The air was thick and stuffy, filling your lungs in shallow draws. Peeling back the soggy cardboard, you swallowed your hammering pulse. 

“Hey stranger,” Diane greeted warmly, grabbing a mug from beside you. “You ready for winter break yet?” 

Fixed on the coffee as the milk swirled like smoke, you couldn’t find the courage to meet her eyes. “I’ve been ready since October,” you admitted through a strained chuckle.

Diane tipped her head back, laughing into the fluorescents. “Oh man I feel ya, I’ve been counting down the days myself.” Steam rose from her mug as she filled it.

There must have been a sign on your back. Something like kick me. A bump from behind had you lurching into the table, sloshing coffee over the rim. Snapping your head over your shoulder, you glared at the culprit. 

“Jeez it’s crowded in here,” muttered Ms. O’Donnell as she lumbered over to the coffee machine. “Everyone mingling like a flock of hens, you’d think we’d all have places to be by now.”

With a sharp sigh, you grabbed a handful of flimsy napkins from beside the sugar. Diane glanced in brief annoyance before reaching through your line of sight for the milk carton. “So, did you catch Cheers last night?”

You froze, heat creeping up the collar of your coat as the coffee bled through the paper. Images of sweating glasses on cocktail napkins and plush lips clouded your vision as you blotted up the mess with a trembling hand. “No I uh, turned in early I’m afraid.” Your stomach curdled with the lie.

“Aww, well you’ll have to catch it on re-run because it was a good one. I won’t spoil anything,” Diane said, bringing the mug to her lips as she leaned against the table. 

Grabbing the handful of warm, soggy napkins, you pivoted to toss them in the trash. Finally, she caught you with her eyes. Rich umber, deep with caring and kindness, captive for anyone who needed a good listener, for you on so many occasions. Diane was good like a cashmere cardigan, like a box of tissues passed across a desk. Your eyes met the floor again quickly, heat rising in your face. You shuddered to imagine what she’d think if she knew. 

The room became a blur of scooting chairs, of vending machines whirring, of crackers and candy dropping into the bins below. Metal flaps whined and slammed as hands reached in to grab them. It was closing in on you — the copy machine ink wafting warmly across the room as it spat out stacks of tests, the hole punchers clicking and binders snapping open to devour papers with their jagged maws. You stood there in the middle of it all, spinning like you’d stepped out of a carnival ride.

Diane leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “You ok?”

Blinking rapidly, you snapped back to attention. “Yeah—yeah I’m fine.” 

Folding her arms across her sweater, she knit her brows in disbelief. As the school counselor, it was her job to see through bullshit, and she was good at her job. Before she could comment, the bell had your stomach lurching. “I have to go,” you said with as much of a casual farce as you could muster. “I’ll see you later.” You grabbed your mug, shielding your face with it as you sipped off the top before vanishing into the hallway.

-

The AV cart was heavy despite its wheels. Avoiding your tired reflection in the glass of the large television, you braced the metal frame and peered around it, marching carefully down the crowded hallway. At least you had something to hide behind now. 

There were footsteps all around you, weaving to accommodate the metal mass as you trudged slowly forward. What became unignorable was the set behind you, shuffling down the hall at an increasing speed, growing louder as they neared. Eddie halted just behind your shoulder, bumping it slightly in his haste. “Hey,” he breathed in your ear, curls tickling your cheek.

Sucking in a breath, you whipped your head around to meet his crinkling eyes. If he had a tail, he would be wagging it. “Eddie,” you hissed. “Get—” you elbowed him away, heart pounding into your temples as a hundred eyes passed by around you. 

He didn’t seem phased. Hovering at an uncomfortable proximity, his focus stayed glued to you as if the rest of the world had fallen away. “Here,” he offered, reaching over to take the reins. The meat of his palms grazed your knuckles; warm and pliant like you remembered them. 

“I’ve got it,” you insisted, gaze dutifully forward, gripping the metal frame firmly.

“Come on, let me help,” he muttered, leather forearms insisting against yours as he tugged the cart in his direction.

Face fully on fire now, you released your grip, repelling with a twinge of remorse from the solid contact of his shoulder. Head darting left and right, you scouted for faculty, keeping a steady pace beside him. Not so close as to draw suspicion, but close enough to feel his magnetism prickle your awareness. His fingers pinked under his rings, knuckles white in his grip as the strong angles of his hands kept the cart from veering. “It’s um—” Eddie started, dipping his head toward your ear again, “good to see you again,” he uttered with a fervency that could have evaporated you.

“Happy Wednesday!” chimed Ms. Click as she waved you down from outside her door. 

The blood drained from your face. Raising a trembling hand, you returned a weak smile before locking your vision on the end of the hall. It was closing in again; the lockers, the voices, the squeaking of wet boots against the tile. There was the potent scent of cigarettes, fresh on his hair like the snowflakes that clung to his curls. They were melting, dripping down his wild ringlets onto his shoulders with every step. It was beautiful, the way they bounced and swayed in the wind as he walked. The way the droplets settled in the wrinkles of his leather coat. The way it tapered toward his narrow waist. As he braced the cart, you selfishly admired the angles of his shoulders — broad and capable. Selfishly, you wondered what else they could accomplish, how they would feel, bare under your palms. Crossing your arms coyly over your turtleneck, you snatched your mind from the gutter.

Eddie lolled his head toward you, peering under heavy lids. His smile was lazy and generous, brimming with boyish glee. “God you look pretty today,” he sighed. Your uterus beat your stomach to a backflip. 

Halting outside the door to your classroom, you turned to face him. “Eddie, we can’t—” your desert mouth hung open as those soft umber eyes ushered your words into the din.

“I’m allowed to talk to you,” he asserted, shifting to the fullness of his height as he dropped his hands from the cart. 

“Not like that. Not here,” you corrected, just above a whisper. 

Brow lowering, he swiped his coat aside to access his hip, resting his hand above the chain that dripped toward his thigh. It was suffocating — the heat from his gaze, from your turtleneck, from the thoughts hammering like pinballs against the inside of your skull. 

“Listen, I just…” you swallowed, “it’s just—” you glanced around, meeting the waves and bright hellos that passed through your door with a vacant smile before lowering your voice, “—hard to be back here today.”

Eddie tipped his head forward, shifting on the balls of his feet with a subtle nod. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

You huffed through your nose, eyes pleading with him as you shrank toward your door.

“I’ll see you later,” he promised, drifting in by an invisible tether with every inch you moved away. 

“Yeah.” Your exhale was heavy, lingering in his gaze for an aching second before ducking through the threshold. 

______

The static from the television prickled your forehead as you rewound the tape, fussing with the buttons on the VHS player seated on the shelf below it. The screen fizzled grey as as your fourth period class filed in, shuffling feet and relieved exclamations echoing behind you as they passed.

You could have left it alone and walked away, but you would take any excuse not to face them today. Leaning against the cart as you stared into the crackling static, that telltale scent wafted in on the air, tugging at memories of smoke rings and stage lights, filling you with equal parts dread and aching familiarity. You could see his silhouette out of the corner of your eye; tall and dark with a halo of frizz, boots heavy against the tile as he approached you. Swallowing your rising pulse, you couldn’t help but indulge for a second, shifting just enough to catch the soft pink of his smirk before his shoulder nudged yours in passing. Desks squeaked against the floor behind you, yielding to the weight of twenty students as they filled the five tidy rows. When the bell finally rang, you shut the door and mustered the courage to address them.

None of your classes were studying To Kill A Mockingbird. Irrelevant as it was to your lessons, you would excuse it to all of them by citing it as a great example of storytelling. Weak, but it was the best you could come up with on such short notice. You doubted anyone cared, they all seemed just as relieved as you were for a break from the fluorescents. 

You flicked off the lights and pressed play on the VCR. The room was bathed in white and blue as the opening credits rolled, and you took your place behind the big desk. Propping your head wearily against your hand, you stared down at the sea of white below you. Eyes unfocused, black ink and graphite chicken scratch blurred together as a different film played out behind them. 

The set was dramatically lit; a spotlight of interrogation that beamed down on your small chair facing Martha Higgins’ desk. The props were hyper-realistic; files she flipped through with her spindly, arthritic fingers containing your teaching license and contract for the year. The prominent lines on her forehead were growing increasingly severe as she considered the delivery of your inevitable punishment. 

A jungle of items framed the papers that sprawled across your real desk — the spider plant Susan had given you when the leaves were beginning to blush with oranges and reds, the stapler you’d had since college, the mug with a quill printed on it which now held your pens. You wondered what it would feel like to pack them all into a banker box in the middle of a winter afternoon. To lug it down the hallway, dodging the scorn of your former colleagues. With a heavy sigh, you buried your spinning head in your hand.

Eddie was seated as he always was, cheek pressed to his knuckles as he watched you from his corner of the room. A straight shot toward your desk in front of him, he gazed with reverence as the white light from the television bathed your one exposed cheekbone in a holy glow. Picking at the chipped veneer on the desk with his restless thumb, he recounted the feeling of it in his hands. The angle of your jaw, the notch where it met below your ear, the soft skin of your throat that hummed beneath the pads of his frozen digits, warming them to life with every swell and swallow as his mouth enveloped yours. He’d played it over and over the whole drive home, every moment since he’d opened his eyes this morning, convincing himself with every replay that it wasn’t a dream. 

He’d gotten a taste. Not enough to satisfy him — the opposite really. Like first bites often did, it only brought awareness to his hunger. The light played softly on your stiffened jaw. How he ached soothe it with his lips again, to feel the hard bone under supple skin, to hear and taste your sighs again; more moving than any music he’d ever heard. 

The darkness gave quiet permission for his mind to play a film of its own. In this one, the room would be the same. Just as dark but empty, save for you and him. He would scale the isle in five swift steps. Lifting your worried chin with his knuckle, he would draw you to the fullness of your height, capture your body in his arms and pull you into a searing kiss. He knew what it felt like now, and that only fueled his wild imagination. He knew you’d melt like putty, let him be the only thing holding you together, keeping you from falling to the floor with the strength of his arms around your soft cotton waist. 

He had memorized the shape of your lips, how slick with hunger they were as they slipped against his. Your hums would be quiet here, timid and shy as you glanced over his shoulder toward the door with worried eyes. On this set there were no real hallways, no extras making noise or slamming lockers. Nothing in the script suggesting an interruption, only the pretend risk that made a thrill rise in him like the tent in his jeans. The way you would shyly toy with the pins on his vest, insisting that “we shouldn’t,” and “it’s just not right.”

You wouldn’t protest for long, not in this script. Not when his teeth found your neck again, dipping down below the collar of your turtleneck. It was a nuisance really, nothing but a sponge for his spit as his tongue soothed over where his teeth left off. You would be needing it later because he would leave a mark this time. Several, tasting every moan you offered as he sucked bruises onto your delicate skin. He hadn’t tasted nearly enough of you, hadn’t felt nearly as much as he’d wanted. 

Closing his eyes, he surfaced a touch-memory; the shape of you beneath your coat. He imagined the slope of your waist in his hands as it looked like today; where the cotton met the wool of your skirt, heaving against his palms as he left his sloppy trail. Impatiently, he would free you from the confines of it, tug at the cotton and greet your warm, soft flesh with his aching fingers. You, of course, would give him full permission to remove it once you felt the insistence of his touch, felt his thumb drag over the small of your back, across that dip he caught a glance of last night. 

Tugging the cloying barrier up and over your head, he would shield you from the door with his body, letting the mass of the AV cart block any eyes wandering the hall from what he was about to do next. In the soft, flickering light from the television, your chest would rise and fall, spilling over from your white lace bra as it heaved in anticipation. 

The real you sank deeper into your chair. Shoulders slumped, shielding your eyes with your knuckles as you stared blankly down into the sea of papers. There was a heat emanating from the back corner of the room, one you could feel with the crown of your head. You knew exactly where it was coming from, and from whom. Hesitant as you were to address him, it was burning too hot to ignore, boring into you with a palpable insistence. With a swift, upward glance, you faced off. 

Eddie’s lids were heavy, cheeks pinking at the sudden confrontation. He licked his lips, eyes darkening as he swallowed. You could almost feel them again, cradling yours in a phantom kiss just like they did fourteen hours ago. His mouth had been so needy. So hot and plush, tongue slipping against yours like he’d been starving. 

Eddie closed his eyes in a slow blink. When he opened them again, they were so heavy with want that it rippled from across the room, shooting straight between your legs. You’d never been kissed like that before. Kissed so hard it robbed you of your senses, of your oxygen, of your goodness. It was easy to imagine; doing it again. Especially when he was looking at you like that. 

You indulged for just a moment, joined him in the scene. Alone together in the dark, empty room. It was easy to imagine what those lips would feel like going further; sucking your collar bone, grazing it with his teeth, trailing his sopping mouth to the place where your neck meets your shoulder before his calloused thumb slipped the strap of your bra to the side. 

Wringing a hand behind your neck, you glanced toward the television with a sudden feigned interest. The feeling wouldn’t leave you though; clouding your mind with wet smacking lips and the chill of the air at your nipples. 

He knew they would be perfect. He could just tell. They would heave beneath his watering mouth, puckered and primed for him to latch. Capturing one of them in his wet heat, you would melt into his waiting arms. Back arched, mewling so needy and loud it would cause the door to open if the scene was real. He was certain he’d be able to taste your hums through your skin here too. Even better perhaps.

Eddie shifted in his seat with a mild grimace, hand darting beneath his desk in time with a swift raise of his hips as chair legs scraped the tile. He glanced at his lap, then back up at you. 

Your face became a roaring furnace, paling only to the heat pooling under you. The pale television light flickered across his flushed cheeks, his lowered brow, his smoldering eyes that held you captive. He wanted you to know. Indulging, you imagined what was going on under that desk. What it would look like if he were to stand, to scale the room in a few eager strides and show you up close. 

“Need you now, Eddie,” you’d croon with a swipe of your hand up the generous bulge he was sporting, punctuating it with a pinch of his weeping head through the denim.

Eddie took his cue. In one dramatic swoop, the papers fluttered to the floor, the plant made a mess of the tile, the stapler clattered beside your shattered mug as pens rolled down the isles. Backing you into the edge of the big desk, he kissed you again. Hot and slick, body flush with yours, pressing his need against your pelvis as he probed your aching mouth. Parting only to shed himself of his outer layer, to lay it down behind you like a blanket, shielding your bare back from the cold wood.

From the confines of his small desk across the room, real Eddie took a deep breath, lids closing heavy on the inhale, fluttering open to a pained pout on the exhale.

Seating yourself on the edge of your desk on set, you would free him from the confines of his jeans. Pawing at his belt, you would tuck your fingers beneath it and tug urgently, rattling metal and leather before working his button free. Slowly, your nimble fingers would locate and lower his zipper, and a sigh would be the second thing that escaped. 

You were an A-list actress, looking down at his proud length like you’d never seen a dick before in your whole life. The coyness with which you peered from under your lashes was thoroughly convincing. Oscar-worthy. With a timid, chalk-dusted finger, you would draw a line from base to tip, admiring the way it bobbed, the way your touch encouraged it to glisten. Real Eddie swallowed, drawing a deep, impatient breath. Convincing as you were of your innocence, he was certain those fingers would know what they were doing as they traced his ridges with a teasing curiosity.

Unable to take any more of it, his hands would find your knees; bare where the stockings left off. They would roam under your thick wool skirt, up those impossibly soft thighs and draw back the curtain as you braced yourself against the desk behind you. In this scene, of course, your costume called for nothing underneath. You would be ready for him. Back flush with his coat, legs spread, glistening with need in the pale light from the television behind him. 

Impatient as he was, he would be remiss not take this opportunity to satisfy a curiosity of his own. Crouching down to level with your sex, he would take in your scent first. Breathe in your delicious, heady pheromones, let it cloud his vision further, as if there was room for anything else other than the persistent thought of you. Eddie wondered what you tasted like. Your mouth was exquisite, so what must you taste like here? With a generous swipe of his tongue, he would find the answer. 

The real you crossed your legs tightly, as if that would stave off the throbbing between them. Real Eddie caught it, the shift in your seat, the subtle raise of your knee under your plaid skirt, the way you worried your lip with your teeth as you glanced shyly toward the papers still, unfortunately, on your desk. 

What might his tongue feel like there? The question grappled for your attention despite futile attempts to shove it away. His tongue had a certain talent, you’d noticed, as it probed against yours in the dark last night. A sense of rhythm was a hard thing to teach. His tongue would be warm, you were certain of that, saliva slick as he pressed it flatly to your heat. He would take his time, savoring every groove and fold across this new terrain as if he were committing it to memory. Propping up on your elbows against the satin liner of his coat, you would catch those deep brown eyes, peering into yours with a smoldering hunger, lower lids pinching in pleasure as he drew slowly upward.

You would paw at the crown of his head, rake your fingers through his curls and tug, feeling his approving hum against your core. Halo of frizz tickling your thighs, his tongue would lathe slow and steady, closing those plush lips over your aching bud before sucking a kiss where you needed it most.

Exhaling deeply, you toyed with a pen on your desk; pressed your thumb into the cold metal nub, studied the tension a moment before releasing. Eyes unfocused, you were helpless as the film played out behind them. Click. Click. Click. Light flickered from the TV, twenty eyes distracted and oblivious. Throbbing, you shifted in your seat and caught the scent of your own arousal. Embarrassment flooded your cheeks. Never in your life had you been so grateful to be in the dark.

Try as you might to gleam a single chaste thought from the words printed below you, there was no space in your head for it. Just Eddie, crouched over you like a preying animal, looking at you with those lust-blown eyes like he’d make you his meal. Wrapping those ringed fingers around your hips, shifting his to meet them as he stood. You could almost feel it; his cockhead pressing with insistence at your entrance. Almost feel the safety of his shadow, how his curls would kiss his cheekbones as he hovered above you, how his lids would flutter as he pushed in. That deep, relieved sigh you would both breathe together as the long ache was soothed upon joining.

It was a moving picture. 

From the back of the room, Eddie watched your face burrow into your hand; fingers splayed across your forehead and eyes, shoulders slumping on your ragged exhale. How desperately he itched to ease them with his hands, his teeth, his tongue. It was painful; his cock straining against the confines of his jeans. Silently, he thanked himself for grabbing the black pair from the pile on the chair in his bedroom this morning, certain he was leaking through by now. 

Slowly, he shifted his hips upward, relishing in the drag of the fabric against his sensitive head as it moved toward his waistband. He paused before tucking it, arching forward again with sinful fulfillment. It felt good. Too good. Good enough to do it again. The way the cotton raked against the heart-ridge of his cock, the way the stiff bend in his zipper hit that sweet spot when his hips canted forward. 

Eddie glanced around the room, flushing furiously. All eyes were forward. No one seemed to notice.  Gripping the edge of the desk, he continued to rock his hips; slow and quiet micro-movements, careful not to creak the plastic chair. The shrinking, logical part of his brain couldn’t believe he was doing this. It was a new low. Perverted, even for him. But the tension was mounting, becoming unbearable, and the relief it offered was enough to drown out the shame.

He bet you would be so tight. He could almost feel those gorgeous legs wrap around his waist, your boots crossing at the ankles behind him, drawing him closer as you whined from the stretch. He could almost see you bite your lip and knit your brows, feel your fingers dig into his strong shoulders as you adjusted to his size. He would go slow, knowing it’s been a while for you. You would clench and arch but take him so well as he inched his way to the hilt. Then, bracing against the wood, he would happily give you what you needed — jack hammer hard, rutting like an animal in heat. You would be sinfully wet. He bet you were right now, sitting up there with your legs crossed and head down. Pity it would go to waste. If he had it his way it would be dripping onto the desk, slicking his balls as those pretty, perfect tits of yours bounced with every snap of his hips. 

The fabric was hitting him just right, scratching that itch with each flex of his cock against the dampened cotton. It was a slow mount, subtle and teasing, but it was enough. Anything would have been enough. A breeze. Eyes closed, forehead hung on the heel of his hand in feigned boredom, he imagined it what you would feel like under his thumb; rubbing that little button of yours that made you squirm and moan so deeply he could feel it from the inside. 

The hardest part was steadying his breath. He supposed he couldn’t fault his body, it was just doing what was natural in a place he shouldn’t be doing it. He couldn’t fault his heart for hammering, or his hips from wanting to buck, or his hands for itching to expedite the relief. What he would give to crank the volume on the television, to draw a curtain and just get it over with. God forbid you wisened up to his antics, although the thought did send a jolt to his dick. He knew he should stop before he did something utterly shameful, but the spot he was hitting was just too sweet, a feeling he was helpless but to chase.

He would give you everything you ever wanted. With gritted teeth he would ream you until you came undone, make that pretty face of yours contort over and over as you writhed against the desk, howling his name into the drop ceiling. The slap of skin on skin would echo off the tile until he’d rendered you utterly stupid, which was difficult to do.

“You want it, huh?” he’d huff into your ear, peppered with nip of your lobe. “Want me? Want my cum?”

Tugging the hair at the nape of his neck, you’d mewl your answer. “Yes. Please.”

Slumping forward in his desk, Eddie buried his head in the crook of his arm. Fuck. His boots dug into the tile, thighs straining, lip pinched in his teeth, desperate to restrain the bucking of his hips. There was an animal inside him, tugging like a rubber band waiting to snap. His aching balls begged as they drew upward, cockhead so sensitive it could feel every stitch. Eddie burrowed his nose into the desk, both chasing the feeling and running from it.

He would show you how much of a man he was, paint you with proof on the inside. Remind you as it slicked your thighs with every click of your boots down the hall.

Huffing into the dark cocoon, his free hand gripped the metal legs below him, holding on for dear life as the wave approached its crest. Hips stuttering, breath fogging the desk, he hit the wall. The one that made his mind go blank, his eyes roll back, his whole body tense and tingle like a yawn. 

It came out like a whimper. Warmer and wetter with each pathetic spurt. A small, strangled sound threatened the back of his throat. It tried to escape his gaping, downturned mouth, but he choked it back. It was a relief to get it out, like a dirty confession. Wave after hot, thick wave of frustration pooled in his boxers, clung to his balls as he emptied them completely. When the last of it crested with nothing more to give, his hips rocked to stillness, and the rest of his body went limp. 

He looked like a puddle of leather and hair. Squinting as you peered around the student in front of him, you wondered why his back was heaving like he had been running. 

Eddie peeled his face up from the desk; cheeks flushed, mouth slack, looking at you in a way you could only describe as absolutely fucked-out. A stray ringlet swayed in his ragged breath. There was that feeling again, that pulse between your legs that made you clench them. Quickly as he’d met your eyes, he blinked away as if it burned.

Eddie was a mess. Shifting in his seat with a grimace, he could feel the cotton cling to his skin as he sobered to the chalkboard, and the desks, and the twenty other people he prayed were oblivious to what he’d just done. It was like he was waking up from a wet dream, only he had never gone to sleep. He blinked down at his desk, mortified as his cock softened happily, lolling in its sticky puddle. It was seeping through the denim, cooling in his lap as the seconds ticked by. Glancing at the clock, he calculated another twenty minutes before he could clean it up. Twenty whole minutes to sit with the consequences, to stew in a puddle of his own shame. He supposed he could excuse himself to the bathroom but that would, of course, mean addressing you. It would mean getting up and walking in front of your desk, and the entire class, while you handed him a hall pass like a fucking child. He would rather sit.

Blinking back your thoughts from the gutter, you righted yourself in your chair, chastising yourself as you uncrossed your legs, your own mess trailing cooly against your inner thigh. It was uncomfortable, embarrassing, but there was nothing you could about it now. Flipping through your Rolodex of thoughts, you searched for anything. Anything at all that was chase, or sensible, or mildly interesting. 

Looking down at your naked hands, another scene fell open. This time the set came from memory. A pawn shop in early summer. It was vivid — the rain beating against the large window framing the on-ramp of the highway, Frank Sinatra mocking from the dusty speaker in the corner. The diamond sparkled magnificently as you passed the ring over the glass countertop. Brilliant rainbow fractals brought out by certain lights. They would catch you by surprise sometimes, tickle you with delight in the supermarket or the mall. It winked at you under the fluorescents then, a fleeting goodbye. In the moment, you weren’t sure which was worse — catching your own pained reflection in the glass below you or the pity in the eyes of the man who took your once-prized possession.

You left with twelve hundred dollars in an envelope, a fraction of what it cost him. The banker box rattled in the passenger’s seat as you slammed the door. Stuffed too full for a lid, your quill mug clattered against the plates your grandma gave you. You’d run out of newspaper wrapping your knick-knacks, resorted to your clothes to pad the rest.

The mug cast a shadow across your desk now, flickering in the light of the television. 

You clenched your fists, fighting the touch-memory of Eddie’s ribs under your palms. You’d felt safe for a moment; nestled in his coat, in his hair, melting into the heat of his mouth. What you would give to live it all again, right now. What you would give to have him all to yourself, every day. For the luxury to go on a date, to be seen in public together, to explore where this was going. Glancing across the sea of twenty desks, reality stared back. Where did you think this was going? 

Eddie’s pencil clattered to the floor. His curse was audible, even from the front of the room. Was this where you would place your trust? Your career, your future? In the reckless hands of a twenty year old man? He could ruin you. With a bold move, or a misplaced word, or a drunken gloat one night with his friends. Or god forbid it all went south and in a blind fury he lashed out and retaliated somehow. He wouldn’t do that, would he? You thought you knew him well enough to know that he would never, but did you really? You’d known Eddie Munson for all of four months, which felt strange to consider. It terrified you, the depth of your feelings in so short a time. Terrified you almost as much as the consequences for them. 

Your hand twitched beside the green grading pen resting on the pile of tests you’d barely touched in the last thirty minutes. There were more in your bag to be graded — the stack you’d abandoned on your coffee table last night. It would all catch up to you eventually. The homework, the papers, the secrets. After all you’d been through, had you learned nothing? No one really knows what they want at twenty years old. You certainly didn’t. A head full of fantasies is what you had. Snatching your pen with a firm click, you slashed an X through one of the questions on the test below you and buried yourself in your work.

When the bell finally rang, Eddie hung back in his seat like he always did, waiting for his moment with you. But by the time he had stripped himself of his jacket and secured his flannel around his waist, you had already made for the door.

______

The metal serving spoon smacked the plastic tray, leaving behind a glob of tomato sauce over the tangle of limp noodles. With a tight-lipped nod of thanks, Eddie took it from the lunch lady and made his way into the settled cafeteria, finding his place at the end of the Hellfire table. Steamed carrots bounced from the tray onto the sticky veneer as it fell from his hands with a clatter. Slugging off his backpack to the floor, he slumped into the empty chair that had been waiting patiently for him for the past twenty minutes. 

“There he is,” Jeff nodded to Dustin across the table.

“What’s the story this time? Got abducted by aliens?” chortled Dave.

He would think they would stop asking questions by now, but apparently he needed to teach them a lesson. “Nah, just… jerking off,” Eddie said with a deadpan shake of his head before spearing a meatball with his fork.

The half-truth earned him a rowdy chuckle from the peanut gallery, a gag from Mike. He would spare them the uglier details, like the balled up boxers shoved in the bottom of his backpack or how awkward it was to strip them off in the stall of a bustling bathroom. Glancing down at his lap, he checked that the flannel was still cloaking the drying white stain. 

Jeff’s leather jacket squeaked from the bend in his arm as he leaned against the table. “I was just filling the boys in on the show last night,” he said with a glint in his eyes.

Eddie looked up with a full mouth, eyes like saucers. 

“Yeah, told them about our special guest,” Dave added with a raise of his eyebrows.

He could only respond with a nervous huff, turning back to his tray as his stomach did kick flips. 

“Is it true?” Mike asked Eddie. “She seriously got up and danced?”

Eddie swallowed the whole mouthful at once. He couldn’t lie his way out of this one. “I mean, nothing too crazy. Just for a song.”

“Yeah a song Eddie made us play for her,” Jeff said with a wink. Dustin and Mike’s mouthes fell open simultaneously.

“Think I saw her tits at one point,” Dave reminisced. 

Eddie scoffed. “You did not see her tits, dude. You’re so full of shit.”

“I dunno man, her shirt was pretty short,” Gareth added with a playful nudge. 

“They’re both full of shit,” Eddie shakily assured to the two youngest members. 

They barely paid him a glance, chuckling amongst the rest while Dave rubbed lewd circles over his chest. 

“HEY,” Eddie barked. “Look at me, all of you. This doesn’t leave this table, do you understand me? If I catch wind that any of you went and told anyone about last night I’ll skin you alive, I swear to god.”

Gareth shot him a tired look. “Jesus, dude. Nothing even happened.”

The knot in Eddie’s stomach released slightly. “That’s right. Nothing happened.”

Dave snorted, stabbing his bendy straw into a leftover carrot. “Yeah man, chill out. Nobody’s gonna get your girlfriend in trouble.” 

The blood drained from Eddie’s face as the whole gang erupted in laughter. The uproarious, table slapping kind. It was a joke. A good one, it seemed. The word echoed like the pulse pounding in his ears. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. A warm, gooey word. One that made his stomach churn with longing. Biting back venom, he wondered how their faces would change if he slapped them with the truth. Would they still be laughing? Would they even believe him? They could laugh all they want—for your sake at least—but it stung nonetheless. 

Dave caught the bitter shift in his expression. “What? You clearly have the hots for her.”

“Who doesn’t?” Jeff laughed.

“ANYWAY!” Eddie punctuated with a smack of his hands against the table. “Gareth, you’ve been awfully quiet about your date this past Sunday. Please, regale us,” he gestured grandly.

Gareth chuckled nervously, pushing a noodle around with his fork. “Oh uh, nothing really happened there either.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “Seriously dude? You’ve been on like three dates and you haven’t even made it to first base?”

“I told you, Cindy’s not like that!” Gareth defended before glancing around sheepishly. “But we did…kinda… hold hands on Sunday.” 

A long oooh emanated from the table. “Hands cupped or laced?” Dustin asked with a raise of his eyebrows, demonstrating with his own hands.

“Ok so,” Gareth began with an emerging smirk, “you know the Large Marge part of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure where her face goes all,” he demonstrated with a bug-eyed look, hands splayed on either side of his face. 

The table responded with chuckles and nods. “Gets me every time,” muttered Dustin.

“Well, Cindy’d never seen it before, so she jumped and like, grabbed my arm,” he paused for effect, “so I just went for it.”

Approval bubbled up from his captive audience. 

“Cupped at first,” he clarified, cutting through the noise, “but after like ten minutes she didn’t pull away, so,” he laced his fingers triumphantly. There was a barking applause, fists rattling the table. Jeff clapped him on the back with a blinding grin. 

Eddie was an island. Oceans away, he managed a soft smile. His night had been far from innocent — a frantic tangle of hands, and tongues, and teeth in the frigid darkness. Phantom feelings that tugged at his lips and fingers, at the forefront of his every thought. Thumbing at the rubber rim of the lunch table, he dreamt of a universe where the walls and roles fell away, one where he could speak of his firsts too. 

______

Eddie had been watching the clock all day. In eighth period trigonometry he watched second hand crawl around the clock face fifty times as his thumbnail worked the paint off a pencil, chipping at the indents his teeth left behind. The final bell was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. Slugging his backpack over his shoulder, he didn’t even bother to stop at his locker before ducking down the hall where your room resided. He almost collided with a straggling sophomore exiting your door on his way in. 

Perhaps he had arrived too early. It wasn’t the scene he was accustomed to — you, standing at your desk, shoving folders into your satchel like you were trying to make a run for it. His small wooden chair still leaned against the wall. The AV cart still towered where it was when the lights were off. Glancing down, he quickly checked to make sure the flannel was draping correctly. 

“Going somewhere?” he teased, unable to hide the concern creeping in.

Your smile was a coy, fragile thing. Chest rising with the kicking of your heart, you opened your mouth but had no words to show for it. Fumbling with an overstuffed folder, you hovered it over the opening of your bag before sliding it in with a sigh.

Eddie shut the door. 

Turning over his shoulder, he snatched your eyes with a startling hunger. Your hands went slack, leather slumping against the desk as his heavy boots met the tile. He was slow in his approach, stalking past the empty rows, parched eyes drinking in every detail of your features. Like a moth drawn to a flame, you met him at the edge of your desk.

His curls were wild, chocolate eyes fiending, a soft concern weighing his brow. Under the fluorescents you could see very clearly what you’d felt last night. The shadow of stubble, the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft ball of his nose that was cold against your cheek. Under his jacket, the taught landscape of his chest rose and fell. You swallowed, toying with the wool of your skirt. 

“Hey,” he half-whispered, lids drooping ever so slightly. 

“Hey,” you replied, like your tongue was feeling the word for the first time. It tugged a gooey softness from the corners of his mouth, and you cursed yourself for the pang to taste it again. So plush and pink, drawing your gaze long enough for him to notice. 

Eddie dropped his backpack to the floor, tossing it hard enough to collide with the wall below the chalkboard. Shoulders unburdened, he rolled them back to assume the fullness of his height. With pupils blown, he darted out his tongue to wet his lips, looming like a wolf that sees a rabbit. 

He closed in with a step, to which you retreated. The edge of the desk bumped the back of your thighs. Heart hammering, you peered into his hungry eyes. You’d been here before. Not long ago, in your imagination. Different, darker, quieter. 

Eddie drank in the sight of you — your tight cotton shirt and your soft heaving chest. How the band of your skirt hugged the curve of your waist. You, woman.  

Like a false sense of safety, his scent enveloped you. It was dizzying, how badly your hands burned to trace the swell of his pecks, to tangle in his hair, to capture his hot, slick mouth again. Terrifying, the part of you that begged for him to press forward, to tumble you backward, to take his place on top of you. Timidly, your fingers curled over the corner of the desk. 

As he leaned closer, you could feel the tingle of heat from his chest, the ghost of his breath on your face. His arm became a cage as he steadied his palm against the wood behind you. “Been thinking about you all day,” he murmured in your ear. 

You shivered, lids fluttering closed for a selfish, greedy moment. Glancing over his shoulder at the narrow sliver of a window in the door, you peered at the lockers on the other side of the hall. There were some still slamming, slowly petering out as voices drifted further with each passing second. “Eddie,” you warned, placing a hand over his sternum. Eyes dipping slightly at your touch, the solid swell of his chest expanded under the cotton. He stepped back with a gentle push, your palm lingering before falling away. 

A deep breath fumed through his nostrils, heavy and tired. With a tight lipped nod, he backed away, pivoting toward his folded chair beside the door. It screeched as he dragged it across the tile, past the rows of desks, in front of yours, all the way to his usual place beside you. He snapped it open and paused, gripping the wood in his palms, staring down at the place where he’d sat countless times. How small it was compared to yours; padded with armrests and wheels. 

“So we just…” he flexed his fingers and shook his head, unable to suppress the sting in his voice, “go back to normal then?”

Eyes cast down at the empty seats, you sighed. “I don’t… think we can.”

“Good,” he stated, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Come on, let’s sit down.”

It was enticing, that chair with its worn leather padding. What was more enticing was the space beneath the desk; a safe haven for hands and arms, for cupped palms and laced fingers. On top of the desk lay your bag, and your keys, and the plant still alive in its unbroken pot. Your head was pounding; a dull ache that had been radiating from your temples since lunch. Lockers slammed outside the room, fluorescents hot on your skin. With a deep, lamenting sigh, you gave him all you could manage — your honesty. “It’s been… a hell of a day for me—”

“You could say that again.”

“I—” you sighed sharply, “I really think I just need to go home a-and… think things through.”

“What’s there to think about?” The words tumbled out like an avalanche he couldn’t chase. Your balking expression made him wish he could suck them all back.

“Oh gee, I don’t know,” you gestured wildly to the classroom, “we could start with my job.”

“I’m sorry that was—y-you know what I mean.”

“Do I?” The steam from the pressure could have burned him.

“We—we both clearly have feelings for each other,” he explained, lowering his voice. “I just… thought we would figure it out.”

There was a gap between you, cluttered with papers and pens. Your bag slumped in the middle of the mess, gaping and stuffed to the brim. Pulse hammering behind your eyes, you blinked them slowly with a pained sigh. “I know,” you admitted, toying with the strap. “Eddie, please, I need some time to think about all this.” 

It hurt to imagine. You, going home, sitting there in your slippers at your coffee table and deciding that he wasn’t worth the risk. Closing the flap on your satchel, you tugged the leather heap across the desk, but Eddie’s hand was quick to pounce. “No, we need to talk.” 

Frustration pinched your brow. “I know but—”

“Then let’s talk, yeah?” he gestured to the chairs.

A cluster of shadows passed by the window over your shoulder. “Not here, not right now.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Then let’s get out of here.”

“And go where? A table at Benny’s?” you snapped.

“You’ve got a place, right?”

Folding your arms, you shot him an incredulous look, though the thought was both thrilling and terrifying. You lowered your voice. “What happened last night was… impulsive.”

“I’d say it was a long time coming.”

You sighed. “Regardless, I think that’s enough for this week.”

Eddie would disagree, but his tongue had a wrangle on the words this time. In the pause, it was easy for both of you to picture; his clothes on your bedroom floor. Easy to picture the ways he could ruin you in private — fold you like the chair under his wringing palms. Still, the ways he could ruin you in public were equally vivid. 

You turned to grab your coat, brushing past him. The arm of his jacket was smooth against yours. Electrified by the contact, you lingered for a moment, unable to abstain from drinking in his form, his scent, from basking in the prickle of his aura. 

He could see it clearly in the harsh light — the shadow that clung beneath your lower lashes, the sagging exhaustion in your eyes. Gravity tugged at the corners of your natural lips, so different from how they appeared last night — dark and dusty red, framing a smile that outshined the moon. His fingers twisted against the wood. “Please stay,” he begged softly. 

Your eyes drifted shut, a split-second relish in the sweet pang of his voice, though the words rung a different bell; a different man saying them. In a flash, another scene appeared — you, at the door of your old home in Indianapolis, cradling the last of your belongings as your free hand gripped the knob. 

Opening your eyes to the radiator, and the windows, and the pale grey sky before you now, you relinquished a shaky sigh and tucked your fingers under the thick collar of your coat. It still held a subtle fragrance, clinging to the memory of last night, desperately as you were. Eddie watched with rapt attention as your brow pinched in pain, fingers twitching under the wool he’d memorized the shape of you through. When your lip began to tremble, his hand lost control. 

“Hey,” he whispered, meeting the soft cotton slope of your shoulder with his palm. 

Your head snapped toward his umber eyes; warmer than the hand that thawed your shoulder, callus catching on the cotton as his thumb soothed over it. You followed it down to his wrist, to the tendons flexing beneath the chain, dipping under the sleeve of his worn, leather coat. How desperately you longed to wrap yourself inside it again, to nestle into his beating chest and hide there forever. 

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker, and reflex had you flinching. “I’m sorry,” you mouthed, tears burning behind your eyes as you snatched your coat off the hook.

Bitterly, he dropped his hand. The contact hurt to break, almost as much as it hurt to watch you don your coat, to snatch your bag, to sling the heavy strap over your shoulder. Helplessly, he stood there, feeling like a fool until the welling of your eyes made it unbearable not to advance. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he pleaded. “Like—like a big deal. Not if we don’t make it one.”

You froze, eyes narrowing as a pained fume left your nose. “That’s easy for you to say.” With a bitter huff, you turned on your heel and left him in the classroom with only the echo of your footsteps. 

______

A/N: Yes, in my story Principal Higgins is a woman. I know in canon Eddie says “flip him the bird,” but for some reason my brain didn’t register that until literally two months ago. I always pictured Higgins as a stern, ancient, nun-like woman and I can’t seem to shake that characterization from my brain. Perhaps I’m just scarred from Catholic grade school. I think it works well for this story, so Martha Higgins it is. 

Also sorry I never stated this in the tags but the upside down does not exist in this universe.

The smut is coming very soon. Pinky swear. Our Lady of Internal Conflict is just having a moment. 

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @storiesbyrhi @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @mrsjellymunson @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

______

MASTERLIST ⎮ AO3 ⎮ KO-FI

[the-white-void]

I miss Home.

Synopsis: You miss someone special to you, someone very special to you. But, you don't have any memories of them to fill the emptiness you feel, only a void of the love you have for them. And the fact that Teyvat stole you from your world did not make the process of healing any better.

Warning: mentions of death, loss of someone close (not specified), depression (maybe), and isolation (I think), spoilers for the Natlan story quest.

You hear the news. They're gone. But tears did not fall nor did the thought cross your mind that someone you held dear to your heart, at least you know you once held close to your heart, has passed. Only then you see them lying inside the coffin did your heart begin to swell, tears running down your cheeks, and your heart cracking as the emotions of the time when you were once together begin to clench your heart.

You could only walk up to the coffin and whisper the regrets you had at your actions of forgetting and not cherishing the time you had together, leading to a crumbling and empty heart in your chest that was once their home.

You enter their room, even with their things stacked and toppling in their room, it never felt more bare. You could only rest on the foot of their bed as you try to wipe away the tears still running down your face, betraying the last bit of phlegmatic expression you had as wails of sorrow coat around you while mumbling small and meaningless apologies since it was too late until the silence overwhelms you enough for you to doze off.

As the sun peaks through the fluttering shade, flickering against your face, you could see the bright blue sky with faint clouds scattered across, and the floor felt warm and dusty. You rise from the ground and notice the place was no longer the room you fell asleep in, but an open landscape of bronze cliffs painted in colour bright.

"... where..."

Your voice but a mere murmur as the winds gusts though your hair. Your eyes were puffy from crying, the weight you feel chaining you to the ground, threatening to drag you into despair.

As you drop your knees to the ground, ignoring the mysterious change of landscape, a pair of footsteps start to draw near, yet you still shun it away, numb from the loss and emptiness from inside.

"Hello. Are you okay?" A young voice spoke to you, her tone soft and kind, making you turn to see who was talking.

As your gaze landed on the person behind the voice that spoke to you, your eyes widened to see a young girl you knew from a game known a Genshin Impact.

"... Kachina?" You whisper as you stood up in your feet to see the girl closer. You hand caressing her cheeks as your eyes scanned her from top to bottom. "What are you..."

As your voice trailed off, Kachina got a good look as you were eyeing her, but your puffy eyes and weak moves are what caught her attention. "...! Excuse me, but, you're not looking very well, would you like some water? Or some cookies?" The young child offers as she sat you down in her attempt to help.

The young girl then takes a handful of treats from her bag as well as a small mashak of water, offering to you with her brows furrowed and lips pursed from concern. "Please, take them."

She then leads you to a nearby tree for some shade against the heat of the sun. "What happened? Why are you here all alone? It's dangerous out here without any protection."

You only gave Kachina a small smile as you gently patted her head while she was talking. "It's nice to meet you... Kachina."

The girl's eyes widened for a split second after you said her name, it felt warm and... homey. "... I... How did you know my name?"

"... You're adorable... Kachina." You mumbled before pulling your hand back down, your gaze also faltering to the ground.

"...? What do you mean?" The young blonde asks as she tilts her head from your words, they are sudden and amiss. But looking at the person before her, their tired and puffy eyes, clear from crying themselves to sleep, and hoarse voice was clear that something happened to them.

"... It's nothing." You brush off as you look down on your lap where all the snacks and water the young blonde gave to you and start taking a bit out of one of the cookies. "Thank you for the food."

While you were eating your cookie, there was only silence between you and the young Kachina, accompanied with some noises from the tepetlisaurus nearby, and the soft rustle of the leaves in the tree.

After a long while of you eating then finally finishing your cookie, you take a sip of the water Kachina gave you before looking back at the girl herself. "Say... did something... big in Natlan happen recently?"

The unexpected question made the girl poo her head up, not thinking the mysterious person next to them would ask something like that after the odd interaction just before.

"Oh! Yes, there was a war against the abyss not too long ago. We suffered many losses, but we won, so, those who couldn't be saved by the Ode of Resurrection weren't in vain." The young girl exclaimed with a bright smile, but held a tinge melancholy, as she knew that there were many that could've survived, especially those she knew.

"... Did you also lose someone you knew?"

"I... I did..."

You then heave a small sigh as you turn back to the girl, remembering that your choices had affected the outcome of the war greatly, feeling somewhat responsible for the lives of Kachina's friends.

"... I hope you spent a lot of time with them, and made many memories for you to cherish."

Your words had hit the girl as she suddenly recalled the time she spent with her late friends. "... Oh... I- I did..."

Placing the cookies on a rock close to your side, you then sat on your knees as you held Kachina's hand with your eyes locked towards each other, your gaze kind and warm, yet flooded with sorrow.

"Kachina. Keep those memories close to your heart." You whisper softly as you guided the girl's hands to her chest. "Keep them close, and never let go. Think of them as a reminder that their memories, their existence wasn't just a fleeting moment, but an impact to many many people. Alright?"

"... Don't be like me..." You breathed softly as your hand wavered before falling down back to your lap. "Don't be a fool and believe memories can just be remade... you might never have that chance..."

[httpsdana]

19 from comfort from your prompt list with gavi about her scars on her body???

Faded Lines~Pablo Gavi

・❥・prompt list

・❥・masterlist -> part 2

・❥・who I write for

⚠ tw: mentions of scars and self-harm ⚠

19. “You don’t have to hide anything from me. I want to know every part of you.”

The soft afternoon glow filtered through the drapes as y/n pulled her shirt over her head, the familiar fabric of her comfortable clothes settling against her skin.

She had been looking forward to a quiet night with Gavi—no plans, no interruptions, just the two of them. But as she stood in front of the mirror, her stomach tightened. She glanced down at the scarred skin of her abdomen, the old, jagged lines that ran across her stomach. They were a part of her, but they were also a reminder of things she’d rather forget.

The scars were numerous, each one carrying its own painful story. Some faded, others still dark against her skin, but none of them could be erased. They weren’t the kind of thing she liked to talk about. They were the remnants of a past she wanted to leave behind—a time when she felt out of control, when she used to hurt herself in silence, trying to numb the emotional pain with physical ones. She had made a lot of mistakes back then, and these scars were the physical evidence of a version of herself that she didn’t want anyone to know.

She hadn't realized Gavi had come into the room while she was lost in thought, adjusting the hem of her shirt. But then she felt his presence behind her—his gaze, gentle yet intense, focused on her.

“Mi amor,” he said softly, his voice full of concern. “Are you okay?”

y/n stiffened, suddenly aware that he had seen her pause, her fingers still resting near her stomach. A quick, panicked glance over her shoulder told her that, despite her best efforts to pull her shirt low, Gavi had already noticed.

Her heart raced. “I’m fine,” she lied, trying to turn away from him, to cover the scars. She didn’t want him to see them, not like this, not before she had the chance to explain. But Pablo was too quick, stepping forward and gently lifting her hand away from her stomach.

“No, no,” he whispered, his fingers brushing over her waist. “I saw. What’s this?”

y/n felt the tears welling up before she could stop them. His touch, so tender, was already starting to unravel the walls she had built up to protect herself. She shook her head, her voice tight with fear. “You don’t need to see this.”

“Why?” he asked quietly, taking another step closer, his eyes soft but filled with a quiet intensity. “Why do you think you need to hide it?”

“I…” she swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump in her throat. “I don’t want you to see me like this. It’s… it’s not something I want anyone to know about. It’s from… a time in my life I’d rather forget.”

Pablo’s expression softened, his hands moving to cup her face. “You don’t have to hide it from me. You don’t have to be ashamed of it.”

She pulled back slightly, trying to create distance, but it was clear that Gavi wasn’t going to let her hide from him. He reached down, gently lifting the edge of her shirt, his eyes focused on the scars as they were finally revealed.

They weren’t just one or two; they were scattered across her abdomen in a patchwork of old, faded lines. She felt exposed in a way she hadn’t in years, but as his gaze lingered over them, she couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. There was no judgment in his eyes, just tenderness.

“I’ve been hurt before too,” he said softly, his fingers grazing over the lines of her scars with a gentle touch. “But these? These don’t make you broken. They don’t make you less than anyone else. They’re a part of your story, mi amor.”

y/n felt a tremble in her chest at the way he spoke, his voice steady, filled with understanding. His words were exactly what she needed to hear, but the vulnerability still made her feel small.

“I don’t want you to see me as damaged,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Pablo lifted his hand to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “I see you as perfect,” he said firmly, his eyes locking onto hers. “Every part of you. The parts you think are broken and the parts you think are beautiful. You are perfect to me. I’ll never see you as damaged. These scars, they don’t define you.”

Tears filled her eyes, and before she could stop them, they began to fall, her breath hitching as he gently wiped them away with his thumb. His touch was so warm, so soothing, and it was enough to make her feel like she wasn’t carrying this burden alone anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, ashamed of the tears she couldn’t hold back. “I’ve been hiding this from everyone. I’ve been hiding from you.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I want to know all of you, all of you. The scars, the fears, the past. I want to love every part of you. And I will.”

He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering for a moment, and then he hugged her tightly, as if trying to show her that her past didn’t matter to him. Only the present did.

“I love you,” he murmured. “And I love you like this. You don’t have to hide anything from me. I want to know every part of you.”

y/n clung to him tightly, the weight of years of hiding and pretending slowly starting to lift. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that she didn’t have to be ashamed of what had happened in the past. She didn’t have to be perfect. All Pablo cared about was loving her—all of her.

[ruiniel]

What You Choose

Fandom: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba

Pairing: Rengoku Kyojuro x f!reader

Count: 2K

Rating: T (M later)

On AO3

Summary: I recently watched/read KNY and have emotions. Likely done before, but wanted to get this out of my system so wrote it down. Rengoku survives the fight with Akaza, but some battles are not so straightforward.

Tags & Warnings: Rengoku lives AU, multichapter, blood, injury, pining, angst, second person POV, demon slayer!reader, tsuguko!reader, alternating POV, Oblivious Rengoku Kyojuro, for a while at least, Death, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut

All characters depicted are 18+

I.

Everything fades. His body is going numb, his vision blurs as he stares down at his reflection in the dark pool of his own blood, unable to lift his head. The cries of grief surrounding him become dim and scatter like dying leaves from his consciousness.  

I've done my duty, I've given my all.

The last he remembers is a small, clawed hand and a sudden, blooming flame bursting through his shattered torso, scalding him from within in ways his own fire never could. 

I see... So this is what it feels like… to burn. 

The balmy weather outside has no effect on you, seated at the side of the infirmary bed, your head in your hands. 

“Perhaps you should go and rest. There’s been no change, and we’ll be sure to inform you of any developments.” 

Aoi’s words are void of their usual sternness. You’ve heard them before, and yet—

“I’m fine, I really am.” You gaze back at the prone figure lying motionless beneath crisp white sheets. His gold and crimson hair is messy, and you’ve never seen him so pale, his features so sunken. The bandage covering his left eye is stained red in places, the usually smiling lips dry and bloodless.

Aoi sighs but says nothing else, and soon her departing steps echo against the walls.

I can’t. I can’t leave his side. You wish your thought could reach him, down to whatever place he’s struggling in now. You ball your hands into fists over your knees, a poor attempt at holding your composure. Please, come back. Please.

Weeks have passed since the mission on the train, since your group has returned with wounded bodies and spirits, though none in such a critical state as your mentor. Rengoku Kyojuro has not awakened since, and in contrast, since the nightmares the demon has placed upon you in that baleful encounter, you’ve not been able to sleep more than two to three hours every night. Every time, waking up in a sweat, the memory of what happened always the last image you remember. 

“How is he today?”

You’re drawn from your thought by the gentle voice of the person you feel like you owe a life of debt to, and turn to gaze into the tired, worried eyes of Tanjiro Kamado. He stands by the bed now, glancing down at the Hashira. The slow rise and fall of his chest is the only sign that he is still alive. 

You shake your head as Tanjiro takes a seat. “How is rehabilitation training going?” 

Tanjiro smiles, still staring at the bed and its unresponsive occupant. “Almost done, I feel my strength returning to what it used to be and more. I admire how well you’ve upheld yourself, though,” he murmurs. 

It’s true, for some reason, you’ve been the least scathed of them all, needing much less medical care than the rest. No, you know the reason why. “It’s because of him,” your words escape you. “If… if he hadn’t trained me as he did, if he hadn’t driven me so far beyond my limits, I don’t know if I would have survived for as long as I have in my role.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard. They say Lord Rengoku’s methods are… harsh to say the least.”

A smile tugs at your lips as a known pain pricks your heart. “But… but I’ve been remiss in thanking you, young Kamado—or rather, your sister. If she hadn’t…”  Your throat tightens; you don’t want to break down, not here, not before Tanjiro and not before him, no matter he can’t hear it. 

“Please, please don’t worry, it was a stroke of luck and quick thinking on her part, I only brought the box closer—”

“... she healed him! I saw the flames engulfing him, I saw the wound close. I don’t know how she did it but… Nezuko is someone... very special.”

Tanjiro lowers his head in humble acknowledgement. “I will tell her.” Then, as though remembering something, he reaches into his pocket and hands you a small bag. “Here, I’ve not seen you join meals very often and… well, please take them.”

You don’t have the strength to refuse, and take the bag from his hand, meeting his kind smile. “Candies…”  You thank him before placing them on the bedstand, and after a few more moments of sitting in comfortable silence, Tanjiro takes his leave. You watch him depart, endeared by his manner and honesty. He has a good soul, a strong will—perhaps the strongest you’ve known, apart from…

You stare back at your mentor, memories of the past flooding behind your eyes.

Five months prior

“Good! Again!”

You’re panting, your total concentration breathing nearly failing as you evade another deadly arc of the Third Form: Blazing Universe. 

The sun has westered and a bluish twilight sets over the lands, but your mentor still has you parrying his unwavering techniques, before making you attack using combinations of them in turn. 

“Lord—lord Rengoku—”

His blazing speed cuts your words short as your blades clash, and you stare into bright, golden-rimmed irises. He’s smiling, as usual, with a devilish spark in his eyes. There is a sudden flutter in your stomach, overriding the fatigue in your burning muscles. “Come now, don’t tell me you’re beat! You’ve come so far after only three years!” he says as you fall back, lunging for another attack the following second.

The sudden weakness you feel when you’re close to him has you confused, because it was not there before. It all began in the past year: whenever he stares at you in a certain way, whenever he touches you during training or meets your eyes, something gnaws achingly at your chest. It’s as though you need something from him, but have no idea what it is. 

“I knew it from the moment I took you on as a successor,” he says, merciless in his offensive. “If you—” Parry. Lunge. “—carry on like this—” Attack. Jump. “—you’ll reach a Hashira level of skill in no time at all!” 

You don’t have the chance to reply, though his words feel like honey coating your senses. At first, he’d been sparse and strict, keeping to instructions and nothing else. But you struggled, worked harder than you had for anything in all your life, and it seems he acknowledges this fully now. 

“Now—Ninth Form: Rengoku!” 

That means you must attack, and he must deflect. But—Ninth Form?! “I—I can’t, I’m… I’m too exhausted for the Ninth!”

He bursts forward with Unknowing Fire, forcing you to duck and curl your body, rolling away into the dust, rising on one knee. 

The Flame Hashira turns, pointing his weapon at you. “Is that what you plan on telling the demons?”

“Well, no, but—”

“At no point during a battle will you have the luxury of biding your time. If this were an actual encounter, you’d be dead.” He no longer smiles, his face turned cold, eyes glinting like molten steel.

You feel the rush of shame like fangs biting into you, fueling a horrible need to prove him wrong, to rise up to the challenge in his voice. With a hiss and a groan you grip the handle of your katana tightly, breathing and striving to light that spark in your heart. 

With a cry you speed forward, clashing with him in a desperate lunge. 

“Ha!” The smile returns as you grit your teeth. “Better!”

His face is so close to yours again, so close you feel the rush of his breath on your cheek. 

Your knees feel weak again, and you close your eyes, pushing forward in an attempt to skew his balance. 

What the hell is happening to you? 

“Faster, the fire is still weak! It must rage!” the Hashira says, grinning like a madman now, and where once you enjoyed the path of learning and reaching your full potential, now his attitude brings forth an ache that confuses you and leaves you anxious.

Even so. Your blades sing against each other as you lunge back in a high jump, landing in a lowered stance with one palm braced against the earth. Your uniform is wet on your back, and you’re closer to your breaking point than you've ever been.

But the thought of disappointing him, now that feels unbearable. So you do what you always do: you push yourself more, more, harnessing all your strength into one melting core, bathing your heart in it and firing up your veins. 

You attack.

He laughs outright. “Not bad, but—” Your swords clash, fiercer than before. “I know you can do better, and you can be faster.”

“I’m doing all I can!” you yell, at the end of your tether now. It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last. But he takes no offense, he never does, and that's one of the things you appreciate about him. “But you—you make it impossible! You always want more, even if you know I’m not ready for it!”

It must be the fire rushing through you that has you speaking this way, daring to say such words despite knowing full well what you were in for, when you accepted to become his successor. 

“Wait until you’re ready, and you will never improve!” the Flame Hashira throws back.

A growl leaves your throat as you fall back then speed towards him again, trying the Second then the Third form in succession sloppily but you’re past caring. 

Your arms feel as though they will tear and your bones might splinter as you crash against his unwavering stance, and you meet his scarlet-gold gaze as he speaks softly, his voice imbued with warmth: “You can surpass the impossible. I believe in you.” 

Your eyes widen, that damned ache ringing through your body like a weakening poison and—

For one split second, your stance weakens, and you’re thrown back, losing your balance and falling heavily onto the ground. 

Rengoku stares down at you, tilting his head to the side with a strange look on his face as he sheathes his katana. 

Your vision sways, your lungs might burst. You barely clutch at the helping hand extended to you, aiding you to your feet. He grasps your shoulders. “What happened there just now? Your focus melted like wax.”

“I…” You can’t look him in the eye. His hands on you diffuse heat, permeating through your clothing. It feels good. It scares you. “I don’t… know.”

“Tomorrow, again,” he says, releasing you. “Please do better. Remember we’re doing this for you, but foremost for the people.”

“Understood,” you murmur, biting back tears as you watch him walk away.

Midnight has arrived when you end your reverie, thinking about that emotion that took root in your body and spirit, growing stronger as time passed. And you never dared tell him, never dared facing it nor can you explain why. You take a deep breath, leaned with your arms folded on the edge of the bed, your forehead resting on them. You never told him, and now… 

And now with each day I’m losing hope.

Your shoulders are shaking, and your eyes sting. There is no one else here but you and him, the long chamber of empty beds the only witness to your breakdown. 

You’re so absorbed by despair, you don’t perceive the faint movement, or the hand gently placed on your head.

“... Why are you crying?”

You choke on a silent sob, blinking in shock at the low, throaty voice, broken with disuse. Slowly, you raise your head.

He's staring at you, a bleak smile on his lips, and you're utterly, incomprehensibly frozen.

“You… you’re awake?” It feels like the dumbest of questions: your body knows the truth before your mind catches up. 

“That… depends. Are you really here?” he asks in turn. 

You nod, biting on your lower lip and wiping your eyes with your sleeve. “Yes, yes I am.”

The smile wavers for a moment as he grimaces in pain. “Oh, I see. Then… it seems… you’re not rid of me yet.”

All the gods in all the world couldn’t keep the emotions flooding you at bay, and you shake your head as warm tears flow down your face. 

PART II

[crepes-suzette-373]

[Part 1]

The Totto Land plot in the "defective quadruplets AU" (explanation here). I had wanted to make it as drawings/comics, but it got very long, so this becomes a fanfic instead. Assume that everything before this point, and anything that I gloss over, happens exactly as it is in the original series.

*VS*VS*VS*VS*

Sanji blinked slowly at the high ceiling of the lab. His whole body hurt and his face stung to point of numbness. He barely registered the medics approaching, their shoes crunching on the debris scattered all over the broken floor tiles, and when the stern voice of his older sister rang out, it sounded like it was coming from worlds away through the throbbing in his head.

He let Reiju pull him up and lead him away. He never expected anything other than suffering and torment upon returning to this place called Germa, but there were moments, when he closed his eyes, that he thought he saw flashes of hope at the back of his mind.

Blink.

A child Niji was holding a dead rat in one hand and offering him a living rat with his other.

Blink.

Never mind the dead one, Niji would never touch living rats.

Blink.

Yonji was asking him if he ever tried making medicine instead of cooking. Wasn’t the only difference between them their tastes? Food is good, medicine is gross, but you have to mix stuff together to make them both.

Blink.

That’s can’t be. All Yonji ever wanted to do was beat up Sanji and call him weak.

Blink.

He was able to keep up with Ichiji in a swordsmanship bout. Ichiji still won at the end, but Sanji wasn’t immediately pummeled to the ground the moment the instructor said “begin”, and Ichiji even said he did okay.

Blink.

That had to be a dream. Ichiji had always been impossibly strong, and Sanji never stood a chance against him.

*VS*VS*VS*VS*

Reiju led him to her room, and applied a face mask that hurt like hell but fixed his appearance. Only temporarily, she’d said, and he barely listened to her half-heartedly scolding him for returning.

“Reiju,” he interrupted, “Tell me, were there ever times—you know, back then—when they weren’t so…so terrible?”

There was silence, and it was a moment before Reiju replied, simply, “Yes.”

Sanji sighed. “So it was real. I almost thought I’d dreamed that up,” he said flatly. He didn’t know what he was expecting to feel from the answer, but he still felt as hollow as before.

“They’re still like that, even now,” Reiju spoke again, “If it’s any consolation.”

It wasn’t. He was still trapped in a marriage he didn’t want, with the lives of everyone in Baratie and his very future as a cook dangling over certain doom by barely a thread. He thought of Zeff, the man whom he owed his life to. Sanji would rather endure a million beatings than allow the man, who was his father in all but blood, to die.

As if life hasn’t given him enough burden to carry, Luffy came bounding at the Germa’s cat carriage, grinning and cheerfully chattering away like usual. How Sanji wished it could be like all their previous adventures, where they could throw themselves at the enemy and fight to the very last spans of their lives. This time it was different, and no amount of desperate fighting could get them through it.

So Sanji hardened his emotions, to whatever extent it was capable of, and landed a kick on his captain. He echoed the horrid drivel that was drummed into his ears all day long, even as every word tasted like poison on his tongue, and rained flaming blows on Luffy, desperately willing the stubborn rubber man to leave. Every hit was like a blow to his own soul, and he was certain his heart shattered at the utter disgust Nami-san directed at him through her tear-filled eyes.

*VS*VS*VS*VS*

Multi coloured unwanted guests barged in on Sanji while he was preparing food for Pudding.

He said nothing and kept working, all the while anticipating the usual slew of mockery for his unroyal-like behaviour. None came, however, and the only sound came from utensils clattering and food sizzling and bubbling on the stove.

The silence made his chest tighten, and every few moments his eyes darted towards his three intruders, watching for any dangerous movements. There was still nothing. The trio had seated themselves at the small dining table in that kitchen, and were just sitting there doing nothing.

His hands began to tremble, unwittingly. He had to steady his right hand with his left to lift the pot of pasta from the burner. He drained the pasta and, as he stirred it into the sauce, he glanced back at the table. A shiver ran through his body when he saw that there was only two, now. Where did—

“I want that,” came a low voice from his other side.

“Gah!” Sanji screamed and nearly dropped his spatula.

Niji had made his way over unnoticed, and was pointing at the burger patties still cooking in the other pan. “I want two,” he spoke again.

Sanji stared. Niji stared back.

Completely bewildered, Sanji could only say, “It’s not done yet.”

“Then I want that,” Niji said, pointing at a plate of sandwiches to the side.

Still very confused, Sanji waved a “go ahead” gesture, and went back to finishing the pasta. Somehow that weird little interaction stopped his tremors and, even if he couldn’t say he was no longer tense, he was able to proceed without hiccups.

Moments later, the sandwiches were still untouched and Niji doesn’t seem to have even moved a muscle when Sanji returned from getting a plate of buns and lettuce for the burgers. Shaking his head, Sanji turned off the stove and lifted the pan of patties.

Niji looked over, then. “Is that done? I still want two,” he said. He glanced slightly at the buns and toppings on the other plate, and then added, “I don’t want the bread and green stuff. Or any gross sauce.”

“Yes, yes, now go away, you’re bothering me,” Sanji replied without thinking. His insides were already recoiling the moment the words left his mouth, and he waited for the angry expletives to come. He was surprised when Niji instead immediately returned to the table without another word and sat back down. 

There was no time to dwell on it, though. He made a quick check of the roasting meat (still a little more to go), flipped the grilled fish, and then began arranging the burgers. The best one went into the bentou box. He put the lopsided ones on a plate and the remaining patties on another. After a moment’s consideration, he ladled a portion of curry in a saucier, and placed it on the plate of meat patties alongside condiments in little soufflé cups. He brought three sets of knives and forks alongside the plates to the table.

”Whatever happened to ‘royals shouldn’t cook’?” Sanji mumbled quietly to himself as he laid down the plates.

He was heading back towards the stove, when from behind him he heard Ichiji’s voice, “You already did the cooking. The food can’t be unmade.”

Sanji hadn’t been expecting a reply, and he instinctively directed his attention to the table again. Yonji was stuffing his face with the burgers and Niji quietly eating his meat patties—Sanji couldn’t help raising an eyebrow when he saw Niji had poured on the curry. Ichiji wasn’t eating, and he just sat there looking at Sanji with his arms crossed.

Why? Why why what why what…?

A dozen formless questions spun in Sanji’s head as he and Ichiji held eye contact. Then it became too much, and Sanji almost ran back to his cooking as though in escape.

In many ways it was. Cooking was his solace, and going through the motions helped his nerves settle back down, even with the gleaming gold around his wrists serving as a reminder that one of his last few comforts could be taken away from him any time.

In the middle of placing sandwiches in the bentou box, a thought made him pause: Niji hadn’t touched those for some reason. He glanced at the table, and saw that Niji had finished his portion and was just sitting idly again. Sanji looked down at the sandwich plate, then at the empty plate on the table, and it suddenly dawned on him that Niji didn’t take the sandwiches earlier because he had been waiting to be served like the stupid spoiled prince that he was.

Sanji could only huff. “I give up, this is crazy.”

*VS*VS*VS*VS*

It wasn’t until the bentou box was packed and ready that Sanji realized that what he had been making was the typical menu for the crew aboard the Sunny. Between the unwelcome presence of certain individuals—who all still haven’t left yet—and his jumbled emotions, he hadn’t been thinking as clearly as he should be while cooking. In fact, come to think of it, he probably hadn’t even been thinking at all, and was only moving out of pure instincts.

Even though he didn’t prepare the meat in a Luffy-sized portion, it was still way too much for someone like Pudding. As he was mulling over the food, Ichiji’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“By the way, Sanji, we don’t actually have hostages in the East Blue.”

“What?!”

He whirled around so fiercely he knocked over the bottle of wine. It fell back on the counter with a thud, and normally Sanji would’ve worried about it falling to the floor, but he paid it no mind.

“What do you mean there’s no hostage?” Sanji asked, his voice rising in a mix of hope, fear, and rage. “If this is a trick—”

“Our ships are all here; we don’t have anyone assigned to target that restaurant of yours,” Ichiji said, his voice flat and toneless as usual. “Big Mum’s crew gave us the picture and information and let us handle the rest. I do not believe they sent any ambush parties over themselves.”

“If you’re worried, do you want to give them a call?” Yonji asked, holding out a dendenmushi that had materialized from who knows where. His tone was light, and the corners of his mouth was turned in a slight smile as he spoke.

Sanji exploded.

“You’re telling me, now, that you’ve been making empty…you’ve been threatening me…and it was all nothing?!” The words came in a mad rush and he was stumbling and slurring over them in frothing rage. “You think this is funny, don’t you? Playing with people’s lives? Why are you even telling me this?”

He wanted to scream, to hit them, and he also wanted to cry. He thought of the cruel words and punches and the burning pain of electricity searing his body. Luffy’s expression burning determination, even with his bruised and battered body, and the haunting expression on Nami-san’s face. Everything he went through, everything he did…what was the point of it all?

“People die when they die,” Ichiji stated matter of factly, “All we needed was for the wedding to proceed as planned. You’re getting married tomorrow, so I don’t see any difficulties in telling you this.” He tilted his head a little, and then said, “I’m sure you’ve heard that your crew mates have been caught, yes? We might be able to negotiate to bring Cat Burglar Nami with us after the wedding. I’m sure having a familiar face around would make you feel more comfortable.”

“If you touch Nami-san I will rip you to shreds,” Sanji snarled. “I can’t believe this. You also threatened to kill all the hostages if I fought you. What was that about?”

“That’s your punishment. You kicked me for the sake of that kitchen girl.” It was Niji who responded this time. “As royalty, you can’t attack your big brother for the sake of that kind of lowly servant. If you want a match, I’ll take you anytime.”

“I stopped associating myself with this miserable lot ages ago.”

“But you are our brother,” says Yonji, who was idly poking at the dendenmushi on his hand, “What else would you be?”

Sanji gaped at Yonji like he was speaking gibberish. Then he cast his eyes towards the other two. There were none of the twisted smirks he’d seen on their faces the other day. All he saw were vague looks that seemed like on the border of forming expressions, but didn’t quite fully get there.

“What—what is wrong with you? With all of you? Why are you acting like this?” Sanji choked out. Their calm, matter of fact manner somehow deflated his rage. He almost would rather they berate and hit him again, because he could kick and fight and vent out all his feelings. This, though, only made him feel like he was losing his mind.

Three faces glanced at each other around the table, and then almost in unison they said, “This is just how we’ve always been.”

At those words, Sanji recalled in his memories the echoes of his own tiny voice asking the same question, “Why are you like this?”

 “This is just how we are,” three equally tiny voices gave the same answer.

There was a vision at the back of his mind, then, of a view framed by the metal of an iron mask, and three pairs of little eyes peering at him through bars of steel. The same three pairs that were directed at him, in the present, except on the faces of grown men.

Wait… eyes?

Sanji blinked. He didn’t know how it never registered until then that Ichiji and Niji weren’t wearing their dark glasses and goggles. He also hadn’t noticed before that their hair were different, too. Ichiji’s wasn’t sticking up like a chicken’s comb, but loose and relaxed, and he thought it looked a little like Reiju’s hair. Niji’s hair was also not in that…whatever that weird style he usually wore, which Sanji had mentally dubbed “the banana”, but draping down his face like waterfalls. Yonji’s hair doesn’t have that little tail at the back of his head that looked like a duck’s butt.

What could this possibly mean—? No, that’s not important. He could puzzle over this later. He had to find Pudding immediately.

This whole time, with the looming threat on Baratie, there was nothing he could do besides let himself be dragged around and placate Big Mum enough to plead her for mercy. Now that he knew Baratie was safe, he could save Nami-san and Luffy. Pudding had helped them get in; surely she could also help them get back out.

With the explosive bracelets still on, Sanji himself still had no chance of leaving. Besides, after what he’d done he didn’t deserve to return to the Sunny. The least he could do to atone for it was to get all the Mugiwara crew out of there safely.

This was no time for flowers and wine, but Sanji still grabbed the food before rushing out. He had prepared that bentou to make up for the dinner Pudding had missed, after all. She could always have it later. The portions… no time to worry about that too.

He sprinted through the chateau, all the while somehow trying to keep the food from being jostled too much. However, when he made it to Pudding’s room, the stupid talking door would not let him in, saying that Pudding was busy.

Busy? Busy with what? With who?

For a moment, Sanji felt a little fear creep into his heart and considered returning later. If one or more of Big Mum’s other children was inside… No, he had every right to be there, as the bridegroom. He could always say he wanted to discuss the wedding, or… other private matters. His mind wandered a little at the thought, but he shook himself out of it. More important matters are at hand.

Pudding’s room had a window overlooking the balcony. He could take a quick look inside to see what’s going on inside before deciding what to do next. As he got closer, he heard laughter. His heart lightened a little. It doesn’t seem like she was busy with something too serious. Maybe he could get her to let him in through the window—

It was then that Sanji discovered that the girl he thought to be his single source of hope in this whole ordeal was, in truth, poison coated in deceivingly sweet layers of custard.

*VS*VS*VS*VS*

He visited Reiju in the infirmary, after making sure to immobilize the guard outside. He told her, with his head held in his hands, about what he’d overheard Pudding say. In turn she revealed to him his bracelets were fake, and told him to flee immediately.

“It’s truly a pity for our brothers, but at this point, death would be more merciful than this sad excuse of a life they’ve been living,” Reiju said.

“What do you mean?” Sanji asked.

“Remember what you asked me before, if they ever act unusual sometimes?”

“Yes,” he replied, immediately straightening up. That had slipped his mind in the confusion. “Actually, I just saw them act weird again. They… they told me Baratie is not in danger.” As he talked more and more words rushed out, “… Ichiji’s not wearing his sunglasses. Niji too. And he wanted food. And they didn’t call it rat fodder…”

Reiju smiled sadly, listening to him ramble.

“I don’t know if you remember,” she interrupted, her voice soft, “Every once in a while you managed to keep up just a bit better…”

“I do!” Sanji almost shouted, “I think… I thought… I thought they weren’t terrible to me if I can do well, and I tried so hard, and…”

The memories that he thought he’d forgotten floated back to the surface. Now that he spoke it out loud, he did vaguely recall that those three were ‘different’ on the days that he thought he didn’t fall so far behind. He remembered the flash of memory from the day before, of successfully putting up a proper fight in swordsmanship class. He was beginning to remember other moments too, like occasionally tying with Niji or Yonji during track running.

“…but it wasn’t ever good enough in the end,” he said, looking at Reiju. “And that wasn’t even why they’re like that, was it?”

His older sister then told him the story of their mother, how she fought Vinsmoke Judge over his insane plans, and how she took a drug concoction that destroyed her body in desperate attempt to save her children.

“The drug she took took effect on all of you, but only you were born as a regular human being,” Reiju said. “Those three… On those days that they changed, it’s not that you did better, it’s because they’re the ones who lost their abilities.”

“Lost their abilities?" he echoed. "What do you mean? How?”

“I don’t know. Their enhancements would just regularly come and go without warning. In the end, they weren’t the perfect war machines that father wanted, but they weren’t regular humans either. Those brief moments were probably the closest thing to ‘normal’ they could ever be.” Reiju sighed. “As I said, Sanji, death would be more merciful to them. Living this kind of halfway existence is not really living. Escape and let Germa be destroyed. It’s the only thing we deserve.”

*VS*VS*VS*VS*

Sanji left the infirmary with his mind in a fog. When Yonji showed him the manufactured Germa soldiers, he had been sick to the core, but never in his imaginations did he expect Judge to be so… so insane as to do that to his own wife and unborn children. Had it not been for mother’s sacrifice, Sanji himself might have been…no, even with what mother did, if anything had gone differently, it might have been Ichiji or Niji or Yonji in his place. Sanji would have been on the side doing the tormenting, then, and he’d never have been any the wiser.

What a horrible thought.

The blond slumped to the floor. Those three… He had always thought of them inhuman monsters, and knowing that he’d been mostly right didn’t give him any satisfaction. They didn’t become like that willingly, did they? Something had been ripped out of them before they were even fully conscious, and they could only live on with whatever mangled mess of their hearts that were left.

“This is just how we are”, they had said. That really had been the truth, after all. In all these time he’d been half convinced that he had dreamed up those moments were they were decent, or if they’d been pulling a trick him, but no—it was truly their nature, and he didn’t know if it was possible for them to be any different. 

Ever since he was hauled away from Zou, he despised the constant reminder he faced that he still had blood ties to the Vinsmoke family. It made him feel like he was smothered in thick sludge, weighed down and dirty at the same time. That interaction earlier, though, in the kitchen... It had been truly bizarre, but he had to admit—it wasn’t all bad.

Ichiji revealed the truth about the Baratie and they offered to let him call the restaurant. His heart lurched. Were they… trying to make him feel better? Niji and Yonji called him brother, too, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  There was no mocking, no berating—it just was.

Sanji didn’t dare hope—tried to force himself not to think—because he knew it would only hurt all the more, but he couldn’t stop that little voice inside that told him maybe they were trying to be his family, in the only way they knew how. Perhaps the faintest glimpse of what might have been, if life was much kinder to all of them.

He pulled at his hair. Maybe Reiju did have a point, that death would be mercy compared to this kind of warped state of living. Besides, even if he wanted to do anything about Big Mum’s plot, there was nothing he could do.

A lumpy looking individual came waddling by just then and snatched a piece of meat from his food basket. In a flash he remembered Luffy declaring he would starve to death if Sanji doesn’t return to feed him.

That stubborn rubber man always meant every word he said.

Sanji kicked away the greedy lump, took back the meat, and fled the scene.

Making sure all of the crew made it out of there safely was what he’d initially set out to do after all. First, he needed to find Luffy. Then, feed Luffy. After that, the Mugiwara captain could probably manage on his own. Sanji would deal with whatever were to follow as they came.

[to be continued]

*VS*VS*VS*VS*

It's my first attempt at writing something that is a little longer. I hope you enjoy.

[humanitys-strongest-bamf]

Reunions | #LeviMonth2024 Hurt/Comfort Oneshot

✧ word count ➼ ~1.5k ✧ notes ➼ canonverse to modern!au, i was sad as i wrote this ✧ comments ➼ levi month entry for august 31! was a fun event, and was a nice way to dip my toe into writing again after only posting smutty rambles for a few months dkfjksdfj ✧ content/warnings ➼ graphic depiction of injury, death, blood, canonverse-typical violence, levi ackerman suffering when he deserves so much better >:(

{{ August 28 (Crime + Secret Relationship Part 2) }} Masterlist

You vaguely heard someone calling out your name.

"_____! _____, can you hear me?!"

Your head bobbed to the side as you slowly peeled your eyes open. Your vision was blurry and your hearing was muffled. Your body felt numb and you felt like you couldn't move a muscle.

"...L...L-Levi-" you weakly mumbled, your voice barely audible as you attempted to call out to him. Blood was dripping out of your nose and mouth, and you had a nasty stomach wound that resulted in you losing an alarming amount of blood. There were multiple lacerations on your body that had resulted from you getting thrown across the river after straying too close to a Thunder Spear that hadn't been secured in place.

Hearing your voice, Levi's heart swelled with relief. You were alive, and that was all that mattered for now. He gently cupped your face in his hands, wiping away the blood that was dripping down your face.

"I'm here," he reassured you, barely able to conceal the panic harboring within. "I'm going to get you out of here. Just hold on."

Your body was limp as Levi threaded his arms underneath your knees and shoulders, lifting you off the ground. Your breathing was unsteady and raspy, and you were unable to even hold yourself up as you rested your head against his chest, taking what little comfort you could from the sound of his heart beat.

Once he finally got you out of the debris that was scattered around from the explosion, he set you down carefully onto the bed of grass, immediately scanning the area for anything that could possibly help to treat your wounds until he could get you to the infirmary.

Given the fact that you were in the forest and away from any major villages, there wasn't much he could do. He eventually ripped off his cloak, pressing the cloth against your stomach wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding.

"You're going to be okay," he promised, his voice steady despite the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. "You're going to make it out of here."

A part of you already knew that it was too late. You were beginning to drift off into unconsciousness, and you knew that if you fell asleep, then you likely would not wake back up. You had lost too much blood.

"...'m...I-I'm sorry-" you mumbled, your words slurred and barely comprehensible.

"Don't you dare apologize," Levi snapped, his emotions finally rising up to the surface. He hated seeing you like this—vulnerable and in pain.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to your forehead, already knowing that there was nothing else he could do. His grip on you tightened, with some naive part of him hoping that some miracle would happen.

Pulling away, he looked into your eyes, willing you to stay with him.

"Please, _____," he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Don't leave me."

He didn't know what he would do without you, and the thought of a future without you by his side was unbearable.

Levi brushed a stray lock of hair away from your face, his touch gentle despite the anger and sadness that threatened to consume him. He wasn't ever going to forgive himself for failing to protect you.

You used the last of your energy to force out a half-hearted smile, before finally giving into the numbness, your eyes glazing over.

As your body went limp against him, Levi felt as though his entire world had come crashing down around him. He held you close, the tears prickling the corners of his eyes as he silently mourned the loss of the person he loved more than anything else in the world.

"...don't leave me," he repeated, his voice breaking with grief. He knew that there was nothing he could do to bring you back, but that knowledge did nothing to ease the pain that was tearing him apart.

~~~~~

Levi's eyes snapped open as he heard the sound of leaves and branches moving around him.

He had fallen asleep against the tree that he had been leaning on, and he knew that it was because his insomnia was particularly bad from the previous night.

The rustling of the leaves around him wasn't odd for a hiking trail. It was fall, so the weather was nice enough that everyone was wanting to get outside for a final chance to enjoy the sunshine before the winter settled in.

However, he had purposefully wandered off the trail after shaking off some of his more noisy colleagues, needing some time to himself to sit in the peace and quiet.

Levi looked over with a frown on his face as he heard someone walk towards him, not wanting to be bothered. He had assumed it was Hange coming to drag him back onto the trail. Yet, he was only able to blink in astonishment instead as you ran past him, chasing down a squirrel that had snuck up on you and ran off with your lunch.

You hadn't met before. He hadn't even seen you before, yet you seemed familiar. He felt like he knew you, but he couldn't recall your name or how you had met. He certainly met a lot of people while working at the local clinic, but he felt like he would've certainly remembered your name if you felt this familiar to him.

You immediately froze once you noticed that he had opened his eyes, suddenly forgetting about the squirrel that had snagged your sandwich from you just moments ago.

"...did I wake you up?" you whispered quietly.

"Nope," he responded in a flat and nonchalant tone.

You found yourself feeling relieved for just a split second before realizing that he wouldn't have been able to respond had he still been asleep. Your small smile immediately turned into an unamused frown as you stared at him, annoyed that you had actually fallen for his comment.

"...you're hurt," he suddenly muttered.

You blinked at him in confusion for a split second before following his gaze towards your forearm, where there was a shallow, but not insignificant scratch poking out from under your sleeve.

"Oh, this?" you remarked nervously, pulling down your sleeve to conceal it. "...it's fine, I just stumbled into some of the branches on the way here, chasing this damned..."

You trailed off as you looked around you, only now remembering your original purpose for straying this far off the main trail.

The squirrel was gone—and so was your lunch.

It was a small cut, and one that probably would have been fine had you just covered it up and dealt with it later, but Levi felt the compulsion to help you, as if it was born out of some sense of duty that he had failed to accomplish before.

"Should probably still patch it up so it doesn't get infected," he noted, pushing himself off the ground, and making his way towards you.

You felt your pulse quicken upon seeing him approach. There was something familiar about him, and some part of you felt like you had a lot of things left unsaid to him even though you had never actually met before.

"There's a check-in post nearby," he announced, motioning over towards the other side of the clearing. "They probably have a first-aid kit of some sort."

"O-Oh, there's really no need," you stated with a nervous chuckle, taking a step back and nervously scratching at your head as you tried to hide how flustered you actually were by him.

"And they'll help you find your way back to the trail."

The nervous look on your face turned into a slightly embarrassed pout once he announced that he knew that you were lost.

You barely noticed the small smirk he shot in your direction before he gestured for you to walk with him as he began to lead the way.

Still weirded out by that odd feeling of familiarity, you stood still without moving, staring at him as you tried to piece together what exactly it was that felt so comforting about him.

"You coming?" he eventually called out without turning around.

You were initially hesitant, distracted by your own confusion, but eventually nodded with a small 'mhm', doing a slight jog to catch up with him.

"Uhm, can I get your name?" you asked curiously as you walked next to him.

"...Levi," he eventually responded, glancing over towards you

"Levi fits you," you noted with a nod.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!" you confirmed with a slight shrug. "I dunno, if I had to guess your name, Levi would have probably been somewhere on that list."

He looked at you with curiosity in his eyes, clearly enjoying the banter, as mild as it was.

You began to open your mouth to announce your own name, but Levi interrupted you, with the two of you having arrived at the outpost.

"You can tell me as we get you patched up."

#: @shayewrites @littlerequiem @i-lev-you @humanitys-strongest-brat @mostlilo @dustbuniesworld @levisrations @ebechnasheim @moonchild-angel @jayteacups @bipolargatto @samackermaan @deepzombieyouth @levkuna @levisfavoriteteashop @ackermanswifee @ae-chidori @2dsimpomg @anti-cupid

[lady-in-the-lair]

Happy Anniversary, Buddy

One year after the disaster at Area 51, Eddie finally makes it to New York.

Time for the fandom's thousandth fix-it fic!

Read on Ao3 or below

-----

It takes him a year to make it to New York.

It’s not the cost. Eddie has a new job now, not particularly exciting, but it pays the bills and keeps him busy.

It’s important to keep busy.

Necessary. 

He spends the flight writing up his latest exposé, spends hours pruning and polishing in an effort to forget the last time he’d been on a plane.

Literally on a plane. 

Venom would have liked that joke. 

“We should have driven,” he says aloud. Even without the plane trauma, he would have loved taking a long, meandering cross-country road trip, showing Venom the national parks. The wonder in Venom's voice at the sight of the Nevada desert from above keeps echoing in his ears, and he keeps imagining Venom's awe had Eddie taken him to the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, Big Bend, the Smoky Mountains...

"Should have taken you when we had the chance," he says, closing his eyes. "I knew you wanted to see the world, but I..."

“Sir?” It’s the flight attendant. Again. “If you want a fourth beer, that'll have to be your last one. Airline policy.”

Eddie mumbles something, he himself isn’t sure what, and turns back to his laptop. It’s the hundredth time he’s been given the stinkeye by the flight attendant for talking to himself. 

He still hasn’t gotten used to it. Himself. Just himself. 

Knows, deep down, that he’ll never get used to it.

He’d spent most of his life on his own. He would have been fine now if he’d never had Venom. Fine. Completely fine. He'd been fine after losing Anne, more or less; sad, but fine. Logically he should be fine now that he's lost the symbiote. 

Then why—

You know why, though you only realized it when it was too late—

Nerika. 

Or whatever that word was, that mental door Martin had told him about that opens upon one’s death, leading to revelations.

He hadn’t believed in the hippie-dippy nonsense it at the time. And even if he had, he would have never imagined that the door would open upon Venom’s death.

Fine time to realize Venom’s feelings are real—

—were real—

—after a year of telling yourself they weren’t even though you could feel them. Fine time to realize you reciprocated them, fine time to realize it was real, it was all real, and now he’s gone. 

He realizes he’s been typing gibberish and presses the delete button, then stops at the memory that conjures up, of Venom poking at his computer, of how poorly he’d treated Venom during that period— not just during that period—

Guilt triggered by the memory breaks through the numbing armor he’s formed around himself, floods the hollow in his chest that used to be filled by Venom. He rubs his temples, regrets opening his eyes when they fall on the date at the corner of his computer screen.

Two years to the day from when they first met. Bonded. Bonded like—

He orders another drink. 

He buys the M&Ms at the massive M&M flagship store near Radio City (Venom would have loved it) but he doesn’t eat the candy until he’s sitting on one of the too-small chairs set up for tourists in Times Square, a place he would have gone out of his way to avoid if he didn’t know Venom would have reveled in the bright lights and neon and crowds of people just like the symbiote, people from all over the world, aliens.

It’s the first time he’s eaten chocolate since that day in the desert.

He finishes the bag. 

All but the red ones.

It’s just a faint flicker at first, a half-formed thought, the occasional will-o'-the-wisp floating through the mists of what should have been oblivion but somehow isn’t.

Little scraps of consciousness, like someone switching between stations as they tune a radio. Fleeting feelings at first, familiar but not his, or are they…?...he can't tell, can't even identify the scattered specks of disembodied emotion illuminating the darkness.

He has no concept of time, no way of knowing how long it is before his mind forms a single faint but coherent word:

Eddie.

He tries to focus on the Eddie, use it as an anchor, bind the will-o'-the-wisps to it with slippery tentacles of hazy self-awareness like someone tying a lifeboat to a buoy in an ocean of blackness, but they feelings grief, regret, sorrow?—dissipate like mist at his touch.

He swims through the numbing black sea towards the Eddie, struggling to claw his way back to—to what?—he doesn’t know—he’s driven by something outside himself, or perhaps buried deep within himself—a desperation to return to something—someone—

That need is what keeps him from slipping beneath the inky waves of oblivion. Someone is waiting for him—

Then he fades again, resurfacing amidst sharp spikes of grief and regret, fading again, another burst of pain, over and over until he's hit by a blast of anger and melancholy so potent he suddenly remembers who he is, what he’s lost, before he sinks back into sticky blackness.

Time goes on, his fractured moments of semi-awareness faint and brief, but through it all he holds one thought up like a beacon:

Eddie. He has to get back to Eddie. 

A whiff of hamburger, a bark of a dog.

Eddie’s voice. 

Eddie. Hamburger. Dog. 

(Dogs are not for eating.)

Other words come slowly. 

Beer. Coffee. More beer.

The incessant clattering of computer keys is soothing, a log to cling to amidst the sea of mist. 

He tries to hold on to the clatter, cling to passive scents, but this must be how humans feel when coming in and out of anesthesia and he has no way of knowing long it’s been before a roar sends a shudder through their body, through the lifeboat cradling the fragile tendrils of his consciousness, shocking him back to a fragment of himself.

It's the first physical sensation he’s felt since…

Since?

For the first time, he doesn't fade immediately after achieving consciousness. His mind is foggy, thoughts impossible to string together, but he's awake.

He can’t be sure, but he thinks it’s soon after that the roar that he first smells chocolate, feels a familiar crunch, tastes it, the second and third physical sensation he’s felt since…?

Since…?

Since something bad, he knows with growing certainty as the crunching continues, his thoughts growing stronger, more cohesive. Something that made Eddie sad…

Eddie. 

He feels a surge of an emotion that does not belong to Eddie, the first emotion of his own that he’s felt since (since??) a rush of concern, anger at whatever made Eddie sad, a need to make that sadness go away.

A crinkling sound, another crunch, more chocolate. More sounds, growing louder, sharper: honking, a helicopter, music, a siren, a whistle. 

Eddie’s voice again: “They didn’t have tater tots, buddy,” he’s saying to himself, voice sending a familiar rumble in his throat. “I thought McDonald’s would have them…I’ll grab a Hershey bar instead…you always liked those.” 

Who is Eddie talking to? Somehow Venom knows Eddie thinks he's dead, though he can't remember how or why. Has Eddie gotten a new friend, a new partner, a new…Other….?

Has Venom been replaced—?

The sound of music, a cash register beeping, a crinkling wrapper, and the sweet rush of phenylalanine. 

I’m here! he tries to scream. I’m still here, Eddie! Eddie, I’m here!

Then he stops, tries to think, something getting easier and easier, the thick sludgy blackness starting to thin as if getting washed away by rain—chocolate rain, ha, he can’t remember why that’s funny, but he knows he’s made a joke. Memories have started to return but the most recent ones are blurred by a haze of burning agony, with Eddie's face behind glass (a window??) the only thing coming through clearly.

Another bite of chocolate. Eddie is eating the whole chocolate bar; he can feel it, taste it, and so: Eddie did not share the chocolate, and so: Eddie must be alone. 

Eddie is alone. Eddie has no new Other…?

He can feel them walking now, feel the impact of each footfall on the sidewalk, feel the pebble in Eddie’s shoe (not shoes—cowboy boots?? Is he wearing cowboy boots?? Why does that remind Venom of something?)—can feel Eddie’s toe catch on the curb, feel the wetness as he stumbles into a puddle.

What a loser.

His loser.

He still can’t see but he can hear a street vendor yelling “Chekkitout! Chekkitout!” and realizes they’re in New York City.

A wave of hurt.

We were supposed to come here together. 

(We are together.)

Together like we were…

Eddie’s forgotten him. It’s the only explanation. Why else would he come here…?

He feels Eddie’s heart start to race in response to his distress, feels Eddie’s confusion at what’s causing the sudden surge of pain, and tries to calm them down, reminds himself that all that matters is that Eddie is happy. That’s all that’s ever mattered: if Eddie is happy Venom is happy. He was willing to get him back with Anne, after all, and Eddie forgetting him couldn’t be worse than that…

Right? 

It’s only when he hears the “Road to Hell” that he starts to wonder if he’s wrong. He had played Hadestown on a loop till Eddie snapped the CD in half, after which Venom spent $50 on mp3 downloads before Eddie canceled the credit card. Eddie isn’t one for stories of doomed love, of star-crossed lovers fated to spend eternity searching for each other. He likes classic rock and oldies, hates musicals and theater.

So why is he here?

Can it be…?

Eddie must not have paid attention to the countless times Venom played the show’s soundtrack because he feels Eddie’s distress as it becomes obvious that Orpheus is going to lose Euridyce forever. 

Venom he still can’t see but he can move, just a little. He curls a tendril around Eddie’s heart as it beats faster, tastes his dismay as Orpheus turns around and dooms Eurydices to oblivion and himself to eternal solitude, senses his bitterness at Hades and Persephone's happy ending.

Feels Eddie’s confusion as they leave the theater, confusion at the jubilation burgeoning in his chest, elbowing the grief unleashed by the show.

Venom doesn’t even try to tamp his joy down.

Eddie remembers. Eddie remembers!

He wishes he had full mobility, wishes he could wrap his tentacles around Eddie’s fingers, let Eddie know I’m back, I’m back, I’m alive, I’ve been here the whole time!

It’s an odd sensation, mistily hearing the sounds of the city as they walk and walk—Eddie speaks—“Maybe in here?”—buys something—food? Venom smells something familiar—walking, walking.

The air grows cooler and Venom wants to wrap Eddie in warm black goo. There’s a salt tang in the air, unnoticeable to most humans, growing stronger.

A blast of a foghorn. 

At the water. And in the water is…?

A crushing wave of hurt that Eddie would come here alone. Venom was wrong at the show, wrong about Eddie…

A rustle of paper, the taste of tater tots, Eddie’s voice, too low for anyone else to hear:

“Happy anniversary, buddy. Sorry you couldn’t see this...”

Or maybe…?

“I miss you, V.” There’s a catch in Eddie's voice. “Miss…us.”

Venom is so excited that Eddie almost chokes on a tater tot, his throat constricting with Venom’s surge of delight.  

Misses us. Misses us!

Eddie looks up at the Statue of Liberty, eyes filling with tears not entirely caused by the choking, and Venom feels him wondering again why exhilaration he hasn’t felt in over a year is fighting with his usual depression, now of all times, here of all places.

Venom deserves better, Venom hears him think, and Venom gives a shiver of joy, thin black tendrils curling around Eddie’s ribs, forming a warm cocoon around his heart.

Eddie finishes the tater tots and must be gazing back up at Lady Liberty because there’s a blurry light visible, the first thing Venom’s seen since the explosion at Area 51, a green smudge solidifying, forming a woman draped in a sheet, wearing a pointy hat and holding a torch.

It blurs again, but their vision clears as something hot and wet rolls down their cheek.

“Happy anniversary, Eddie,” says Venom. 

[snickerdoodie]

“Need you now”

Summary: The Tornado Wranglers weren’t known for staying in one place for longer than a few days; too many storms to chase, fans to see, family’s to help. It required constant movement and you knew that, but it was never easy for you or Tyler.

Pairing: Tyler Owen’s x f!reader

A/N: Funny story about this fic, I actually based it on my grandma and late grandpa. It makes me so teary eyed every time she tells me the story but I love it sm😭. I’m not even gonna lie, I didn’t really know if I wanted to post this cuz it just…felt like it didn’t turn out right. Feel free to listen to the song while reading, it’s “Need You Now” by Lady A. Not proofread, per usual. But I hope you guys like it!

“Picture perfect memories, scattered all around the floor

Reaching for the phone, 'cause I can't fight it any more

And I wonder if I ever cross your mind

For me, it happens all the time”

You knew what you were getting yourself into when you started dating Tyler Owen’s; a famous YouTuber, Tornado Wrangler, and an overall state superstar and hero, but nothing prepared you for all this. The waiting, the longing, the empty bed side, the constant anxiety that maybe today was the day he wouldn’t come home from a chase, it was all awful.

And here you were again, laying in bed alone, tucked in the shriveled up covers and blankets staring blankly at the brain dead tv show with nothing but numbness. It’s been 2 weeks since you’ve last seen and heard from Tyler, with every passing day you miss the toothy grin, his warm, strong embrace. You miss it all. It’s like they say; you never know how much something means to you until it’s gone, and right now, you couldn’t miss him more.

Too busy caught up in your thoughts, you barely process the blaring sound of your cell phone going off. Someone was calling you. In a slumped up ball of blankets, you lazily pick up the phone and glance at the caller ID, not expecting the man you missed most to be the face you see. A wave of emotion hits you at the photo. It was a selfie of the two of you cuddled up in the gleaming sunlight by the bed of a lake. Clothes damp and hair wet, you both decided to bask in the blaring sunbeams as a way to dry off and stay warm.

As hastily is possible, you hit the green accept button. With shaking hands and a wobbly smile, you bring it up to your ear, not even registering the sweet muffled melody coming through the other end.

“Oh my god, Tyler,” you blurt, voice nearly scratchy, “God, I’ve missed you so much…I-“ It’s only when you stop to take a breath that you hear it.

“It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone and I need you now

Said I wouldn't call, but I've lost all control and I need you now

And I don't know how I can do without, I just need you now,”

As you feel your throat close up and eyes brim with tears, you stay silent. In your blindness to hear Tyler’s voice again, you completely missed the pianos intro, deaf to the lyrics all together. But once you hear the chorus, you melt away. The once welled up tears cascade down your cheeks like a broken dam; no matter how many you wipe away they keep falling. The swelling of your chest becomes nearly painful, trying to hold back the choked sobs that threaten to escape, but it’s a lost cause.

In one last hope, you put the phone on speaker and bring your legs up to your chest, burying your head between your knees as one of your hands holds the cell up. Just as you do, a blubbering whimper travels from your throat as a sob follows it soon after. As the song continues to flow around the room, the quiet but definite wails carry on, an unstoppable sound that breaks Tyler’s heart through the staticky reception of the call.

Minutes pass by as your weeping slows to small sniffles, eyes closed as you focus on the last remaining lyrical bits of the song.

“Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothin' at all,”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, the emotions still raw and twirling in your mind, a powerful force that only one person can tame.

“Hey baby...”

You nearly burst into another onslaught of tears at the sound of his voice. It’s quiet and nearly as syrupy as your own, and unbeknownst to you, Tyler had too, lost himself at the sound of you. How could he not? With every twister he went through, he always thought one thing; What if doesn’t come home? What if this is the one that finally takes the Tornado Wrangler down, leaving you with nothing to mourn over. The thought alone gave him goosebumps.

“Tyler..” you whimper, chest swelling at the relief of hearing him once again.

“I don’t even know how to start tellin’ you how nice it is to hear your voice again…god I’ve missed you, sweetheart,” With a smile, you repeat back.

“I’ve missed you too, Tyler…I miss you being here with me..” If you close your eyes tight enough, you can really picture him here with you. His breath winding down your neck as his stubble pricks the side of your face. The smell of his cologne mixing in with the scent of your perfume. Listening closely, you hear shuffling then a deep breath, before he finally speaks,

“I’m coming home soon, baby, I promise you I am.”

“I just need you now,

Oh, baby, I need you now.”

Three posts in one day?!? A new record for me. Lmfao I actually wrote this one today and had a crisis if I wanted to post it or not. I know this song is about heartbreak and wanting someone back after they’ve left…but I wanted to try and make it about longing, like the story my grandma always tells me. I hope you guys like this fic! I honestly might rewrite it on a later date, but I was kinda texting the waters with it. As always, comment if you liked or disliked something, inbox is still open!

[theartistisme43]

Chapter Two: The Smell of Copper and Disinfectant

HOSPITAL, BLOOD, PANIC ATTACK, AND GUN MENTION TW:

There was a dense ringing in SMG4’s ears as he floated in a void of numbness, he could hear a distant beep every now and then, and muffled, discombobulated talking…

4 didn’t know where he was, or what was happening… Every time he tried to figure it out, something pulled him into a deeper rest, but he could feel himself getting closer to a light every time he attempted to gather his thoughts.

All he remembered was creating tomato soop, and then… Nothing.

4 tried to get out of whatever state he was in, but he felt trapped and unable to move, as if he was being weighed down by something, almost like…

Sleep paralysis?…

Was he asleep?

The more he thought of it, the more he could hear, the more he could feel, the more he could think.

Just like a knife, memory cut into him.

“I’m sorry, I have to do this…”

BANG!

With a gasp, SMG4 shot up in bed, making Mario almost fall back with a gasp of his own.

4’s eyes refocused as his mind began to process where he was, as they tiredly scanned the area around him.

All of his friends were here, scattered around in his hospital room.

Just as 4 intended to speak, a sharp, horrible pain made him hiss in reaction. He looked down, seeing a gauze pad that was secured by tight bandages wrapped around his chest and back to hold it in place. 4 could feel how tender his skin was under the medical wraps.

“…wh…” He found his voice as he winced hard.

A gloved hand took his, as Mario looked at him with love in his eyes… And an air of sorrow to them too.

“Miei cari Quattro... ero così preoccupata!” The red plumber embraced him, avoiding his wound.

SMG4 enjoyed the hug for a moment, but wondered what all the fuss was about, he couldn’t remember what happened for some reason… Did he have a kitchen accident or something?

“SMG4!” Meggy exclaimed, coming to hug him too. “You’re awake!”

4 attempted to use his right arm to pat her back, but it hurt far too much for him to move it, so he used his left to do it instead.

“What happened?” 4’s question made almost everyone in the room uncomfortable, as a few of his friends avoided looking at him.

Meggy sighed, willing herself to say… Something bad from what 4 could gather from her face.

“SMG4… Do you… Not remember?” She asked softly.

“No, please tell me..” 4 said. “I can handle it, whatever it is..”

“SMG4.” Meggy began, brows furrowing. “SMG3 shot you…”

4 paled, the ringing in his ears returned as his heart began pounding.

Like a train, feelings of grief, betrayal, and heartbreak came hurtling into him.

Now he could remember.

SMG3’s eyes were cold and empty, the way his face looked was like something straight out of a horror movie.

SMG4 tried to brush it off by mentioning his newest meme, but 3 didn’t care, merely raising his gun with the intention of killing 4.

And he shot him.

Watching him bleed out as he lost consciousness…

SMG4 was hyperventilating as he clutched himself, suffering through a panic attack as the previous day’s events became clear.

The very person he had come to trust, come to love, stabbed him in the back. And why? Because he got bored of being good? Because being evil was much easier for him?

“SMG4, it’s going to be okay…” Meggy tried to vocally help him through his attack, but all of the emotions he felt were relentless.

SMG4’s brain couldn’t register anything as a monsoon of thoughts and questions rendered all of his senses useless.

His fingers were practically digging into his skin as his chest heaved, eyes staring into nothing.

All 4 could see in his mind was SMG3’s terrifying expression as he watched him lay there helpless, his own blood pooling around him.

But suddenly… He was encased in warmth, a safe feeling he had felt many times.

Mario held SMG4 close, letting him clutch at his shirt as to not damage himself anymore, like the other times he helped him through past panic attacks.

The meme guardian rode the aftermath of his attack, coming back to reality with heavy yet softer breaths.

“There we are…” Mario muttered. “I got you.”

4 had pushed his body too hard, his ribs hurt slightly from his rapid sharp breaths, and this didn’t help with his still tender injury.

Mario saw something in 4’s eyes fade.. He didn’t know if it was exhaustion, or… Hope leaving him.

As 4 returned to sleep, Mario still held his hand, his heart breaking as he watched someone who was so full of life feel so defeated…

“Gli farò pagare la pena per averti ferito, Quattro, te lo prometto. Non avrò pace finché non lo troveranno..”

Mario had tried to whisper only loud enough for 4 to hear, but his quiet promise was understood by his green brother.

Luigi looked on in concern, as he watched his twin brother begin a tread down a darker path... Grief considered, he wanted 3 to pay for this too, but this just wasn't right... This wasn't Mario.

"Come on guys." Meggy whispered. "Let's let SMG4 rest."

Their friend group had quietly, one by one, left the room, but Luigi stayed put. He joined his brother's side, placing a kind and comforting hand onto Mario's own.

Hurt, angry, tired eyes glanced down, and then up to Luigi's face.

Luigi looked back with a soft and concerned look in his, as Mario silently brought his hand down to his side, away from Luigi's hand.

It would be a fight to get Mario back, but Luigi was willing to do whatever it took to save his brother from his own rage.

"Sono qui anche per te, Mario. Non dimenticarlo mai..."

[dollsvampi]

Echoes of the Tide

Frank Castle x Reader

Description: Haunted by emotional wounds, only to seek solace in Frank's arms longing for a path to healing. [Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Life, Emotional Vulnerability] (Pet names used: Baby, Darlin') [No use of Y/N]

Warnings: Mentions of Trauma, Familial Dysfunction & Guilt, Emotional Distress. (3.2K words)

A/N: First post ever lol bare with me. I didn't like this sitting in my notes on my phone so why not share

Every once in a while, you reach that breaking point—a moment where everything feels too heavy to bear. A dull, residual numbness settles in, aching deep in your chest. It feels unbearable, as though your mind is trapped in an endless cycle—spinning aimlessly before crashing into an invisible wall, only to start again. You're stuck, caught in a loop with no way out.

Is this what shutting down is?

Only a few words passed between you and those around you it was hard to connect when you didn’t feel like yourself. It was as if you were caught in plunging, rushing water, one foot forward and the other behind, your body twisted mid-motion with arms outstretched, grasping for something to hold onto. You couldn’t take another step; your hips frozen, your body trying but failing to move forward. Instead, you were drowning in an endless tide of swimming thoughts, unable to tear your gaze away from the weight of the past.

No, it wasn't often you felt like this, but it was inevitable feeling overwhelmed and hollow, from the weight of the trauma of it all. Just thinking about or seeing your family can bring on a wave of triggers. Most of the time you check on them and it simply brings dread.

Sitting on one of the kitchen island stools to prep a few things for dinner, your brows are slightly furrowed in concentration. Meanwhile, Frank is polishing and cleaning his guns. He had a direct line of sight of you, studying you cautiously. He noticed each and every little thing about you. "Baby, you alright?" Frank didn't want to push—testing the waters. He didn't want to outright inquire; How come you weren't yourself? How come you didn't strike up a conversation? How come you aren't laughing? How come you aren't playing music?

The poor man thought back to his own actions—had he possibly done something wrong or forgot to do something? Glancing up from the scattered ingredients, you manage a faint smile, "Yeah." He didn’t believe you, but then again, neither did you. Your family, though—they would have, without question.

"I was thinking..." the vigilante, sharp and observant, piqued your curiosity. You hummed in acknowledgment as he went on, "We should eat outside and finally test out that hammock we got."

You thought some fresh air might be nice as you cleaned up the kitchen island, "Sounds good." Frank rose from his seat, heading off to store his guns, but paused. He walked over to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his free hand lightly squeezing your hip, "Alright, I’ll go get started outside."

Once the food was prepared—delicious and fresh—it was carefully arranged in its respective containers and plates, ready for the little backyard feast. Frank quickly cleaned off the table and chairs before setting up the hammock. Propping it up was effortless—it was a sizable design made for two. The framed canvas, adorned with pastel blue stripes, even came with a matching pillow.

It took several trips to retrieve the food, beverages, and utensils. Frank assisted with the final touches of setup, including bringing out the speaker you have. He handed you his phone almost immediately after turning it on and connecting it, "Go on, play music."

You'd shared your playlists with Frank long ago; he knew exactly what music helped you unwind and relax. He needed you to be at ease. With a few taps on his phone, music began to play softly through the speaker, loud enough to fill the atmosphere but quiet enough for conversation. Frank wanted to bring up the subject, but he held back. He knew you well—when you were upset, your appetite was the first to go, which he didn't want. Patience came naturally to him when it came to you, so he decided to wait for now.

Sitting down and fixing each other's plates, you look around the backyard. The hammock was a nice addition, "Hey that hammock is not bad." He hums, as he glances where you are looking, "Easy to install too." Your eyes don't stray from the space as Frank begins to eat, "We really should get some shade, some trees would be nice."

The man was going to town on the food, which brought a smile to your face. "I wanted to put up the canopy tent, but some trees would be nice darlin'," he was subtle in his reasoning. You could definitely use some sunlight with the way things have been. He gestured with his hand, "We can get some smaller ones, and add on to the garden."

Frank is a man who resolved your words were law. As the both of you continue eating, you give it a good thought to how plans should be. "Yeah, maybe a decent-sized one, right at the edge where the small field begins." He followed your eyeliner yet again, "Perfect, anything my baby wants."

Lowering your gaze slightly you shook your head. Whatever he was doing was working, the sweet-talking, the way he had said it with conviction fulling meaning what he had said. The music in the background is a way to ground you. What had been circulating in your mind is distilling. You were now able to talk about what had been going on, you aren't completely shut.

Maybe you caught on—it was a sweet gesture. Yet, your thoughts still lingered on your family… how something so simple could never be accomplished with them.

The two of you finished the rest of your meal in comfortable silence. Your gaze wandered, taking in the surroundings—the chirping of distant birds, the slow drift of fluffy white clouds across the sky. As you closed the lid on the bowl, your focus shifted, flitting between the patches of grass and the outhouse door, until your eyes began to glaze over.

"You haven't said much all day darlin', what's on your mind?" Frank's eyes were steady on you, and you had to get it off your chest. You couldn't tell him that it was nothing. It would be wrong not to. How was he supposed to understand if I kept holding back?

'Secrecy has a way of evolving—sometimes into something different, and other times into something far worse.' Frank had told you, almost in passing, as if it were a lesson learned from his own experiences. He’d seen how secrets, no matter how small or harmless they seemed at first, could twist into something darker over time. He spoke from a place of understanding, the kind born from years of keeping things buried—things he’d witnessed, things he’d done, and the weight it left on him. You knew he wasn’t just talking about others; he was speaking from his own scars.

Taking a deep breath, after so long being submerged you've breached the surface. "It's just- I don't know what to do... or feel with my family," you couldn't settle your eyes on him just yet. "With these people, it's this guilt, the sense of loss and not belonging. The exclusion they do or just the pure disfunction... it's a lot of things Frank."

He could see how it took you a lot to get to voice this, "That's a lot to carry and even worry about." There were brief mentions of what you had endured, and it really did anger Frank because you didn't deserve that.

"I know I've mentioned but all this stress is inevitable especially how they live out their life. At times I do believe I'm the burden. It's-" You do gesture you often make to stop yourself from crying. Frank knew what you were about to say and immediately cut you off. "It's not your fault, baby. Look at me... look at me." He moves his chair to sit closer to you placing a hand on your shoulder. "It's not your fault." You meet his eyes as tears begin to form in yours. "There you are, breath okay."

Frank grounded you as you focused on your breathing, steadying yourself. Finally, you continued, "Every time I check in or see their posts, I just feel like such an outcast. It’s a reminder that I can never truly be myself around them, and if they ever found out, it’d turn into a whole mess." You can practically hear the comments and insensitive remarks.

"Forget about what they might say, baby. Just be yourself." His voice was steady, resolute. He would defend you without hesitation, daring anyone in the world to challenge you or your worth.

"I know, Frank. With the way my family obsesses over their image, it’s almost impossible not to absorb some of it. All they ever do is critique others. Minding their own business is the last thing they’d consider. They love to nitpick, always searching for the smallest reason to argue or stir up drama." As you spoke you could feel the way he was gently squeezing your shoulder, his thumb moving soothingly.

"That’s not on you, though. You don’t have to carry their baggage or let it shape who you are. Let them exhaust themselves with their nonsense—none of it changes the fact that you’re better than that." He shifted slightly, his hand still on your shoulder, and his gaze softened. His movements were slow and deliberate, with a sense of calm assurance.

Culture played an important role, with traditions deeply ingrained across generations, creating an even greater sense of immersion. The idea that some individuals were unwilling to embrace new perspectives, choosing instead to cast others out, was a harsh reality.

You sigh, placing your hand gently over his. "This is why I feel bad. I mean, it's not entirely their fault either. I see how they choose to live their lives. It makes me feel like I should be doing something to help. But their world just revolves around their beliefs."

He says nothing at first, but his hand moves to hold yours, as if he is carefully considering your words. Finally, he speaks in his consistent, no-nonsense tone, "You cannot bear their burdens for 'em. All you can do is make your own decisions, ones that will keep you standing. If they can’t see that, that’s on them, not you." Frank leans in slightly, realizing that you're still torn. "I get it. You're worried about what they'll say or do if you stand your ground. But you cannot continue to live in fear of their judgment. You've already carried enough for them. You have to put yourself first."

His words hit harder than you had expected, sinking in deeper than you wanted to admit. There is natural hesitation, your chest tightening, as if you were in cold harsh water. You try to push down the gnawing feeling of guilt. That fear still lingers, like a shadow you can't outrun.

You glance down at your intertwined hands, resting on your thigh, as if they can offer some relief, and in the rhythm of the music that envelopes the both of you.

You couldn’t help but think about how they’d always handled things—like when your boundaries were crossed, or when your choices didn’t align with theirs. It was never about understanding or compromise, but about control and making sure you fell in line with their beliefs. The idea of standing up to them felt like a storm waiting to break.

"It still eats at me. Every time I see them, it’s like the facade falls into place. We all act like nothing was ever left unsaid—thanks to my parents, I guess. They’re the biggest hypocrites I know." You squeeze Frank’s hand gently. "I was made to believe my problems didn’t matter, that my family had enough on their plate, so why add more? There are things I still don’t know about my own family, things they’ve kept from me. And it makes me wonder—am I even worthy of knowing? Am I not family?"

Frank scoffs, shaking his head. "Christ." He knew that tactic all too well the 'don't say anything to protect either party.' It was a way of keeping everything buried, even if it meant pushing the pain aside. He got an even clearer picture of your constant restraint that kept you from truly speaking your mind. The aftermath of emotional scarring has left its mark, no matter how hard you try to hide it.

Uncertain if Frank would say more, you felt the urge to continue. "I have to force myself into a certain mindset whenever I visit... and prepare for the possible worst, just in case. That's what has been eating at me most of the time, even taking sleep away. It certainly was worse when I was younger."

Frank acted without hesitancy as usual. He was all too familiar with bracing for the impact of something that never felt safe. "You shouldn’t have to do that. No one should have to armor up just to face their own family." He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, his eyes hardening in his seriousness. "But no matter how hard it gets, you don’t have to face it alone. You’ve got me. What did you do to keep your head straight, huh?"

The question brought a faint smile to your face—a real one, the kind that had been absent for far too long. You nodded toward the speaker playing your favorite tunes. "Listening to music. I had to distract myself however I could. Sometimes, I’d read or write down the things I wanted to say but—" You shook your head, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill, your chest tightening at the way he's so close to you, and outright providing you with unwavering warmth.

Frank reached up, cupping your face gently with his free hand. "It’s okay, baby. Let it out if you need." His voice was steady, but his gaze searched yours, piecing together what you’d shared. He could see how writing had been more than a distraction—it was survival. A way to give your thoughts a voice when no one else would listen.

You huffed a bitter laugh. "And that’s when I think—if I could just open my mouth and defend myself... but I never know how to say it right. I wish I really knew how to articulate what I feel to them." Your hand tightened around his wrist, grounding yourself in the comfort of Frank’s steady touch. His thumb brushed gently across your cheek, a silent reassurance that he was there.

You lowered your gaze to your lap, the words catching in your throat as the weight of it all pressed down. Frank’s jaw tightened, his heart sinking at the pain etched across your face. He couldn’t fathom why anyone would put you through this, why they’d leave you carrying such a heavy burden. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right.

The silence was pierced as you dropped your hand from his. "And to be real honest with you, Frank..." your voice trembled, and your lip quivered as you tried to keep it together.

His heart breaking at your vulnerability.

"I—I wouldn’t want you to go through that... to see it happen," your voice cracking under the weight of the admission. Tears welled up, and before you could stop them, a helpless cry escaped your lips. You turned away, trying to hide your face in your hands, but it was too late.

Frank exhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a moment as if willing himself to take your pain away. Then, with the utmost care, he let go of your hand only to pull you into a firm, grounding embrace. "C'mere," he murmured, wrapping his arms tightly around you.

You buried your face in his shoulder as the sobs overtook you, his presence the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely. One of his hands moved soothingly up and down your back, the occasional pat adding a silent rhythm of comfort. "Let it out, baby," he whispered, pressing the side of his head to yours.

Frank held you as though shielding you from the weight of the world, his jaw tightening as he listened to your cries. It hit him hard—how selfless you were, even in your pain. You’d been so considerate, worrying about how your situation might affect him when you were the one left battered by it all. The thought of you constantly lying, draining yourself to keep the peace, or worse—standing up for yourself only to be torn down again—cut him deeply. "

"'S okay," he said softly, his voice a firm anchor. "I've gotcha baby. 'S okay."

You cried into his arms until the tears subsided, leaving you drained but calmer. Slowly, you regained your composure, sniffling softly as you leaned back to meet his gaze. Frank’s hand was already there, gently wiping away the lingering tears on your cheeks.

"I love you so much," you murmured, your voice still shaky but full of gratitude. You couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the comfort of having someone like Frank by your side.

"I love you," Frank's tone filled with conviction. His arms tightened around you slightly, pulling you closer as if to shield you from the world. "I’ll always be here for you," he added, pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to your cheek.

The tenderness of his words made your chest ache in the best way, and you fought the urge to cry again—this time out of happiness. Tilting your head back a bit, you let your gaze drift to the yard.

"Ah, shit," you muttered suddenly, catching sight of something.

Frank raised an eyebrow, already poised to ask what was on your mind.

"We really should try out that hammock," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Frank burst into a deep, genuine laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest and catching you off guard. You turned to him, grinning as you joined in his laughter. Before the moment could pass, he leaned in, closing the space between you and placing soft, lingering kisses all over your face, his affection as natural as breathing.

The weight you’d been carrying felt just a little lighter. You couldn’t help but lean into him, letting the laughter fade into a quiet peace. "Let’s go," Frank said softly, his lips brushing your temple before he pulled back, his hand still resting at the small of your back.

Together, you rose, the promise of something simple yet meaningful—like testing out that hammock—feeling like exactly what you needed.

The hammock swayed gently beneath you, cradling you like a soft ripple on calm swift waters. It was steady, unlike the turbulent currents that had once consumed you. Where your mind had felt like it was drowning in endless waves, here was something solid yet pliable—a quiet buoy against the storm.

Frank beside you, his presence like the anchor that helped you beach. The two of you settled into the rhythm of the hammock's sway, the soft creak of its frame blending with the distant chirp of birds. The past felt far away here, as if it couldn’t touch you in this cocoon of stillness and warmth.

For the first time in a long while, the tide in your chest seemed to ebb, leaving behind a strange but welcome calmness.

[green-eyedfirework]

Slade mates Dick for bureaucratic reasons but then Dick’s body thinks he’s unclaimed.

~#~

Dick felt like he was moving through soup, hot and sticky all over.  His hair was stuck to his skin and his mouth was dry, his whole body aching faintly.  The worst soreness was the deep cramp inside of him, a fullness with clenching tremors that danced on the edge of painful.

He registered the squelching noise right before the curious numbness between his legs, and the rest of the dominos fell swiftly after that.  His legs, folded and braced above him, the fingers clenching against his waist, the rocking motion in tune to the cramping deep inside him, the warmth in him, around him, everywhere.  The thick, powerful, choking scent of alpha arousal.

He was naked.  Bare skin pressed against bare skin as Dick—as Dick was fucked, that's what this was, there was something inside him, rocking so deep he felt like his insides had been rearranged.  He couldn't help the shocked, hoarse whine as the cock jammed inside him, pressing at parts beginning to wake up, and he was met with a low alpha rumble.

Dick had to fight to get his eyes open, they felt like they'd been glued shut, confusion and panic rising ever higher, and managed to crack them open to see the alpha looming over him, on his knees with Dick half in his lap.

The confusion receded at the sight of the silver hair and scarred eye.  The terror surged.

Slade thrust forward a few more times before he stilled, warmth pooling every higher inside Dick, and what few fragments of scattered thought he had coalesced into the urge to flee.

Dick had thought—Slade had said—he didn't remember what happened, everything was a haze, all he could remember was the heat—this wasn't his room, this wasn't his nest—where were his siblings—what was going on—

Dick didn't bother trying to ask questions.  If Slade hadn't noticed he'd woken up, he would soon, and Dick moved.

His legs were braced on Slade's shoulders and Dick yanked them back, trying to kick Slade in the chest to push him away.  His hands scrabbled at the sheets—the wet sheets, fuck, how long had Dick been out, how long had Slade fucked his body like all that mattered was an open hole—his voice dropping to a hiss as he struggled.

It was a testament to Slade's distraction that Dick got one foot against his sternum before the mercenary reacted.  Fingers wrapped around his ankle, yanking Dick's legs apart again, and Slade drove them back, pressing down relentlessly to fold Dick in half.  Dick tried to lash out with hands—they wouldn't even curl into fists, they were so weak, and Slade had to let go of his knees to grab his wrists.

"Dick," Slade growled, pinning him down, but Dick's legs were now free and he tried to kick out again.  "Dick."  Dick snarled at him, angry and wordless, fear beginning to fracture into too many emotions to control.  "Dick, stop fighting!"

If Slade wanted an omega who just laid back and took it, he'd chosen the wrong one.

Slade growled, loud and sharp, and some part of Dick still caught up in heat haze flinched back at the sound, but Dick had spent years training to fight those instincts, and he kept writhing.  Something inside him jerked painfully as he tried to slide up the sheets, though, and Dick's jolt of realization was overtaken by Slade bending down and latching onto the side of his neck.

The bite hurt.  Dick felt himself go limp as Slade's teeth dug against his collarbone, holding him in place and not letting go.  It was worse than the claiming because Slade was pressed against every inch of him, pinning Dick thoroughly, from his fingers on Dick's wrists to his knot inside Dick.

There was something thick and hot in Dick's throat and it was quietly choking him.

His eyes prickled and no amount of furious blinking could stop the tears trickling down the side of his face.  He could smell his heat scent growing fainter, replaced with the quietly bitter scent of misery.  He took a breath and it came out strangled.

Slade released the bite.  Dick took a fuller breath, muscles working again, but Slade stayed where he was, breath puffing against Dick's neck, a clear threat if he tried to fight again.  Dick stayed still and squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to let his breath hitch.  Fuck if he'd let Slade know how much it hurt to know how completely he'd miscalculated.

"Deep breaths, little bird," Slade murmured, voice soft.  "Calm down."  Dick imagined stabbing a knife into the man's remaining eye.  "You'll hurt yourself if you try to move now."

Oh, Dick would hurt himself, not Slade's knot would fucking tear him open if he tried to jerk away.

"Dick?"  Slade's voice sounded so gentle.  Such a lie.

"Fuck you," Dick tried to snarl, but it came out broken and half a whimper and Dick ducked his head against his arm as Slade lifted up to see him.

He couldn't hide it, not entirely, and Slade made a soft sound, one hand letting go of Dick's wrists to brush the tear tracks on his face.  "I'm sorry, little bird," Slade said slowly, "I had to—"

Dick jerked his head back to glare up at Slade, cheeks puffy and eyes still wet.  "Had to?" he repeated, voice as low as he could get it, chest heaving and rage-fury-betrayal running through his veins.  "Keeping your cock in your fucking pants is beyond Deathstroke the Terminator's infamous skillset?"

Slade looked down at him, face impassive and jaw tight.  "Will you let me explain," he said evenly, voice clipped.

"Explain?!"  Dick's voice broke on the screech and, to his horror, it cracked completely, his entire body trembling as he failed to control it.  He tried to take a deep breath and suppress the tears, but it broke halfway through and he dissolved fully into sobs.

"Dick," Slade said, quiet and full of expertly feigned remorse, and he let go of Dick's wrists completely to instead wrap an arm around Dick's waist.  Dick let him, seeing no point in trying to attack a superpowered mercenary with his fucking knot still tying them together, and Slade shifted position, rolling onto his side and pulling Dick with him.

Dick ended up half on top of Slade, half tucked against his side, and he burrowed his head against Slade's shoulder as the tears dripped down.  He couldn't stop shaking, and as much as he hated it, the soft circles Slade was rubbing against his back were helping to lull him into calmness.  Complacency.  Stupid fucking omega hindbrain quieting with a noseful of Slade's scent.

"I'm sorry," Slade repeated, keeping up the quiet strokes.  "I didn't want to.  I made you a promise and I intended to keep it."  Dick snorted wetly and sniffled.  "You were dying, Dick," Slade said softly.

A jolt of alarm shot through Dick.  What.  "And you decided to see if you had a healing cock?" Dick snapped back, rigid and tense.

Slade exhaled.  "Ever heard of bond rejection?" he asked.

"What?"

"Bond rejection—sometimes an unstable claiming can lead to bond rejection, where the body of the claimed person believes that the claim is unfinished and seeks to rectify that."  Dick was slowly going cold—the rush of dizziness and fatigue after the bite, his unexpected heat, when it wasn't supposed to be for another month, the way he felt so much worse than normal—"Long story short, your heat was getting worse and worse, so we called the doctor.  She diagnosed you with bond rejection."

Dick swallowed.  He—he remembered feeling sick.  Tim's worried face.  Jason trying to soothe the pain that wracked aching muscles.

"The only way to stop it was to stabilize the claim."

Which meant completing the mating.  Something cold and unpleasant was roiling in his stomach, but Dick couldn't deny that he was feeling better. 

No nausea, no headache, no fever burning through him.  The unnatural warmth was dissipating too, replaced with the coolness of sweat drying.  He felt as weak as a newborn kitten, but he also felt more clearheaded than he'd been in days.

"I'm sorry," Slade repeated against his hair, keeping Dick tucked firmly against him.  "There was no other way."

Dick took a shaky breath and didn't answer.  But he also didn't try to push Slade away.