#off screen loss of limb

[moonchildstyles]

strawberry

pomegranate part three: y/n goes on a date and harry has a migraine. but she comes back.

wordcount: 9k

—————

"H? Where are you?" 

Harry, with his eyes reading the label on a can of enchilada sauce, called over the partition of the aisle, "Over here, (Y/N)." 

Just as quickly, he heard pattering footsteps rounding the endcap and heading right towards him. When she had wandered off for laundry detergent and a new book, she had left him with empty hands. Now, she had returned with no laundry detergent, but two books, a bag of chocolate covered fruit, and a jar of honey with the comb floating through the amber. 

"Look, look," she chattered, racing towards him with the jar of honey extended, "It's the kind with the honeycomb in it, look." 

A soft smile touched Harry's lips. He took the jar as if receiving a gracious gift, replacing all of his attention on the label instead of the dinner list he had been working on. 

He hummed a pleased noise at the sight of the honey. "'S like the ones in the video—with the fancy cheese and all." 

"That's what I was thinking!" 

While Harry was interested in making one of the recipes (Y/N) had sent him many videos of, seeing the smile on her face when he dropped the jar in the basket was worth much more. Even when they started down the aisle, (Y/N)'s face in her phone looking up recipes they could try out with her new find, Harry couldn't get that smile out of his head. 

Though it was a delusion he wasn't fond of letting himself live in, he swore something had changed after that kiss a couple of weeks earlier. He couldn't be sure if he was just searching for something special to be growing between them, but it was hard to recall moments that she had smiled at him like that before they had kissed. 

He swore she'd never looked at him with moony eyes like that. That she'd never stretched her grin that wide before. That every time she reached out to him, felt his skin under her palms, that something sparkled in her eyes. 

Harry was inclined to assume those details were things he only saw because he wanted to see them, but she had kissed him back just as intensely. More often than not, sleepovers were shared either in his bedroom or out in the living room of their home, (Y/N) always finding her way into his space, just short of wrapping her limbs around him. Kisses on his cheek was the norm, something shared any time they were to be apart for longer than a few hours. Even their television nights on the couch were dotted with thighs pressed together, legs draped over his lap, her head on his shoulder. She wasn't even soft and sleepy when she started melting all over him, she just wanted to be close to him. 

But, much like the first time they'd done anything more, they hadn't discussed a single moment of that night on the couch. Not when she had been on her knees before him, how he'd confessed to building a home for her right in the forefront of his mind, or the loss of control he had when he pressed his lips to hers just after he'd cum in her mouth. 

Every pining affection he held for her was now turned up to max volume. His nights were plagued by the idea of her climbing into the bed right with him, whether to give into more of his fantasies or just to rest her head on his chest. She was slowly but surely backing him into a corner where there was nowhere for him to run. The space in his heart was becoming cramped the more of her she was able to sneak inside. Harry worried just how much longer he was going to be able to keep his head on straight and react like a normal roommate before he was going to explode and spill all his guts out for her to see.

"H, look!" (Y/N)'s chirping voice brought Harry back to the middle of the supermarket, her phone being shoved in his face. On the screen was a bubbling wheel of cheese with sweet honey and crisped prosciutto, crusty bread dipped into the paste. "Do you think we could do this?! Is there brie here?" 

Peering at her over the top of her phone, a small smile curled the corners of his mouth. He was going to do anything she asked of him, even something as simple as finding a cheese for her. 

Because Harry loved her. He doubted there was ever a time he didn't. 

"'M sure we can find something." 

Her rewarding smile was enough for him. He'd pretend it was just for him.

—————

Harry groaned, rolling in his sheets with his pillow fluffed under his head. Despite the curtains drawn, his eyes pinched shut and noise cancelling headphones over his ears, his bedroom needed to be darker and quieter. If not, he feared his brain was going to squeeze itself out of his ears. 

Work wasn't even that stressful today, especially since he'd worked remotely for the day. There was no real reason that there should be any kind of pressure building behind his eyes. 

He just wanted to sleep. Hopefully, when he woke up this migraine would be over.

A gentle hand landing on his shoulder, pinched that hope out of his mind. Muffled through the silence of his headphones, he heard the syllables of his name. 

Taking in a balancing deep breath, Harry forced his eyes to crack open. He twisted in his sheets, finding (Y/N) hovering above him. Concern swam in her eyes, her lips set in a thin line. 

As he figured, her makeup was swept in pretty pinks and mauves over her skin. Her eyes shimmered with flecks of glitter, lashes fluttering wisps. Her hair was done, twisted out of her face with stray strands framing her face. The heart-shaped locket around her neck dangled down above him.

He didn't have to scan over her to know the dress she had picked out for the night. She had asked him a million times yesterday which one of the outfits she had in her closet would work best for her date tonight. 

For her fancy date. Her first with some blonde-haired man she met on an app.

The reminder was enough to have another surge of pressure bubbling inside his skull. 

Inching one of the cups of his headphones off of his ear, Harry quietly hummed in question. 

"How are you? Are you feeling any better?" (Y/N) whispered, her voice low enough to not trigger any extra pain in his head. 

"Not really," he muttered, his voice graveled from disuse.

Her lips puffed into a pout. "H," she murmured, her voice drawling in a croon, "Is there anything you need? Anything I can grab before I go?" 

A dull throb pounded against his skull. 

"'M alright." 

(Y/N) looked far from convinced. He watched as she pinched her lips between her teeth. 

She didn't say much before she climbed into bed beside him. Her hair piled against his pillow, her breath fanning across his skin as she settled in. 

"Can I stay here before I leave?" 

Her eyes met his with clear intensity. Everything was soft as she gazed at him, brows downturned in concern with her iris melting before him. 

He only nodded, eyes fluttering closed. 

Harry felt her arms wrap around him only a moment later. Her forehead gently rested on his when she pulled him closer, the very tips of their noses grazing one another. For the first time all afternoon, his splitting headache dulled just enough. 

The pile of blankets around his hips felt cold in comparison to her hold. Her fingers driving through the curls on the back of his neck had his muscles melting, his bones loosening after being wound so tight for so long. 

A soft sigh fell from his lips. 

With his eyes still closed, Harry could only feel the heat of her skin as she drew closer. The tip of her nose brushed the bridge of his own just before the touch disappeared, replaced with the soft of her glossed lips landing in the same spot. She dotted kisses down his nose, to the apple of his cheek, to the very corner of his mouth. 

He couldn't help but lean into her affection. He'd missed this—despite only having her kiss once, he missed it like he'd left behind a childhood comfort. Her touch was a balm to his nerves, soothing even his migraine. 

One hand on the back of his neck slid around until she had his cheek cupped in her palm. She thumbed away the sparkling kiss marks she no doubt made in her wake. 

"I'm going to miss you tonight, H." 

Then stay.

His heart ached more than his head when he choked back the instinctive words. Even with the sweet press of her lips and graze of her hands over his skin, she was going on a date tonight. 

This was just how she expressed her care for him now, with all of these barriers of touchy-affection broken down. 

Forcing himself to pull back, Harry cracked his eyes open. He looked at her, sparkling eyes and frowning lips. 

"I'll miss you, too," he confessed, unsure if she felt the weight he attached to his words, "What time do y'have to leave?" 

It was her turn to sigh, the exhale pushing her perfume towards him in a vanilla plume. "Probably now." 

He gave her a smile that he hoped didn't give away just how sad he was. "Excited?" 

(Y/N) nodded, only a lopsided smile touching her mouth. "I'll be home soon, though. Call me if you need me to pick anything up for you, okay?" 

It was Harry's turn to tip his chin in a nod. 

With only the sound of the sheets rustling around their bodies, (Y/N) gave him one last hug before peeling away. She crawled out of his bed with Harry's eyes following her. 

She crossed his room with her dress flaring around her hips. Stopping in the threshold, she turned to look at him once more. 

"I made some spaghetti noodles for you if you're hungry, but if you want something from the restaurant, let me know." Her lips bloomed into a soft smile, though Harry didn't see the same warmth light her eyes. "I'll see you soon." 

"Have fun, (Y/N)." 

She didn't offer any cheeky promise the way she would have only weeks ago when embarking on a date. (Y/N)'s smile lingered on him for a passing moment before she left him be. 

Absently, while lying amongst his sheets, Harry heard her movements through the home. He didn’t have to see her to know that she was tracking down her shoes, spritzing a final spray of perfume, fluffing her hair and reapplying her lip gloss. Usually, he enjoyed watching these finishing touches, he thought it was cute how much effort she put into nights like these—even if he wasn't really a fan of the fact she was out meeting someone else. 

But, tonight, he almost wanted to rise from his bed like a zombie and catch her mid-haste. Stop her and force her to come back to his crypt to keep her forever. 

Nonetheless, the sound of the door swinging open only to be clicked shut a moment later filled the house. 

A throb rang through his head. 

He just needed to sleep.

—————

Slouched under a pile of blankets on the sofa, Harry almost wished he still had his migraine. That way he would have at least been distracted from watching the ticking time on his phone, the minutes pushing the night on later and later. 

And, (Y/N) still wasn't home. 

While he wasn't apt to admit it aloud, Harry knew tonight was the trigger for his migraine. The idea of (Y/N) all dressed up, sitting across from another over candlelight, flirting and playing footsie under the table, had his stomach roiling. He couldn't get himself to regret any moment spent with (Y/N), especially between the sheets or with her on her knees before him, but it definitely had to be the catalyst that was pushing him to take this first date so personal. 

That's what he deserved, messing around with his roommate who only thought of him as such. 

The pint of ice cream he plucked from the freezer was beginning to form a soup in the cardboard confines, unable to stomach any more of the comfort treat. It was nine p.m. and she still wasn't home. 

She would have texted him if she was planning on spending the night elsewhere, though. That was something she always did. She wouldn't have forgotten about him. Right?

Like an answer to unspoken prayers, the sound of the garage door lifting shuddered through the house. Twisting in his spot, he watched as she swept inside, her hair loose from its earlier constraints and her mouth in a thin line. 

(Y/N) didn't spot him at first, most likely figuring he was still holed up in his room. He watched as she dropped her bag from her shoulder, her jaw in a stern line. She definitely didn't have that shy, pleased expression he usually did after a first date gone well. No sheepish smile as she plucked her phone from her purse, no dreamy run of her hand through her hair. No smear of lipstick over the corner of her mouth, kissed away from another. 

He didn't interrupt her as she unhooked her shoes by the front door, the heels creating a mess he would later take care of. Only when she started, bare feet barely stomping against the floor, Harry piped up. 

"(Y/N)?" 

Practically jumping out of her skin, she let out an airy gasp. Her hand fluttered to the base of her throat, eyes wide as she spun on her toes. 

"H? I didn't think you'd be awake." 

Harry didn't want to get ahead of himself, but he swore he saw the tight lines on her face loosen. Her expression folded into curved lines and rounded edges. Eyes lighting as they met his. 

"Sorry," he muttered, a single dimple denting his cheek as a soft smile pulled his lips, "I didn't mean to scare you." 

"It's okay," she immediately waved off, half heartedly tossing her bag into her room before rushing towards his cocoon on the sofa, "How are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?" 

"'M alright," he shared, unfolding the edges of his many blankets to allow her underneath, "It went away a little while ago. After I ate." He gave her a pointed glance, nudging her shoulder with his to pull a small smile out of her. "Thank you for that." 

She shook her head. "Of course. I felt bad leaving you, but I'm happy you're better. What have you been doing?" 

Harry felt the presence of the half melted ice cream behind him like a confession. "Nothing really. Jus' watching some movies," he smiled, adjusting his position to keep her from spotting the confection on the side table behind him, "How was your date?" 

Just like that, her expression dropped. A familiar roll of her eyes had her features pinching. 

"He was the worst, H," she shared, melting into the cocoon of blankets he offered her, laying her head back on the cushions of the couch, "The worst." 

There was a traitorous spark of joy that fluttered in his chest. What kind of friend was happy to hear that someone they cared about had a bad night? 

"What happened?" 

With an exasperated shake of her head, she started listing off on her fingers, "Didn't let me talk for more than a sentence. Ordered my food for me without asking. Told me my lipstick reminded him of his mom—but he still thought it was hot, I guess. Asked me how many people I've slept with. And, if I thought he was hotter in person or in his pictures." 

Harry blinked. His jaw fell open.

"And thats just what I can remember," (Y/N) pressed, "I'm scared more happened and I just blocked it out." 

"(Y/N)," Harry started, total awe painting his features, "I... I don't think y'should use that app anymore." 

A breathy laugh fell from her lips. "Tell me about it. I just don't get it, H. I know it's not all men, but why are all men like this?!" Her contradictory question pulled a plume of laughter from his own lungs. "Truly, I don't get it," she went on, "Is it me? Or do they all really think that the best way to get me to sleep with them is to pretend that it's already a done deal? And why do so many of them have something going on with their mom, and don't think it's weird? 

"And on top of that," she continued, raising a finger as if to make the point that much more potent, "if they even get past dinner, it's never as good as they think it'll be! Sometimes, it's fine enough, but most of the time I feel like it's such a waste of my time and I end up coming back here and taking care of myself anyway. Am I crazy or something? Like, are my standards too high?" 

When she looked at him, blinking her fluttery lashes, Harry realized she was actually asking him. 

He was quick to shake his head, attempting to get the image of her tucked away in her bedroom taking care of herself wiped from his brain. 

"'S not you," he cemented, "Definitely not. 'M sorry so many people waste your time like that—and are so disrespectful." 

She rolled in her spot, moving closer to him for comfort. "It's not fair," she pouted, exhaling with exhaustion, "I hope this isn't weird to say, but I'm bored of having to look after myself, you know? I'm putting myself out there, giving people chances, and I still end up taking myself home and finishing the job. They don't make me feel good—about myself, or otherwise. It's exhausting being my own boyfriend." 

Harry's throat ran dry.

What was he supposed to say to this? He supposed they didn't have the same boundaries they started their friendship with years ago, but he wondered if he was even really supposed to hear these things? It felt like a diary entry, not something (Y/N) shared after a date gone wrong. 

It broke his heart to hear her blaming herself. To hear so candidly how exhausted she was having to be the one that took care of her needs, to make herself feel beautiful in the ways that she needed. He hadn't been taking care of her as well as he thought he had been. 

Her words made him realize just how easily he could be dropped into that same category. The pile of selfish men who took advantage of her giving nature and pretty eyes. 

She had made him cum at her hand twice, and not once had Harry even attempted to return to favor. He wasn't much better than a man on an app, was he?

"'M sorry, (Y/N)." 

She waved him off without a second thought. "It's okay, it's not your fault—" 

"It is," he cut her off, meeting her gaze steadfast, "I haven't been good t'you, like I thought. 'M not any better than any of them." 

(Y/N) stayed quiet as she took in his words, mouth in a small gape. 

"I... I haven't been trying m'best to make y'feel good—in any way y'want. I don't take care of you like I should." He hoped so badly she could spot the points he was trying to make; that he could be those things she wanted, as long as she let him try. He'd promise to never make any comparisons to his mom at least. 

"Harry," she started cautiously, "If you mean about the stuff we've done, it's not a big deal. I offer so—" 

"But it is," he said, swallowing around the clog in his throat, "'S not fair. I... I don't know much, but I can try. I'll be—or do—anything y'want, jus' might have to teach me a little." 

She blinked at him. 

Her pretty, pretty eyes glimmered as she took in the honesty in his features. A soft pout has her lips in a gape, exhales fanning between them. Looking at her like this, cheek smushed against the back sofa, Harry wondered how anyone could see her—have the privilege of being on a date with her—and not want to hear any and everything she had to say. He would have groveled on his knees just for a chance to impress her. 

Though, a large, selfish part of him was grateful that the others before him had fumbled their chances. Even if Harry never had a real chance himself, this was going to have to be enough, he decided. These moments tucked away in the privacy of their home were going to have to be enough. 

"Are you serious?" she whispered, eyes dropping to the shape of his lips before skittering back up to match his own. 

He could only nod, his mouth bone-dry. 

She shuffled closer to him, the blankets shifting around her form. Her words were tentative, "You know you don't have to, right? I'm okay with just doing things for you." 

"I know," he murmured, "But I want you. I-It's something new, you know." 

A soft smile decorated her features. "I guess so. All about the learning experience, you are." 

"Something like that," he played along, loosening up at her light-hearted attitude. 

Her hadn't reached through the folds of the blanket cocoon to wrap around his. Her palm was soft, just as the remembered, warm and inviting. Her thumb worked a comforting circuit on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Is there something specific you wanted to try?" she broached, her foot gently brushing against his calf under the quilt. 

"Anything y'like." 

Her lips curled. "Okay," she started, beginning to stand with her grip on his hand tightening to pull him along. "I have an idea then, but only if it sounds fun to you too." 

Harry's heart bumped against his ribs. It took an immense amount of effort to keep his eyes from drifting down her body. "What is it?" 

It was (Y/N)'s turn to grow sheepish, turning away to start leading him towards her bedroom. "You've never... like, eaten anyone out before, right?" 

Was it a bit pathetic that his cock stirred at her words alone? But that was just what it was like being around (Y/N), he supposed. 

"Never," he choked out, quickening his pace to push them along to her bedroom that much faster. His skin already felt heated at even the possibility of seeing what she had under her dress. 

A breathy laugh fell from her lips as she led him into her bedroom. It was a space Harry never really breached, not unless (Y/N) expressly called him in. Maybe that was why the wall of her scent seemingly slapped him in the face, the warm, sugary fragrance intoxicating him like a whiskey neat. 

It brought him right back to the morning between his sheets, nose tucked into her hair as she slid her hand down the length of his body. A shiver ran up his spine at the memory, hand pulsing around her own. 

(Y/N) kicked her thrown bag out of the way, tipping her head to look up at him. "You can relax, you know." 

"'M fine, 'm fine," he muttered as she drew him closer to the plush mess of her bed. 

Rumpled sheets and the thrown back comforter called to him, leaving him to imagine—a bit too vividly—what she looked like when she woke up wrapped up in the silky fabrics. Her satin eye mask was thrown haphazardly over the fluffed pillows, a golden kitten face sparkling in the overhead lighting. 

Before he could move any closer, she rounded in front of him, blocking his path to the mattress. "No really," she said, gazing at him through her lashes, "We don't have to do anything. You take care of me just fine without getting me off too, H." 

He was sure she intended her words to be a passing joke, something lighthearted to ease him into the uncharted territory, but Harry felt his heart do the exact opposite. The muscles of his abdomen tightened, chest stuttering.

"I want to," he said, rushing out the words without much thought. His throat bobbed as she swallowed around the dry lump. "I just... I want it to be good for you. That's all." 

Her teasing smile turned affectionate. Reaching her free hand up to his face, she cupped Harry's cheek in her palm. The pad of her thumb skated over the soft skin under his eye. 

"You're going to do just fine, H," she crooned, tipping her head back in a way that would make it so, so easy to catch her in a kiss. "Relax and have fun, and you'll do fine." 

Relax and have fun, she said. As if he were going away to summer camp and not about to push her dress up and put his face between her legs. 

She must have caught the expression on his features as a huff of laughter fanning from her lips. Rising to her toes, she pressed her lips to his cheek. It was a familiar affection, one she had shared with him much for the last couple of weeks, but the peck felt decidedly different at the moment. It was more, he thought. Especially in the way she lingers, lips brushing the very corner of his mouth as they had earlier in the evening, when she seemed so hesitant to leave him behind for her date. 

It took every effort not to turn his head and line his lips to hers, stealing a kiss. He reminded himself: if she wanted to kiss him, she would have. 

Instead, he fluttered his eyes to a close, leaning into the flush of her touch. 

When she finally drew away, (Y/N) looked at him with her bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Without having to say a word, he would have followed her whoever she wanted him.

Which, for tonight, appears to be her sage and bubblegum colored bed. 

She fell backwards atop the plush bedding, bringing him down with her as her hand was still twined in his. He fell atop her, already breathless as he gazed down at her. 

His mouth ran dry as his eyes met hers. She was entirely too pretty, too perfect, so out of his league. What was she thinking letting him even touch her, let alone inviting him to do more? Was she going to come to his senses and realize who he was? 

Harry hoped not. 

Bringing her hands to the nape of his neck, she curled the baby strands around the tips of her fingers. "Don't look so scared, H," she laughed, eyes searching his own, "You're making me feel bad—like I'm corrupting you or something." 

He shook his head. "Sorry, that's not—I don't... Don't feel bad," he insisted, "You're jus' so pretty, (Y/N). Don't know why you're even letting me be here, with you." 

A blooming smile appeared on her mouth. "Because I trust you, remember," she said, taking him back to those moments between his sheets, when he had confessed so much to her. "And, you're pretty too, you know. Your eyelashes are so unfair." 

A sheepish grin tilted his lips. "Thanks." 

"Just relax," (Y/N) repeated, her smile warming him, "Do whatever feels right, and if I want you to do something different, I'll tell you." 

Harry swallowed, nodding his head. He supposed that was going to be the only way he was going to learn. She couldn't exactly draw him a diagram and what exactly, movement by movement that she wanted out of him. (Or at least, not in a way that wouldn't kill the mood). 

Do whatever felt right, he thought as he dropped his head to the crook of her neck. He pecked his lips against the soft skin. His nose skimmed the column of her throat as he slowly moved, deposited kisses in his wake. His confidence grew as she craned her head back, lengthening her neck and giving him more space to make his mark. 

Though he wasn't planning on being quite as crude (not tonight, anyway), he tried to think of the videos he'd seen or the pages in books he's read. When he'd imagined himself in a moment like this, what had he craved to do? 

A light scrape of his teeth against the sensitive skin was the first in an experimental move. A soft sigh left (Y/N)'s lungs, goosebumps raising around his kiss. Spurred on by her reaction, Harry attempted a small bite to the same space. It was a nibble, barely holding onto the skin for more than a second before he released her to soothe with a lingering kiss. 

Her legs around his hips moved to close around him, caging him right where he was. A good sign, he decided. 

He gained confidence, letting his mouth linger on her throat, the kisses long and leaving small marks or glistening prints behind. A part of him was waiting for (Y/N) to correct him, tell him to do more, or do less. She never did, only holding the baby curls on the back of his neck and giving him the prettiest sounds. 

Even when he dared to dip his head lower and approach the neckline of her dress. The swells of her breasts heaved as she took in lingering breaths. Harry dared to peek up at her through his lashes as he kissed down to the top of her dress, the scalloped edge tickling his chin. He swore he could feel the beat of her heart rattling underneath her sternum.

(Y/N) laid with her eyes closed, lips parted. She looked entirely at peace as he kissed her body, micro twitches of her lips, the soft flutter of her already closed eyes, being the only giveaways to the fact that she was just as present in this moment as he was. 

A slight scrape of his teeth over the top of her breast had goosebumps reaching over her décolletage. A slight shift of her hips occurred underneath his own.

"H?" she breathed, feeling her chest move under his mouth as much as he heard the call of his name. 

"Hm?" he hummed, soothing the soft nip with a kiss of his saliva-slicked lips. 

"Um," she started, finding her voice, "Are you... Do you want to do more? Or just this?" 

"More," he answered automatically, "Yeah, more."

 Her smile was dreamy this time as he raised her head to look at him. "Okay," she started, a bit breathless compared to just moments before, "Are you alright with being on your knees? Or do you want me to move?" 

Harry didn't have to think before he was shaking his head. She wasn't adjusting a single part of herself, unless it was for her comfort or it fit her wants. Otherwise, he planned on taking on everything. If she wanted him on his knees, then that was what he was going to do. 

"'M alright," he said, already sinking to rest on his knees before her. 

Her thighs hesitantly unlocked from around his hips, letting him rest with the cuffs of his knees on the fluffy rug underneath her bed. The hem of her dress dangled before him, temptingly innocent with that same scalloped edging that had just grazed his chin. 

(Y/N) shifted where she laid. Her legs spread wide enough to allow him between, tightening the material of her dress around her thighs. Scooting closer to the edge, her hips were just barely situated amongst the bedding, the apex of her thighs just that much closer to his face. Harry grew incredibly antsy where he sat, hands restless in his lap and bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

She moved so comfortably, reaching for him as if he wasn't one of the most monumental moments of his life. 

"Okay?" she asked, craning her neck to look down at him. 

Harry jerked his head in a nod, decidedly a bit too frantic to match the nonchalant air of her. Though, (Y/N) only laughed, affection twined within the sound. 

"Um," he started, feeling his cheeks heat, "How do y'want me to start?" 

Laying back, she ran her fingers through his hair. "However you want. I'm ready whenever you are—really ready." 

Not allowing himself to process the implication of her words lest she completely burst into flames, Harry braced himself as he placed his hands gently on her knees. Absently, her legs parted that much more, leaving more room for him to make his home. 

"Okay," he shakily answered. 

It was easier said than done to just relax and have fun like she wanted him to. Instinctively, he wanted to pick apart every action, every touch, every breath. But, Harry knew he couldn't do that. If there was one thing—other than his lack of experience, of course—that would make this not pleasurable for (Y/N), it would be any hesitation or fear he had bleeding into his treatment of her.

Even if he wasn't sure of himself, he was going to have to pretend for the time being. He had to trust that if something wasn't right, (Y/N) would tell him and give him the chance to fix it. 

He muttered a quiet Okay to himself before sliding his hands over the cuffs of her knees. Her skin was soft under his palms, every bump, mark and scar that made up her story glided under his touch. Reaching the hem of her dress, he held his breath as he slid his fingertips under the material. 

Carefully, Harry pushed her dress up. As more and more of her skin was revealed, he could feel his own begin to heat. The warmth crawled up his throat the same way his hands moved up to the plush of her thighs. When his thumb grazed the soft inside of her thigh, he released the breath he'd been holding. The air fanned across her skin, drawing a layer of goosebumps to rise over her thighs.

Harry could hear her breathing stutter, the reaction spurring him on. 

Pulling her dress up until his fingertips met the edge of her underwear, Harry paused. 

"Um," he started, suddenly breathless compared to just moments before, "Tell me if you want me to stop." 

Her hands coasted through his hair, affectionate and warm even when she pulled him that much closer. "Okay, just... hurry." 

It wasn't a command, harsh and unforgiving, but Harry acted as if she gave him no choice. Hearing that small, breathy plea was enough to have him working quickly. Any and everything she wanted, she was going to get. Even if Harry did it with sweaty palms and flushed cheeks. 

 As per her request, he surged on. Taking the plunge and pushing her dress up the rest of the way, he left the material to pool at her waist, revealing her panties. They weren't lacy and extravagant, full of glittering thread or intricate beading. It was only a simple pair, covering her modesty in pink-dyed cotton, a red rosette stitched at the center of the waist. 

Nonetheless, the sight took Harry's breath away. No wonder there were people in the world addicted to this act. 

His hands shook as he set them on the bones of her hips. He knew she wanted him to hurry, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to move on from this. Not when he could see the fabric of her underwear clinging to the shape of her core underneath. The folds and lines of her pussy were clear, a small dot of wetness had collected on the gusset, darkening the material to a mauve tone. Just like the blush on her cheeks. 

He curled his fingers into the waist of her underwear, but didn't make any move to pull them down. He moved instinctively, dropping a kiss to the joint of her knee. He didn't linger there long, dragging his lips over her skin. He explored the expanse of her thighs though he kept his gaze trained on her core through the fan of his lashes. The very tip of his nose skimmed over her skin with peeks of his tongue appearing to connect the trail of his kisses the higher he moved up her leg. 

Harry stopped when he reached the leg of her panties, hesitating for only a moment before he surged forward and pressed his lips to the middle of her underwear. Her legs on either side of him tensed and made a move to close, turning him into a wedge between them. He could feel the outline of her beneath his kiss, complete with the bud of her clit pressing into his nose. 

(Y/N) let out an audible beneath at the touch. It was shaking and delicate, just barely loud enough for him to catch, but enough to let him know he was doing something right. 

The single peck he gave turned into a string of open-mouthed kisses, giving into his own desire to earn more of her essence. It was a teasing game, he thought, a game he was playing against himself. His cock stirred in his lap, a pinch appearing between his brows the more he forced himself to restrain. 

The material of her underwear was growing sodden from his affection, something that only furthered when he placed the flat of his tongue against her and gave a lingering lick. Despite being through her underwear, it was still enough to get a taste of her on his buds. 

"Harry," she breathed, voice watery, "I need more, please." 

Hearing the sound of his name wrapped up in her voice, spoken on her breathless tongue, was more than any fantasy could ever hope to be. He felt his eyes roll to the back of his head as he gave a punishing kiss to the bump of her clit. He lingered for only a moment, attempting to crew his head on straight before drawing away.

"Okay, okay," he started, "I can do that, love." 

She spread her legs in response, fingers tightening in his hair. 

He didn't think before he pulled her underwear down. (Y/N) assisted as she lifted her hips and angled her legs to help him pull them down. Once she settled again, she pulled her legs apart without a care. As if Harry wasn't witnessing the most beautiful thing he could imagine ever existing. 

Before him, she was laid bare. Her folds were glistening, parted just enough to show her pulsing opening. The bud of her clit was puffy at the top of her pussy, just where he could imagine his nose going when he dug his tongue inside her hole. Just like the rest of her, she was too pretty, too alluring. 

It was the tug on his hair that reminded him of the real world going on around him. "H," was her quiet whine. 

"I know, sorry," he breathed, shuffling on his knees towards her, his neck craning to be level with her core, "Jus'... You're perfect, (Y/N)." 

He could hear the quiet smile in her voice as she spoke, "Thanks, honey." 

It was enough to have his own puffy lips growing into a lopsided grin, a single dimple on his cheek. Honey. How sweet was she?

Mimicking his actions from before, he pressed his lips to the top of her slit. His chin pressed lightly into her seeping wetness, warm and sticky against his skin. A breathless sigh left her lungs in gentle relief. 

Shuffling on his knees, he hooked his hands around her hips. Instead of drawing away and giving himself a chance to become distracted by her once more, Harry dragged his mouth down the length of her. His breath fanned across her slick skin as he pressed his lips directly to her clit. It was a gentle kiss, though he didn't pull away when her legs tensed around him, thighs moving to attempt to wrap around his head. 

"Right there, hold on," she breathed, her first direction. 

Harry did as she requested, turning his single peck into a string of soft pulling kisses. Parting his mouth just enough, he fit her bud between his lips. He delivered a gentle suck to the pearl, getting his first real taste of her wetness on his tongue. Everything was heady and warm, a previously undiscovered delicacy. He could see himself sitting right where he was for hours on end, attempting to learn every intricacy of her taste. 

Laving his tongue over her clit seemed to be just enough for (Y/N) to peel more noises from her. She tensed against his touch, her opening pulsing against the point of his chin, muscles bunching in her abdomen. A quiet whine dripped from her throat. 

"Fuck, H," she whimpered, filling her messy room with something so pretty as her whining for him. "I-I—More, please. Inside, inside." 

 It was a treat alone to get to taste her, but nothing was like the whipped cream, and cherry on top that was her begging him for more, broken sentences stringing together.

Following along, he drifted away from her clit and dragged his tongue through her parted lips. Her slick collected on his tongue, washing over him and down his throat. It was his turn to let out a rumbling groan. His own pleasure bundled in his middle, urging his muscles to tense and bunch with his cock rising to the occasion. 

But this was all about (Y/N), as far as he was concerned. She was going to come first—in both ways.

He took his time to taste her. He felt the pulses of her opening urging him to do as she requested and plunge his tongue inside, but he wanted a selfish moment to get every taste of her he could. More and more slick seeped out of her as he cleaned her, matching the stuttering of her breathing and the trickling stream of quiet moans she let out above him. 

With his chin wet and nose pressed to her clit, Harry dipped lower on her pussy until his mouth was level with her hole. The tip of his tongue danced around the shuddering entrance, (Y/N)'s fingers curling in his hair, the roots beginning to burn just enough under her grip. 

"H," she cried, a pleading note to her voice. 

He knew what she needed, and he wasn't planning on making her work hard for her pleasure. 

With that, he pressed his tongue inside her. Her walls shuttered and pulsed around him, sucking him inside. He could feel the ridges of her as he writhed his tongue inside, feeling the spongey give just beside her opening. (Y/N) let out a shuddering sigh. 

Harry pressed his face harshly against her, eager to taste more and more of her. His breathing came out heavily, fanning over her glistening skin and pearling bud. Slick noise filled the room as he began making tentative strokes of his tongue through her, pulling back just enough before plunging through once more. 

"Oh my god, Harry," she breathed, plush thighs becoming earmuffs around his head. She pulled his head towards her core with her grip on his hair, nose scrunching against her clit. "Y-You—You're so good, so good." 

If not for his busy mouth, Harry was sure a prideful grin would have decorated his face. But he was much too engrossed in tasting her praise. He could feel the sticky wetness dripping over his chin, beginning to river down his jaw. 

Focusing on the movements of his tongue in hopes of drawing more praise of her, Harry barely noticed the way the grip on his hair changed. (Y/N), with her renewed leverage, moved his head against her, wagging his chin over her slick. She shook his head against her core, a grumbling moan leaving his throat as he felt her walls pulsing around his tongue, her clit throb against the tip of his nose. 

A string of curses fell from (Y/N)'s lips, her plush thighs tight around his head. He could feel her toes curling around his back as she hooked her ankles underneath his shoulder blades. A broken whine croaked from her throat. 

"Harry, I-I'm sorry, I think I'm gonna cum," she bubbled, apparently delusional if she thought she needed to apologize.

Unwilling to pull away from her, he could do nothing other than commit to tasting her to show her that he didn't mind. He wanted to feel her pleasure wash over him, to taste every bit of her release. She had quit her pulling of his hair, her bones going lax, leaving Harry to take over what he was learning she liked. 

He wagged his head against her core, digging his tongue inside her. Shifting his hand over her wriggling hip, he dared to meet the pad of his thumb to her budding clit. She practically jumped out of her skin, her insides snug around his tongue. 

Despite the slight tremor to his hands, he circled his thumb around her clit. There was so much to keep track of, so much he wanted to make sure was perfect and worth it for her. But, he knew everything was a bit messy, a bit off-kilter, not the pristine experience he wanted to give her. Though (Y/N) didn't seem to mind; she appeared to like the messy, clumsy way he was eager to get her off. Even if that meant she was going to end the night with puffy lips and slick thighs. 

"H, honey," she cried, a crackle entering the syllables of the pet name, "I-I'm gonna—" 

He nodded his head against her. Do it, please. I want to taste, please, please, please. 

As if she could hear his thoughts, it took only another circuit of his thumb over her clit and a plunge of his tongue through her pussy that he felt everything tighten. 

Every muscle in her bunched and warmed while her bones went loose. She came around his tongue with her legs wrapping around his head, trapping him just where he wanted to be. He writhed his tongue inside of her, working her through the pulsing, shaking orgasm he was lucky enough to serve to her. 

Every moan and bubble of his name was a fire to Harry's blood, warming him from the inside out. His cock was full and hard in his lap, aching to feel what it would be like to truly be inside her. Despite the distracting fantasy, he stitched his attention solely on her, working her through the pleasure. 

Harry could have sat there on his knees for hours, helping her come down, but eventually, (Y/N) appeared to start floating back down to earth. Her thighs around his head loosened first, her toes uncurling. She cringed away from him once the feel of him was too much, her nerves too sensitive to allow him to keep going. 

The grip she had used on his hair that kept him pinned to her now became the force pushing him away. It took a bit of effort before Harry realized she was wanting him to stop, too caught up in the taste, and feel, and absolute wonder at knowing that he had this effect on her. 

Pulling his head away, Harry looked up at her with swollen, slick lips. From where he sat on his knees, he was granted an angle of her face. He saw her puffy lips parted, slight marks within the pillow of the bottom one where her teeth had sunk in. He swore her skin held a new radiance—the kind he'd never seen on her before, but wouldn't be able to get out of his head for a while. Or ever, really. 

All at once, a wave of something overwhelming washed over him. Here he sat, with the taste of her on his tongue, his heart beating wildly in his chest and skin warm. All while his dream girl sat above him, fanning lashes and pretty lip gloss on her mouth. He didn't have to check to know that her own heart was hammering in her chest. He could feel the heat pouring off of her skin already. She had his mark, however faint and fading, on her neck. 

This was (Y/N). And she was here, with him. She had a beating heart, and stilted lungs. He had a working list of all the things he loved about her, but it all boiled down to the brain in her head and her heart in her chest. The idea that she had thought about him at all, let alone enough to be here with him tonight when there was a world outside waiting for her, had a different kind of bliss blooming inside him.

He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. 

Rising on shaky legs (it appeared the fluffy rug wasn't enough to cushion his knees like he thought), Harry moved on autopilot as he fell atop her. Instead of kissing down her neck, his lips met her cheek. His arms wrapped around her middle, her dress shifting down her waist to make room for the cage of his forearms. 

(Y/N) didn't hesitate before she looped her arms around his neck. 

"H," she crooned, energy depleted, "That was—You're... perfect." 

It was breathless the way she spoke. In Harry's heart, he wanted to believe it was from the same awe that he felt. 

"You," he countered, refusing to draw too far from her skin, "You're perfect, (Y/N). You're... everything." 

It was cheesy and cliche, but his overwhelmed brain couldn't think of anything better. She was everything. She was every bright morning made for easy breakfast, and chilled night made for cuddling. She was the fulfilling nights spent under blankets with only the most comforting movie on the television. She was the best dinner money could buy. She was the feeling of a sweet animal choosing you as its person. She was a rainy afternoon with a new favorite book. She was everything. 

Everything led back to her. 

It was (Y/N) that had paused for a moment before turning her head just enough to match her lips to his. He all but melted into her. 

A moment he had been waiting for. He'd missed kissing her as if he'd been doing it his whole life. Oxygen didn't sound appealing when there was the option of pressing his mouth to hers. Slotting his lips to hers felt like second nature, allowing a soft taste of her mouth, uncaring of the lipstick painted over her pout.

Lips smearing against one another, Harry felt his brows pinch. While it wasn't his ecstasy that had filled the room, the high tension from wanting, aching to give her pleasure was beginning to crash down on him. His arms around her waist tightened, his hands cupping the curve of her waist with denting fingers. 

How was he to go on after this? This night was a turning page, spurring him on before he could have a second thought. 

"I'd do anything for you," he murmured, blurting out his thoughts without hesitation. He didn't even lift his lips from her own, his affections wafting over her mouth. "Not-Not jus' this—I'd do anything for you, (Y/N)." 

"I know, H," (Y/N) smiled, smoothing his hair back, "You're the best friend I—" 

"No," he cut her off, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead on her own. He didn't dare open his eyes, lest the courage bubbling behind his ribs be doused. "'S more than that," he confessed, breathless, "I... I care about you s'much. I want to make y'happy, and I don't want y'to have to use your apps anymore. I... I can do the hard work for you—y'don't have to be on your own." 

He clung to her the way he clung to the hope that she was understanding what he was saying. That she was on the same page. Or even reading the same book as him. 

It was (Y/N) that made the move to draw away from him, even when he chased after her mouth. She stopped him with a hand cupping his cheek. 

Her eyes were downturned, lips parted and swollen. "You care about me?" 

He wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do at the moment, but Harry couldn't stop himself before the words tumbled out of him: "I love you." 

Her expression softened before his eyes. Something melted swam in her eyes, swirling and glistening. Her skin was warm, plump with simmering blood. Just barely, he caught the very edge of her mouth up turning into a small smile. 

"You love me?" 

"More than anything." 

She tugged him down for another kiss. It was messy and clumsy, off center, but still incredibly perfect. 

"I thought you just like being friends with me," she laughed against his kiss, "I didn't want to freak you out in case you just... you know. Oh my god, you love me." 

"I love you," he repeated, unsure of how she could ever have a doubt over his feelings but determined to wipe them away. "Love being friends with you, but it would be kind of nice to be more." 

Another laugh, this one giddy came from (Y/N). "It would be really nice, huh. Oh, H, I love you too." 

His heart soared, taking over the space at the base of his throat. If he thought he was overwhelmed before, that was nothing compared to the swirling mass of everything brewing inside him. 

She loved him. She loved him like he loved her. 

Harry could only kiss her, could only hug her tight. (Y/N) clung to him just as tightly. 

He could have laid atop her for hours on end, kissing her and keeping her snug against his heart—right where she belonged. But, (Y/N) once again had the clearer brain.

She nudged her nose against his, knocking him to smear his lips over her cheek instead. 

"Do you think we could have a sleepover again tonight?" 

It was his turn to let out a bubbling laugh. As if he was planning on leaving her to sleep by herself tonight. 

"Anything y'want, love." 

—————

strawberries represent perfection; the sweetest at the end of june

thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and please sned n any fun ideas you have!

[beloveddawn-blog]

Call Out Doom! Aika Has a Sleepover!

Fandom: Pretty Pretty Please I Don't Want to be a Magical Girl

Rating: PG for swearing

Summary: Akia and Zira have a sleepover. Evil has other ideas.

Word Count: 2500

Notes: This is for @kianamaiart's amazing new project! The idea came from @shroudtailor in an ask. Sorry for stealing it, but I just fell in love with the idea. Also this might be wildly OOC considering the pilot isn't out yet, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

“You could tell me how accurate it is! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

No, that would be the last thing I’d find ‘fun’ Aika thought, but when faced with Zira’s excitement all that she could actually say was, “Sure. Does Thursday work for you? We’ve got a Pro-D day on Friday so we’ll have some extra time.”

“That would be awesome!” Zira cried, vibrating with excitement. “I just gotta check with my Mom, okay? I’ll get back to you by the end of the day! She doesn’t answer my texts at work.”

Aika did her best to hide her wince at that. It was going to be a loooooooong weekend.

*

19:00

Zira’s house

“Thanks so much for coming, Aika! I hope you don’t mind that we’re watching it in the basement. It’s all set up for Dad to have his football buddies over, so at least it’s comfortable. It’s a bit away from the bathroom and kitchen, but we’ll have privacy. If we were in the living room Mom and Dad would be… well… they phrase it as it’s my house and I can go where I want and I guess they aren’t wrong but also, like, I don’t wanna hang out with them today? They’re my parents, they’re embarrassing, and they don’t even like Moon Sailor so I don’t know why they’d wanna watch anyway…” 

“Sound like my kinda people.” Aika muttered under her breath as she followed Zira down the stairs.

“What was that?” Zira asked, turning almost completely around on the stairs in a way that made Aika reflexively reach for them, her training shining through like it always did.

“I said it’s their loss.” She fibbed, basking in the way Zira’s face lit up at that.

“It is.” They agreed. “But that’s okay. I can share it with you now!”

Aika melted at that, her trepidations about the plan leaving her as her resolve hardened. It was just an anime. She reminded herself. If Zira likes it this much, how bad can it really be?

*

19:23

Zira’s House

“Don’t touch that cat!” Aika yelled at the screen, stuffing popcorn in her mouth. “That cat is bad news! Walk on by, girlie!”

“That would make for a very short show.” Zira replied wryly, sitting primly on the edge of the couch to avoid Aika’s animated limbs.

“It would make for a very happy show.” Aika insisted, inspecting her next handful of popcorn critically. Zira had no idea what she was looking for, but it appeared she found it as she stuffed that one in her mouth as well.

“Then it would just be a show about her failing her math test. Who’d watch that?”

“Excuse you, Azumanga Daioh is amazing.”

*

20:52

Zira’s House

“Dooooooooooon’t. Don’t do that. Just don’t.” Aika was hiding behind her hands like she was expecting a jumpscare. Zira shifted towards her in concern. The mist and the computers were a little creepy, but this still wasn’t really a scary episode. For someone who fought for real at times, Aika was being a bit of a baby about this.

“Don’t just declare her your friend, you only just met her.” She continued, her voice so soft Zira had to strain to hear it. The main girl embraced her new teammate, and Aika hid behind her hands with a squeak.

You’d have thought it was Jason with his chainsaw, the way she was acting.

*

22:22

Zira’s House

“Have you ever been on a cruise ship?” Zira asked, curious about the way Aika was scoffing.

“No. But do you hear those two? Ridiculous! She should have taken her night off and let her so-called friends deal with this nonsense. A long bubble bath would be way better than fighting a sea monster, and they said they didn’t want her there!”

*

22:45

Zira’s House

“Wait, they actually have character deaths in this show? I thought it was for kids!”

“... He’s a bad guy.”

“Still.”

*

00:39

Zira’s House

“She’s so stupid. So stupid. Why is everyone so stupid?”

“She’s in love.” Zira replied softly, taking some offence at Aika’s sarcasm for the first time.

“She’s still better than that. She can’t be making mistakes like this. Not this late in the game. Not with this much riding on them… And not when it’s so obviously a trap. Be honest, Zira, don’t you think you’d hesitate on the One True Love thing if it turned out they were flirting with every girl in town? Don’t you think she deserves better than a love like that?”

Zira paused, then nodded. It caused Aika to tug slightly on their hair from where she was styling it into two buns (“So we’ll match!). Aika let go then, and her voice dropped even softer. “She deserves her own future. Not just what everyone says fate has in store for her.

Zira didn’t know how to answer that, so she just laid her head on Aika’s knee in comfort.

*

03;17

Zira’s House

“Zira… I’m sorry to say this but I need to go to sleep.” Aika had curled up against the arm of the sofa almost two episodes ago, and now she was starting to do that jerk-startle thing that made it clear sleep was imminent.

Zira pouted. They couldn’t help it! This had been… This had been nice, even if Aika did take everything the characters did a bit personally. Halfway through the second villain arc she’d actually developed some sort of rubric and was giving all of the main characters scores like they were figure skaters and Zira had laughed so hard at some of her commentary that their sides still hurt.

They just… Didn’t want this to end.

Aika jerked awake again and Zira nodded, acknowledging that her friend-they were friends-was at the end of her rope.

“Alright. Pop up for a moment. The couch pulls out.”

Aika groaned dramatically and flopped herself over the arm of the sofa, landing in an undignified heap on the floor. Zira couldn’t help smirking at that, especially since it was so obviously on purpose. “‘S all yours.” She slurred with a slight wave. “Have at.”

Zira laughed again, then quickly set up the bed. As fast as it had been, Aika had still almost passed out on the floor. Zira had needed to help her up and tuck her in.

“Not much of a teenager sleepover.” She teased, though truth be told all of their information on sleepovers was theoretical. “I thought we’d aim for sunrise.”

Aika snorted. “Past m’bedtime. By… lotttttttttt… Hoshi g’n’a fight ‘bout it. “Mind me a… smother…” The last word trailed off in a soft exhale as she passed fully out, a surprisingly loud snore her next noise.

Zira tamped down on the wild urge to coo about it and instead got herself into the other side of the bed. They’d switched to pjs shortly after midnight with this in mind. And, as much fun as it was to tease Aika, she was also fading fast.

Between one breath and the next, darkness came.

*

06:23

Zira’s House

“Hmmm? Whazzat?” Zira muttered, a strange noise pulling them from sleep.

“Don’t worry about it.” A soft, familiar voice replied and Zira smiled. “It’s just the star shard.”

Zira hummed and fell back asleep.

*

10:03

Zira’s House

Zira was awoken suddenly by a loud thump. She shot up in alarm, only to blink dazedly at Aika. Aika, who was wearing her work uniform. Aika, who was staring at the floor in confusion as she tried to figure out why she was lying on it.

Zira blinked and went with the obvious question. “Are you alright?”

Aika turned her gaze up, then grinned when she saw Zira. “Oh good. Right basement this time.”

Zira turned that over in her mind for a moment before disregarding it. That wasn’t a question they needed answered right now.

“Do you need a hand?”

Aika waved her own around. “Got TWO!” She proudly announced, followed by a pitiful, “Owwwwwwie,” as she brained herself with her own staff.

“Have you been…” Zira hesitated, not quite knowing how to phrase this. “Out?”

“Growth ray got tested on a Chiuaua.” She confirmed, flopping down onto the floor. “Didn’t want to hurt the dude, ‘s not his fault, but the downtown was a mess. During rush hour too!”

Zira nodded, not quite sure how else to acknowledge that. “So… you definitely need a nap. Did you want breakfast first? Mom got this whole Dutch… thing for us to have. There’s bread and like four types of cheese and these weird chocolate sprinkles. Her uni roommate used to feed it to her on the weekend.”

Aika shook her head petulantly. “Nooooooooo. We had a… a plan. To watch the thing. Your thing. With the magic girls. I’m fine. I’ve had like… four redbulls. They’ll kick in in a moment.”

“Aika… You’re in no shape to watch Moon Sailor right now. You won’t even be able to pay attention.” They got out of bed and stretched. “Besides, I’m hungry. I’m gonna go grab us breakfast, kay? Just wait here.”

Aika gave her a thumbs up and a grin that held just an edge of mania to it as Zira passed… and was expectedly asleep on the floor upon return. Zira shook her head and hoisted her friend back onto the bed. Aika’s transformation had faded as soon as her conscience did, and Zira made sure to place the star shard carefully on the side table where Aika could see it as soon as she woke up.

It was precious, after all. It was what allowed Aika to transform.

*

15:37

Corner Store Near Zira’s House

“I’ve told you like a dozen times that you don’t need to apologize.” Zira insisted, snagging some gummy worms off the display. “Now pick a candy so we can go look at whatever dubious cheeses they have paired with the pepperoni over there.”

“For now.” Aika replied glumly. She perked up afterwards, but Zira could tell it was just a mask. Those words turned themselves over and over in her mind, but she put that away as well.

For now she would honour Aika’s unspoken plea and match her energy. They still had a whole weekend together. There was no sense in ruining it now.

*

16:53

Zira’s House

“Don’t eat too many of those pep ‘n’ cheds.” Zira warned. “Dad’s doing a BBQ tonight. You’re gonna want room for burgers.”

Aika stared critically at the snack in her hand, completely ignoring the show in the background. “I’m not sure if I’m tasting the cheese or just the spices from the pepperoni. I’ll have to give Monterey Jack another try some other time, I think.”

“Sounds like a plan.” They replied, tuning back in to the show just in time to watch two of the heroes make utter fools of themselves in front of a guy who already had a girlfriend. She winced. Aika probably had the better idea.

*

21:33

Zira’s House

“Thanks for being such a good sport about that.” Zira commented softly, eyes boring holes into the second fake male lead in as many days. “They… ah… have been worried. About the no friends thing. So they’re… A bit overdoing it. Thanks for not making it weird.”

Aika laughed, followed by one of the groans she’d been periodically letting out since her fourth burger. It had not stopped her from having a fifth. “Dude, don’t even worry about it. Your Mom brought seven types of cheese home with her. Seven. Then made a cheese platter while your Dad was cooking! I’m just glad I didn’t make it weird myself by asking to be adopted on the spot!”

Zira laughed at that, ignoring how weird an adoption would make… things. “I’m pretty sure you’d want to go home eventually. Their overwhelming parentness really starts to grate after a few days.”

Aika hummed, sounding unconvinced. “Why do people keep falling for the fake dude? Can’t any of these airheads tell it isn’t him?”

Zira let herself be distracted, as ready as Aika to drop the subject.

*

21:43

Zira’s House

“He fell for the fake too?? Never mind, those dumbasses deserve each other!”

*

23:58

Zira’s House

“They enrolled in Princess school?!? How do they keep getting dumber every episode? That’s it, they all fail this episode. All of them. And what sort of Finishing School teaches frisbee anyway??”

*

02:07

Zira’s House

“SHIT! Shit, don’t panic!” Aika sprang from the couch in a manner that completely belied the way she had been dozing mere seconds previous. Her star shard was pulsing and vibrating in a way she knew very well, but had been hoping wouldn’t happen for at least a few days (forever).

“Again?” Zira asked, and Aika flinched at the implied criticism in the question.

“Sorry.” She replied, staring down at her most hated possession and wishing it to the depths of the ocean. “I’m really sorry. I know we’re on the finale now and the timing is terrible…”

“Fuck the timing.” Zira replied with fervor. “Aika, you’ve had like nine hours of sleep across the last three days. You can’t go out now!”

Aika gave her a grin, but there was too much darkness in it to lighten anything. “That’s just how it is, Zira. I don’t get movie nights, I don’t get family meals, heck I don’t even get birthdays off. I’ve snuck out of both of the last Christmases. Even most on-call jobs you can schedule some important time off, but not here.  I have to answer, so I’m never going to get to have anything that’s mine again. That’s what being a Magical Girl means. We just saw two of them die, and it’s supposed to be sad but I was jealous. They don’t have to answer the call anymore.”

That was entirely too heavy for Zira to manage at this time of night, so instead she just said the first thing that came to mind. “There’s four more seasons. They come back.”

“OF COURSE THEY FUCKING DO!!!”

*

03:15

Zira’s House

Aika was fairly certain this was the right basement and she wasn’t going to have any more incredibly awkward encounters. She was proven right when she was Zira, still waiting up for her, and she smiled.

“Sorry ‘bout… that.” She said, covering a giant yawn that appeared in the middle. “I was as quick as I could be. Let’s finish off this finale.”

Zira eyed her critically, then shook her head. Aika felt her heart drop to her feet. One more who can’t take it…” She thought, but was surprised when Zira just came over to wrap her in a blanket and hand her a cup of milk. She blinked at it, caught totally off guard.

“The internet said the fight was over.” Zira admitted, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “So I got you some milk. We’ll watch the finale tomorrow. For now, I think we could both use some sleep.”

Zira led her towards the bed, and Aika followed in a complete daze. She wasn’t sure yet if this was the first step to acceptance or leaving… but for now she’d take it. She’d take it.

For some reason her teammates had never been as lonely as she was.

She felt asleep with the warmth of a friend beside her, and her last thought was maybe I don’t have to be any more.

She’d forget it before she woke.

[cy-cyborg]

How The Owl House did amputee representation right before Eda ever lost her arm - Disability in Media

[ID: A screenshot of Eda from The Owl House, an old woman with pale skin, very large, grey hair and pointed ears in a red dress. Beside the screenshot on a dark pink background is text that reads "Disability in media, How the Owl House got amputee representation right before eda ever lost her arm." /End ID]

Dana Terrace's The Owl House has some of the best disability rep I’ve seen on a Disney channel show in a long time, with Eda, the main character’s mentor, being one of many stand-out examples.

Plenty of people have discussed how Eda’s curse and the loss of her magic can work as an allegory for disability and how refreshing it is to see a story (especially one aimed at a younger audience) who’s focus is not on her “overcoming” it, but learning to accept it as a part of her and go from there. Eda’s story tackles a lot of subjects that are often mishandled in other examples of disability representation, from the subject of parents who refuse to accept, to glass siblings and much, much more, The Owl House handles all these topics beautifully.

But one thing that dawned on me during my most recent re-watch of The Owl House is how well Eda (and later Lilith) worked as amputee representation, long before Eda actually lost her arm.

One of the side effects of Eda and Lilith’s curse is that sometimes their body parts, mainly their limbs, can fall off. It doesn’t hurt them, and Eda is seen removing them intentionally at multiple times in the series, but they can always be reattached.

[ID: an image of Eda holding her sister Lilith's hand. Lilith is a pale woman with long, black hair, wearing grey clothes. She is looking at her other arm suprised, as her hand is missing. Luz, a Latina girl with short brown hair and a purple hoodie is looking on, smiling. /End ID]

While most likely unintentional, the way the show depicts this with Eda in particular is exactly what I wish more people would do with their prosthetic-using amputee characters.

Eda detaches her limbs, especially her legs, when they’re inconvenient or when she’s relaxing.

[ID: an image of Eda laying on the couch in a bathrobe, her hair in a towel. She has taken her legs off, throwing them to the other side of the seat. /End ID]

The fact that this is mostly played for laughs is actually a good thing in my opinion (though obviously, the show’s overall tone is part of that), as it shows the audience who are mostly children and teens, that in a world of weird and downright scary (from the perspective of the characters) things, this isn't one of them. It’s just a thing she and Lilith can do, and it can even be funny.

[ID: An image of Luz and Eda dressed as pirates. Eda is sitting on the ground, her legs detached and off screen somewhere. /End ID]

It does startle Luz and Lilith on a few occasions, but that’s more because they didn’t know the curse could do that, but once they’re introduced to it, it’s never really brought up as a big deal again.

I’d love to see more amputee characters who do this with their prosthetics. So often media is almost afraid to have amputees take their prosthetics off on camera or on the page. For some folks, our prosthetics are like a part of our bodies, but that doesn’t mean we never take them off. Show your leg amputee flop on the couch and throw their legs across the room. Have them go without on occasion, not because they have to, but because they just don’t feel like putting them on.

Likewise, the owl house creators never shy away from showing Eda when her limbs aren’t all attached. A lot of media, and kid’s shows in particular, will avoid having an amputee character’s stump visible if they ever do take their prosthetics off - treating that part of the character’s body the same way they treat gore or nudity. I’ve talked before how this actually does have a real impact on how kids in particular react to amputees - I’ve legitimately had kids I worked with cry when I took my prosthetics off, then immediately calm down when they see there’s nothing "scary" under my socks. As much as I love How To Train Your Dragon, it’s very guilty of this. Hiccup looses his leg at the end of the first movie, and wakes up with his prosthetic already attached. The Netflix series has a few instances where he has his prosthetic off, but the camera almost always avoids showing it until he can cover it up again, or is super zoomed-out so you wouldn’t be able to “see anything”. To their credit, they do get better with this in the last movie (though it's still always covered), but for the majority of the series, they are very reluctant to have any shots where hiccup’s leg is in view without the prosthetic (unless they’re very far away).

[ID: a screenshot of Hiccup from How To Train Your Dragon 3, a white man with short brown hair, and one leg missing, wearing armour made of black dragon scales and no prosthetic. He is holding onto toothless's head, a black dragon. /End ID]

Ironically, Eda does (permanently) loose an arm at the end of season 2, but I don’t really have much to say about her as amputee representation on that front, since she’s absent for a lot of Season 3, and when we do see her again, everything is so hectic, the story doesn’t really have any time to focus on her missing limb (which is reasonable). I will say, I do appreciate that they kept the amputation when she's in her owl-beast form in the finale, but there's honestly not much more to say about it. We do see her again in the epilogue after she’s had some time to settle into the amputation, wearing a hook prosthetic, but it’s, once again, too quick to really say anything from a representation standpoint. There's a few little nit-picky things I could bring up, like the fact they seemed to change the type on amputation she had (when she looses it, we see the split was very close to the elbow, but in the epilogue she has most of her forearm again) but those read to me more like animation mistakes or an odd prosthetic/clothing designs rather than a representation issue - and as someone who's worked in animation, given the stress the team was under for the finale, I'm not really worried about it. Like I said, it's more nit-picky than anything.

[ID: A screenshot of Eda, her hair tied back and wearing a red robe and a hook for her right hand. /End ID]

Despite all that though, I still think Eda is still good amputee representation, but mostly because of how they depict her curse’s side effects rather than her actual amputation. She’s honestly one of the only characters that I think you could refer to as “amputee coded” (outside of maybe Teen Titan’s Cyborg), and I genuinely wish more creators would treat their actual amputee characters the same way the Owl House treats Eda in that regard.

[xetlynn]

an artists muse- a viktor fic.

eleven.

[ten] [eleven] [twelve]

faithful to its nature, its power never diminished.

Arms wrap around you sweetly, you lean into it. Wanting nothing more but to stay in the moment. “you’re so pretty.” And you look over to see Viktor. You smile, going in to place a kiss on his lips. It was perfect. The room was dark, only dimly lit by the laptop screen that played…

That played um… What is it playing? You pull away from the kiss, to look over at the device that was beginning to look weird. “What the-” “[Name]?” You look back over to Viktor who was now replaced by Powder. Your best friend. You furrow your eyebrows, slightly in disgust. You blink a few times.

“What?” You rasp and you hear Powder laugh, her arm rested on your waist as the two of you lay together on your bed watching a show. “Dude, you passed out.” She announces. “We’ve only watched one episode.” She tells you and you scrunch your face. Trying to register what was happening. “Sorry.” 

She raises a brow at you. “Have a nightmare or something?” Powder sits up, her arm going back to her own side. You frown momentarily at the loss of her warmth. “No, I- it was stupid.” You shrug your shoulders, sitting up as well. Staring down at your fingers as your face grows flustered. “Tell me about it.” 

You think back to the short, painfully short dream. “It was about Viktor. For the hundredth time.” You sigh, annoyed with your own brain. Creating such imagery in your own head that you now have to think about when you’re conscious. “Mm, not surprised.” Powder huffs out a laugh, leaning into you as she also pauses the show. “Thanks.” You scoff, sliding off the bed to stretch out your limbs. 

“No problem, but seriously I have a question.” Your best friend follows suit, jumping on the ground. Surely to give you guys another complaint by the people underneath you. “What?” You ask, heading over to your desk, plopping down on the rolly chair.

“Do you love him or something?” The question catches you off guard and your eyes almost pop out of your own head. “Love?” You repeat.

“Yeah, if I’m wrong you can tell me but I only ask because this is like a heartbreak [Name]. I’ve never seen you this… disheveled over any break ups you’ve had.” Powder explains her reasoning. 

And thinking back to it, she’s right. With your past relationships, that was official, you’ve never really given it another thought when it ended. It was over and yeah you were sad for a little bit but this is different.

Your chest ached with the mention of Viktor. In most dreams there he existed, holding and loving you, and each time you pleaded it was real when you wake up. Only to be left with the harsh reality that you ruined that chance of being tangible.

You beat yourself up every second you're alone. 

“I don’t know. It had only been two-three weeks of getting to know one another. I feel love is a strong word for that.” You tell her truthfully. “Did you love him when he was your online friend?” She inquires and your eyes travel over to your phone. “I had love for him. He was a close friend but can you fall in love with someone you technically never met?” You question, it was something you asked yourself quite a lot. Did you love Ma? Could you fall for someone you never saw face to face. Was that possible? And if it was, is it pathetic? 

“I think so, I mean you know who he is now. Is the feeling the same for both?” 

“Why are you interrogating me?” You ignore the last sentence, now feeling on edge on how deep this was getting. “Just curious.” She hums. “I don’t know the answer.” And truthfully you didn’t. 

Love? You don’t even know if you’ve ever truly loved someone. As time passed you believed you weren’t capable of loving someone more than a friend. With your exes it never felt right. In those relationships you were honestly miserable. No motivation, putting on a mask, and not being true to yourself. 

You couldn’t enjoy your interests. Your art is forgotten about.

With Ma… or Viktor. Both. That never happened. If anything you were more motivated.

In high school you stayed up until ungodly hours, painting, sketching out sculptures based on the sound of Ma’s voice. The colors you saw, the feelings you felt all put into your art. 

Specifically the crowd paintings you created. Crowds of people. Crowds of familiar faces but not the one you wanted to see. A face that you hadn’t gotten the chance to meet blurred out but facing you in each painting. Only one figure that stood there, staring back at you. No features attainable to recognize.

And you hated it. You wanted to know who it was.

“Wonderful ideas, wonderful models. I don’t think I’ve had such intelligent and creative students as I do this year. Take this time to inspect others' projects and mingle with one another.” Your biology professor tells the class, everyone of you standing up to his directions. 

Viktor and you stick together, unintentionally throughout the room. No words said between either of you.

You admire your fellow classmates' work, clicking through the slides on each laptop. Reading thoroughly through their slides. Silently gushing at the way they decorated their boards. Viktor observes you the entire time. 

The words of his friends stick in his mind. You don’t entirely seem upset? But if they had seen it themselves, surely they’re not lying to him. His eyes scanned your face closely. A hardened gaze, his jaw clenching subconsciously.

Did he want to see you upset? Why would he want that? To know you’re hurting just as much as he is? Would he wish that pain on someone he lo- he respects? 

No, he wouldn’t.

You look back at him with a polite smile. “Right?” His eyebrows furrow, confused. “What?” He asks hesitantly, his cheeks fell warm as he is put on the spot by you. You snicker. “I said, their work is so organized, maybe the two of you would hit it off.” You repeat, your breath now caught in your throat. Wondering if that was too friendly too soon. He glances over to the people’s work. 

It had no color, monotonous and tidy. Is that what you think of him? Bland, tasteless and… boring? 

His head bows down, a ghost of a nod. “Sure.” He dryly replies, unfortunately feeding into your worries. “Did I say something wrong?” You quietly inquire as you guys head to the next board. A clique of students pushing past you. 

“No?” He averts your eye contact. Was he actually upset that you think of him like that? 

“Oh.” You puff out your cheeks, not knowing what else to say.

The voices of others cover the awkward beats of silence between the two of you.

“Am I that mundane to you?” He was almost inaudible when he asked the sudden question. You cock your head to the side. Your mouth opens to answer but he lets out a scoff shaking his head.

“Don’t answer that.” He walks ahead of you. 

Mundane? Why would he think that? You pointed out the person’s tidiness because of how put together Viktor is. You admired that.

He preferred things a certain way, his room showed that. He still had a personality outside of that. His energy drew you in. The way he held himself, the enigmatic essence but also the familiarity you felt.

And now you know the familiarity was Ma. They were the same person.

Ma used to tell you about the moon and constellations for hours. He enjoyed star gazing. He enjoyed reading and learning about living beings. Their struggles. But also their potential to be more than who they were raised to be. 

He was far from mundane. Viktor was more than who he thought himself to be. In your eyes he was far better than perfect. There wasn’t a word for how you perceived him. Because every word seemed minimal in comparison to what you felt.  

“You found your muse?” You hear your professor behind you. You glare down at your paper then up to them. “What? No, look at this.” You express, lifting up the sketch and shaking it dramatically. “I am. It seems you found it.” They place a gentle hand upon your shoulder. 

You drew a crowd. Just like your millions upon millions of paintings posted on your instagram. How is a crowd of people your muse? Your eyebrows knit together and you look up to Dr. Shoola once more. “This is just a random sketch?” You say in more of a question. You were confused. You drew this often, but it’s not your muse. 

“You’re a silly one, [Name].” They pat your shoulder, moving onto Ekko’s sketch in front of you. Your eyes land back at the sheet of paper. Found your muse? Where?

You observed your own drawing. What are you not seeing?

This is short, I did it on purpose because twelve and thirteen are going to be longer. :) And honestly I do have a concussion and this took me hours. I probably shouldn't have been on my laptop the way I was but I had to post thisssss.

Two more chapters left.

Taglist: @policedeer @ang3lz-lov3 @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @confusedgemposts @corpsepies @almostdrowningdown @obittwo @ren-ni @xx-siren-sings-xx @donnie-is-here @urmommt

[lets-try-some-writing]

Emergency Protocols: To Preserve A Legacy

Optimus Prime has fallen, and now everyone must deal with the after effects of his sudden and horrific death. Knockout, unlike the rest of the Decepticons, has taken grim inspiration from the loss.

Part 1 here.

(Warning for robogore)

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

“This is an order! Every mech will travel in a group until further notice!” Megatron’s order rang out on the bridge, earning frantic nods of understanding from every single Vehicon present. Starscream in particular seemed keen to obey an order for once and almost instantly grabbed a few Vehicons to stay by his side.

Knockout watched quietly, his optics never once leaving the screen above Megatron’s helm.

“I don’t care what you are doing or what your orders are. If I catch anyone alone, there will be consequences.” Megatron all but growled as he glared down at every one of his soldiers. Knockout’s optics cycled in quiet interest at the sight, but he refused to look away from the screen and the beginnings of grotesque suffering playing on it.

“The Autobots have begun to fall. We cannot risk such a fate ourselves.” The warlord’s words were frighteningly shaky as a video played on screen. It was a recording obviously taken by Soundwave, or perhaps Laserbeak. Whatever the case, it projected a scene of true horror.

Optimus Prime wailed in agony, his frame tearing itself apart as buds began to form all over him. One on each limb, and two great ones on his chassis and jetpack. He tore himself to pieces, ripping off armor and frantically screeching as his frame cannibilized itself to produce six new lives. That was a new record, at least in modern documentation. The largest recorded budding only produced five newbuilds. How very Optimus of him.

“Prime succumbed, and if a mech as mighty as him fell, any one of us is just as likely to suffer a similar end.” The recording zoomed in on Optimus’s expression of sheer agony as he tried to crawl on mutilated limbs. If things were different, Knockout might have gagged as he watched the Prime convulse, wheeze, and then fall still while whatever remained of him was consumed by his unwanted offspring.

As it was, Knockout found himself more intrigued than afraid, especially as the recording showed the six that came from the fallen Prime. Five of them were flight frames, an incredible oddity considering Optimus was, up until his reforging, a grounder. The sixth was the one that really caught his attention. The newbuild had Optimus’s structure, tapered waist, and overall build. But they had an interesting series of differences, a few of which felt vaguely familiar.

“Be wary! And never find yourselves alone! Until we can confirm that none of our number are liable to succumb to this brutality, this ship is on lockdown.” With a final wave of his servo, Megatron marched off, likely to hound Soundwave about something or other. The Vehicons filed off eventually, most huddled in groups of five or more to limit their fear. A few attempted to gather around Knockout, but he waved them off.

He didn’t want companionship. He had other plans.

Making his way back to the medical bay, Knockout quietly shut the door behind him and locked it. He settled at his console, tapping the device thoughtfully as he pulled up the recording of Optimus Prime’s final moments all over again. He really should have been disgusted or upset with what he was going to be seeing, but after so much loss, it was more interesting than anything else. Eventually, the Decepticons would have someone end up budding. After all, one budding meant that the situation was dire. Dire circumstances induced panic, and panic tended to make budding happen in other subjects even if their numbers were acceptable.

Stress was bound to get to them. After all, activation of the protocols needed for budding only required a deep sense of loneliness and isolation. If the crew felt that they were alone, those who were capable of budding were likely going to begin expiring one after another. The Vehicons would be fine, largely since they were the result of budding and cold forging. Empurata victims were incapable of budding since the entire section of their processor devoted to registering emotional distress was deactivated, so Shockwave would be fine. Beastformers tended to take longer to start budding, meaning that Arachnid would be alright on her own for a while. The same went for the Insecticons and the Predacons.

That left high command of both the Autobots and the Decepticons. Optimus had already keeled over, and considering how traumatic and sudden it was, Knockout didn’t doubt that someone else would follow after him. Probably Ratchet or the Prime’s unofficial ward. 

One by one, the shock and horror would get to all of them, regardless of faction.

They were well and truly slagged. Sooner or later, all the big players in the war would combust into several smaller and inexperienced idiots who would, inevitably, end the war at some point. Be it through extinction or peace, it wasn’t really important. Knockout personally had no desire to live in a world or on a restored Cybertron with a bunch of framewalkers who looked far too similar to old friends and foes for his liking. It all seemed so pointless. 

He was tired. That was the only way he had to describe the sheer apathy burning in his spark. Breakdown, his other half, was gone, taken by enemies who were now long dead and dispersed. There were no more victors to join, not when everyone would quickly be put on even ground once old grudges joined their holders in the grave. There was no point to all of it anymore. What did he have to gain from trudging ever onward? A restored homeworld? Sure, that might be nice for a grand total of five kliks, but it wouldn’t be the same without proper closure or Breakdown.

“If we’re all doomed anyway, we might as well make the most of it.” He grumbled, taking great care to not rub his face and ruin the polish, even though exhaustion weighed on him. They were all going down, so why not try and make it somewhat meaningful? Budding was a process that had not been properly studied since the Quintessons ruled. It either happened in private or it was so sudden that no real documentation could be made. Case point: Optimus’s spontaneous and gruesome death.

If he was going to die, he wanted to leave something behind and perhaps even secure his legacy with something important.

“Show me what you’ve got, sweet rims.” He pressed play on the video, leaning back in his chair as he sighed and observed Optimus’s final moments. He had to watch it three or four times before he became desensitized enough to actually start making note of things of interest, but he got there after a few sessions of wretching into his disposal unit.

Optimus’s early symptoms began with itching and, from the looks of it, twitchyness and emotional turmoil. That seemed about right overall. Then it seemed that as the budding began, tearing off armor was an instinctual response meant to allow the buds to grow without hindrance. The spine tearing out of the back appeared to just be a side effect of one of the buds developing in that location, as bones and other skeletal structures also tore free where buds developed on the Prime’s body. 

The malformation didn’t appear to be a necessary part of the process, but one that Optimus unfortunately endured due to the sheer number of buds on him. The buds themselves sucked protomatter right out of their host by liquidizing the host’s internals. A lot was lost, as evidenced by Optimus quite literally being dismeboweled via his innards turning to goo and oozing out of him. Frankly, it seemed that the process was largely streamlined. Optimus was just an unfortunate victim of Primely fertility.

If he were back on Cybertron, he might have broken the record again by producing more due to his increased mass prior to their arrival on the mudball they currently called their battlefield.

“Noted. More buds equals more pain.” He tapped the console methodically, watching again and again as Optimus wailed and endured a fate far worse than most other forms of death. Knockout took notes meticulously, observing with silent interest as he watched the buds develop over and over again. The biggest of the lot caught his attention more than the others. That one was obviously a powerhouse in the making, having Optimus’s overall frame structure. But there was something about the new build—something unique.

Once he recorded everything he could from the video, Knockout turned to the database. His digits flew across the keys until he pulled up Optimus’s record. A few passwords later, and he was looking at sensitive data that was only tenuiously confirmed. The Prime’s history in the archives, embarrassing and noteworthy developmental milestones, but most importantly, his relationships.

Optimus only had one confirmed romantic partner. The depth of their relationship was not recorded, but there were enough indicators of a spark merge having been involved for Knockout to feel fairly confident calling them Conjunxes. With that in mind, he pulled up the video again on his second screen, zooming in on the largest of the newbuilds hovering around Optimus’s battered corpse. 

He looked at Elita-One’s picture and then at the newbuild. The similarities were obvious. The frame shape, the kibble placement, even the newbuild’s optics. All of them were similar to Elita. Had the spark merged influenced the budding to produce a newbuild that possessed Optimus and Elita’s traits?

“A spark merge affecting a newbuild... it’s certainly not impossible.” He tapped the console with more frequency as he considered the possibilities. If all of high command was going to keel over, Knockout most likely included, why shouldn’t he research the process? Why shouldn’t he make the most of it? For Optimus and Elita to have produced a bud that carried both their traits after what might have only been a single spark merge...

He stood up sharply, his optics widened as he glanced over at the single piece of Breakdown’s armor he’d taken from the corpse as a keepsake. It sat innocently on his shelf, a reminder of the loss and now a symbol of possible hope.

“One merge. It only took them one merge.” He reached out to collect the piece of armor, a dark plan forming in the back of his processor. He didn’t necessarily want to die, but it was going to happen anyway. Sooner or later, he’d drop dead and spawn something that was but an echo of himself. Why not die on his own terms? He could study the process of budding and, if things worked out, preserve Breakdown’s legacy as well.

He’d keep his reputation as Cybertron’s finest medic through his research, and he’d be able to honor his fallen partner before joining him. It saved him from having to go on endlessly without the mech he loved most, and it meant that all his loose ends would be neatly tied up. He wouldn’t have to live in a world not his own with mecha mimicking the dead.

It would be painful, but he could limit that to a certain extent. 

"Well, Breakdown, it seems I’ll be seeing you soon enough.” A grin wormed its way onto Knockout’s features as he laughed and carried the piece of plating over to his workbench. There was much to do, and considering the panic amongst the crew, very little time.

“Lord Megatron, I’ll be performing a little analysis on some sensitive material over the course of the next deca-cycle or so. Don’t worry if I’m unavailable; my research will prove quite useful, I’m certain.” He sent his message to Megatron with quiet glee as he settled at his workbench. He had preparations to see to and he couldn’t afford an interruption. Not now.

“All alone now. It’s just us, Breakie.” Tapping the piece of plating, Knockout laughed again before gathering his determination to drop the piece into a vat. He placed the vat into one of his extractors and stepped back, looking over himself and his medical bay. While CNA was being extracted from Breakdown’s plating, Knockout could begin his real work.

He spent a whole cycle thinking through Optimus’s fate and preparing for every eventuality. He methodically, albeit with much chagrin, removed his outer armor. He would rather not endure the pain of ripping it all off in a frenzied madness and so opted to skip that step altogether. Once that was all removed, he began preparing various painkillers of different doses. Too much at one time might have a negative effect on himself or his spawn, so a gentle ramping up of the solution would be necessary. The finished solutions were left near the medical berth, ready to be used.

For good measure, he adjusted the straps on the medical berth to activate the moment he laid down and to deactivate once his vitals dropped beyond a certain threshold. He couldn’t risk the buds, not when they were going to be so vital to his goals.

“As much as I pride myself on my finish, I do think you’ll forgive me this once for not sporting the red you adored so much.” Knockout found himself laughing more and more in the quiet of his medical bay by just the second cycle of work. He had gone to great pains to continually keep himself from heading out for any reason, and so far it seemed to be working. He could feel a faint tingle underneath his plating.

He wasn’t quite sure if it was nerves getting to him or not, but as he handled a full vial of Breakdown’s CNA, he reassured himself of his goal. He was going to do this and document the whole affair.

This was fine. He was going to be fine. He wanted this. He’d get to see Breakdown again.

Right?

“Breakdown, I hope you aren’t going to be too upset. I’m doing this for both of us.” He spoke into the open air, quietly and with more than a little hesitance. It took all of his mental fortitude to keep it together when Megatron called him.

“Knockout, what in the Unmaker’s name are you doing?” The warlord’s glyphs were harsh and layered with over a dozen vaguely fearful undertones. Knockout would have grinned, but he couldn’t blame Megatron for being afraid. Optimus was dead. The Prime of Cybertron was not only gone, but the first to have perished. In a way, Knockout envied him. To be the first meant Optimus didn’t have to watch everyone crumble around him.

“Lord Megatron, as I stated in my previous message, I am working on something of incredible importance. Don’t worry your pretty little helm about it. The experiment shall conclude in a few cycles, just as planned.” He kept up his usual attitude of cockiness as he stared at scans he’d taken of his frame. According to what his machinery was gathering, his frame was starting to swell in places, small pockets of protomatter less than an inch in side, all forming one by one all over him like organic skin pores.

It was rather disgusting to think about it in that light.

“Do you have assistants with you? I will not risk this vessel’s only medical expert offlining.” Knockout fought back a scoff as he held the vial of Breakdown’s extracted CNA. He fiddled with the container, smiling as he replied.

“Of course. I have my most trusted assistant right by my side.” Megatron made a noise of agreement before shutting down the comm link. Knockout leaned against his console, fondling the vial a while longer as he looked up at his scans. 

Soon. Very soon.

The cycles wore on, and as they did, Knockout dutifully documented the changes. His need for fuel had drastically decreased, a sign of his frame preparing for something or other. Additionally, he was recharging more and more often and for longer periods of time. A certain level of lethargy hung in his limbs, making it difficult for him to continually make note of his circumstances and not leave his medical bay despite how much base instinct tried to get him to move and go toward where he knew there were others.

Megatron bothered him every now and then, but Knockout was quite skilled at keeping his tone even. The warlord suspected nothing, just like Knockout wanted. This was meant to be special—just him and Breakdown. He didn’t want his boss to come kicking the door down in an attempt to stop what had already begun and ruin the significance of it all.

“Till all are one... you know, Breakdown, I never really believed in that lovely quote from the Primacy. But I think it makes more sense now that we’re going to make something beautiful together.” He was tired, so very tired. But looking into the faint blue glow of the vial containing all that was left of his other half, Knockout found something akin to peace settling in his spark. His frame ached, but soon everything would be better.

“I miss when you held me in your arms and complimented my features. I don’t think I ever told you that the reason I kept up the red was because you liked it so much.” Leaning back in his chair, Knockout held the vial to his chassis, closing his optics in order to pretend that somehow, through some miracle, Breakdown was with him. He imagined firm servos on his shoulders, massaging tense cables and helping him unwind after a long cycle. 

Fond memories supplied him with a cheerful laugh filled with nothing but adoration as he and Breakdown playfully bantered, exchanging gossip like there wouldn’t be consequences if they were caught distracted. He recalled all their frantic couplings, never daring to risk taking too long to be one in mind and spark for fear of punishment. He wished he’d taken more time back then. He wished he’d savored the protective warmth of his companion’s spark brushing up against his own in the most intimate of kisses.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them from taking you.” Coolant gathered in his optics as his frame began to heat up in response to his unsettling emotional state. He felt the drops roll down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away. He merely held the chilled vial close, desperately longing for a spark signature that was long gone. It was clinical, so very clinical... and there was no warmth to be found.

“I’m sorry, I’m too weak to go on without you. I know… I know you’d want me to live life to the fullest in your absence, but I can’t.” His composure cracked as he looked up at the ceiling, trying not to gaze around his medical bay in the vain hope that his beloved might still be there, gathering supplies or sorting through datapads on his behalf. 

He could hardly vent; it hurt so much.

“Not without you.” Primus was cruel to take a mech as good as Breakdown so soon.

The itching started around the fifth cycle of his isolation. It was faint at first, but then it grew more and more difficult to ignore. It felt like he was bloated, almost as if he had a series of microscopic tears in every single one of his fuel lines. He scratched without meaning to more often than not, and more than once he had to set his door to lock automatically to keep himself from running out.

Itching, itching, itching.

He wished Breakdown were there to caress his frame, chasing away the discomfort with loving touches and soothing words. For such a big mech, he was so very kind. 

But Breakdown was gone. He’d been gone for months now. All Knockout had left was a vial of his CNA. His forever’s final gift and remnant.

By the sixth cycle, taking decent notes was all but impossible. He settled on setting up a camera just above the medical berth for when he inevitably met his end. He was fidgety, itching, and nervous in a way he’d never been before. Sometimes he found himself pacing, muttering nonsense that he only managed to stop through sheer force of will.

The itch never stopped. 

Emotional codes became tangled and out of place. Priority calculations shifted and left him paranoid, leading Knockout to try and perform manual labor more than once before realizing he was out of his designated role. His protocols were blaring all the time, drowning out his vision with demands for him to find a group and to get to safety. He screamed at some point, clutching his helm and whimpering at how overwhelming it all was.

How had Prime dealt with it all before death all but snuck up on him?

On what he assumed was the seventh cycle, the itch turned to an infuriating burn. Clawing at his protoform and base armor wasn’t enough. It hurt, so much so that he could hardly see straight, much less make any logical decisions. All he had the strength to do was jab and IV with his painkillers into his arm and inject himself with Breakdown’s precious CNA before he collapsed onto his medical berth, the straps clamping down on his limbs.

The vial was discarded on the ground, empty, and used. Despite the fact that it no longer had anything of Breakdown left in it, Knockout wished he could hold it, if only to comfort himself as the pain increased.

Panic set in not long after the straps finished tightening. His venting hitched as the burn worsened. For a moment, he regretted every life decision he’d ever made, including his idiotic choice to go down in flames like he was taking one for the team. When had he ever been a team player? What the frag was wrong with him?

“Slag. This is going to hurt.” He winced, biting back a cry as he felt the first tears begin to form along his protoform. Optimus had skipped this part entirely, going straight for bone obliteration and internal shredding. Knockout almost wished he could do the same as cracks began running along his limbs, the angle of the medical berth letting him see how energon and protomatter started to swell in the wounds.

The painkillers were his salvation as he watched in grim fascination, observing as his very protoform bubbled as if an inflamed fuel line was growing and threatening to burst right beneath the surface layer of his very being. He bit his lower derma as his protoform continued to bulge, finally bursting in his legs and in his right arm. He didn’t dare cry out, instead forcefully silencing himself for as long as possible.

Screams would draw attention. Sound would ruin this precious moment between himself and what he was going to make. This was a family matter, his and Breakdown’s last gift to the world. It couldn’t be interrupted.

Cables burst, spurting energon that trickled down the medical berth and pooled on the ground beneath him. Wires and various connectivity tissues pulsed and all but slithered as the buds started to take shape. It hurt like slag, but it wasn’t as bad as it likely would have been without painkillers. The scene itself was still a work of horror, especially as the small mounds began to grow, their mass pushing aside everything else.

“Looks like at least one of these buds is going to turn out just like you, Breakdown! They’ve got your size already!” Knockout laughed, lost in medically induced mania as the bud on his left leg swelled and caused the entire limb to bloat. His pede shifted, deforming before snapping off entirely to allow the bud to consume the stump. Knockout did end up screaming as his bones snapped under the weight of the thing, every pain receptor in the limb activating in hot waves of agony.

The bone stuck out from his leg, jutting at an odd angle and glittering blue as if Primus himself had thrown some sort of polish on it. Knockout could see every single micro-connector within the broken skeletal structure, still pulsing with charge. The medic in him screamed, demanding he heal the wound. But he was well aware of his doom. The metal around his abdomen was already graying, a sign of severe energon loss.

There was no stopping it now.

The chorus of suffering was only added to as the two other buds performed similarly. The smaller one on his right leg bulged and crawled up his limb like mold, eating away at his plating with acidic effects that revealed delicate circitry that sizzled and popped as they were corroded. Knockout couldn’t have possibly predicted that outcome with how the bud on his left leg was acting. The one on his arm hurt the most, surprisingly. Knockout could hardly see through the coolant, causing his vision to become hazy, but he did note his digits doing the same thing that Optimus’s had before his death. They increased in size, the plating oozing with protomatter before cracking and all but exploding to make way for the bud.

The remnants of his digits were nothing more than thin skeletal bones connected only by tender ligaments, which had quickly begun to lose their strength. 

He shrieked as the painkillers were overridden by the sheer amount of torment assaulting him. There was no comfort to be found as he started to flail, composure fleeing him as he cried out for anyone to help him. He was sure he screamed for Breakdown most, but at some point he must have cried for someone else as well, because he started to hear murmurs outside his medical bay. A Vehicon must have noted his wails.

“Breakdown-!” He sobbed against his restraints, hardly able to watch as more and more parts of his very frame tore themselves apart. The buds did not climb higher than their sectioned limbs, but they consumed, ripped, and tore. There was so much blue. So much blue...

Crack after crack, cry after cry. It blended into a meaningless babble. 

At some point, the agony almost entirely ceased as weight dropped off Knockout like a heavy burden long forgotten. The straps holding him came undone, leaving him to lay there, bleeding out and struggling to keep his fans running. The relief he felt was palpable as he reveled in the lack of pain. Although the chill that crept into what remained of his frame did little to comfort him.

Once he’d cleared the coolant from his optics, he mustered the will to look toward the ground where the three buds floundered. The sticky mounds convulsed, thin stick-like limbs jutting out in almost spider-like fashion before more living metal could wreath the limb in musculature and mass. The things looked horrifying as faces tore themselves from the masses, gaping intakes and lightless optics appearing half melted before they convulsed a few more times and finally booted online.

Knockout’s venting slowed as energon loss began to set in. The painkillers were finally doing their slagging job, giving him a half-decent look at his spawn as they stood up one by one, looking over their frames with the innocence of the newly forged. The newbuilds were so very fascinating, so very... Breakdown, each in their own way.

“You are not supposed to be alive.” The biggest of the bunch, a heavy-set newbuild with a rounded helm structure and bright headlights already in formation, addressed Knockout quietly. There was no mockery, no insults, merely an observation. This was like him. Knockout could see it in the red optics that met his own. They were modeled just like Breakdown’s.

“Just had to make sure... that you lot carried Breakdown... in your CNA as well.” His voice came out as little more than a pitiful wheeze, but Knockout didn’t have the presence of mind of care as the other two stared at him. The smallest of the ground was also quite a bulky thing, another of Breakdown’s traits. They shone with gold optics, so reminiscent of his beloved.

“I don’t think you have to worry about that, originator.” The smallest one looked him up and down, likely assessing the horror that was Knockout’s devastated frame. He managed a grim laugh at that, even as his senses started to dull.

“You look just like him.” Knockout coughed up energon, his spark flaring painfully in remembrance as the last of the newbuilds waved to him shyly. The newbuild was blue and orange, looking almost exactly like his other creator in all but accenting paint and digits. He had Knockout’s claws, a fact that brought him no small amount of pride.

“You’ve done well, originator. Return to your Conjunx. We will take over from here.” The biggest of the newbuilds touched Knockout’s helm, caressing his helm crest and audials in a fond manner. His venting hitched again, this time in loss as he looked over all three of his spawn.

Breakdown would have been thrilled to meet them.

“Your… designations?” His vision started to fail him as he stared at the three. They shared a look, and then all of them smiled.

“Flatline of Knockout and Breakdown.” The largest answered first, bringing more tears to Knockout’s optics as he heard both his and his beloved’s designation. They were both honored here.

“Quickmix.” The smallest replied curtly, but they were kind enough to touch Knockout’s shoulder in their form of a silent goodbye. They reminded Knockout of himself when he was young. At least this one would have siblings to help them along.

“Wildbreak... of Knockout and Breakdown.” The last of the bunch uttered their name quietly, but with a hint of awe. Knockout couldn’t help but smile as his vision failed him and the touches of his three creations lingered on his frame.

This... this had been worth it.

“We did it… Breakdown.” His voice was lost as his hearing started to putter out. The last thing he heard was his door crashing down and the booming voice of Megatron echoing in his medical bay.

“KNOCKOUT-!”

[ihfmseatsoch]

Big bro Daisuke……

big bro daisuke....... 🤭 i dont think this was even a request but i threw together a fic anyway -3-

warning: incest, suggestive

word count: 1.5k

fem!reader

(yes the fact that youre both playing smash bros is a sneaky little joke. because. um. youre smashing your bro. 😁 okay now clap and double over in laughter for me)

—

Daisuke acts more like an annoying little brother, rather than the eldest.

Of course, that didn't hinder your relationship with him. In fact, being able to be immature and dumb with him brought you closer together. Whether it be attempting (and failing) a kickflip competition that got him sent to the ER for a broken arm, or baking brownies with a concerning lack of the required ingredients as quietly as you could at 2:00 AM, you were attached at the hip.

Sometimes quite literally, when you'd lay beside eachother on his bed, playing Super Smash Bros on your original Wii that shockingly hasn't killed itself from old age.

Daisuke snickered to himself as he glanced over at you, his hand clenched around the remote. He was sitting upright in his bed, a pillow propped up against his back. On the screen, his Kirby proceeded to kick your Peach’s ass.

"No fuckin' fair, Dai," You whine childishly, "You never even give me a pity win." You watch yourself die in-game for the fifth time. It wasn't his fault he was incredibly lucky at games of all kinds; video, board, whatever it may be. It pissed you off to no end sometimes.

Daisuke laughed obnoxiously, a self-satisfied smile on his face. He was gloating over your losses, as per usual. "Pity win?" he teased, "Maybe I would give you wins if you were actually, y'know, good at this."

"You cheat." You accuse him, as many other have time and time again. It was ridiculous how he won EVERYTHING. "You're a cheater and a liar and a fiend."

He let out an exaggerated gasp, feigning offense. He made a show of placing a hand over his chest. "I never cheat!" he lied through his teeth, "I just happen to be the most natural, talented gaming prodigy... ever."

"Whatever." You nudge your leg against his, roughly. You cross your arms and throw your own controller across the bed, turning your head away for even more dramatic effect. "You don't love me enough to let your sweet, cute, and exceptionally beautiful little sister win. For shame, Dai."

Daisuke chuckled at your display. He leaned in, snaking his arms around your waist and pulling you into a tight embrace. "Awww, come on, you know I love 'ya." He giggled, ruffling your hair. "But sorry, not sorry. No easy wins for you. I gotta keep my winning streak going, y'know?"

You squirm in his grasp, kicking your legs and trying to shove him off, but he's surprisingly strong, given his lanky figure. "Nooo, cheaters don't get hugs!" You grunt and struggle to worm away, although you're not exactly putting much genuine effort into it. You secretly don't want him to let go at all.

Your complaints only cause him to squeeze you tighter, trapping you against his chest, restraining your flailing limbs and preventing your escape. He snickered at your fruitless attempts. "Sounds like someone's just a sore looosseerrr." Daisuke taunted.

He tried to ignore the way your ass keeps pressing against his crotch, grinding and writhing... on his life he tried, but he's only a man. A young one, at that, so he doesn't exactly possess the willpower to contain himself. "You're so mean. Just plain cruel." You pout, finally giving up as your body goes lax in his arms.

Daisuke tries to focus on anything but the way your body feels against his. It's hard to ignore, when he can feel his pants start to get just a teensy bit tighter. He tries to play it off cool, pretending like he doesn't feel it at all. "I'm just taking my role as the big brother seriously. Gotta show you who's in charge." he shifted a little, subtly moving you to a more... comfortable position. Away from his boner, which he popped embarrassingly quick. Damned hormones, always ruining his life.

The new position doesn't exactly help him, because you still feel something hard bump into your backside, and you curiously feel around for whatever it was. "Dude, I think the remote is literally under my ass right now." You comment, inconspicuously. Daisuke wants to melt, evaporate, rain down from the clouds, and evaporate again.

"N-No, it's just, uhhh- umm–" He failed miserably to come up with a decent lie, a deep blush rapidly spreading across his face. How does one get themselves out of a situation like this? Then again, not many brothers get hard from their own sister. Right? He doesn't want to dwell on the thought.

How does one get themselves out of a situation like this? Then again, not many brothers get hard from their own sister. Right? He doesn't want to dwell on the thought. Daisuke tenses when your hand finds it's way to his dick, and he mentally scolds himself for not wearing boxers under his sweatpants, but he didn't exactly think this would happen today.

You immediately notice it's unusual texture, shape, and size–

You whip your head around, and stop dead in your tracks at what you see.

Then, you promptly shriek and back away from your brother. And his hard-on.

All the blood left his face. He was horrified. Absolutely mortified. "W– Wait! Listen, I can explain–!" he frantically tried to fix this situation, his voice cracking a bit more than normal.

"Ewww, how did that even happen?" You cover your face so you don't have to make eye contact with the tent in his pants any longer. Although, you can't deny the hint of... morbid curiosity you feel. From what you felt, it wasn't small, but not too big, either. Maybe slightly above average. Jesus, you just grabbed your brother's cock on accident, and now you're mentally calculating it's exact width and circumference. What the fuck.

Daisuke's face was burning, humiliation settling over his entire being. "I-I don't know, it just happens sometimes! I can't control it, I swear!" He groaned, desperately tried to defend himself, although he could barely speak coherently. He was internally screaming how he's the worst brother, just the worst. He'd never live this down, even in death.

Suddenly, it all clicks together in your mind.

"Oh my god," You mouth gapes as you move your hands away from your face, "Was it because of me?"

What a detective you are.

"N-no! No! Absolutely not!" He exclaims, furiously shaking his head. He's a horrible liar. A very horrible liar. And he knew it. There was no point trying to deny it. He'd already dug his own grave.

You roll your eyes, unconvinced.

"Uh huh, okay." Seeing him so red and ashamed makes you feel a bit of pity towards him. He's barely out of his teens, of course he's not gonna be able to control the random increase in blood flow to his dick. With a sigh, you scoot back towards him, granting your brother some mercy. "Look, hey, it's fine. I'm not, like, never going to speak to you again."

Daisuke looked up at you with such a guilty and pitiful expression. He was silently praying and begging you to just, forget this whole experience happened. He looked just like a sad, kicked puppy. He sheepishly spoke up, his voice timid and quiet. "So... you're not... mad at me? Or grossed out?"

"Ehh... maybe a little grossed out. But no, I'm not mad." You shrug. To be honest, you're barely grossed out anymore. Maybe it's your own hormones talking, but you can't help but find yourself... intrigued. Like you want to question why exactly his body reacted the way it did. Was he into you? Boys don't get hard from girls they don't like.

And it's not like you haven't thought he's attractive once or twice. Or fifty times.

"O– Okay, a little grossed out is better than completely grossed out..." He murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. Noticing the look on your face, like you're deep in thought, he spoke up, still looking incredibly bashful. "Why... why are you looking at me like that?"

"...I could help you out." The words leave your mouth before you can think twice. You just pray you're not making this moment even worse. "If you wanted me to."

Your offer was like a complete surprise slap to the face. Daisuke looked like his brain has just short circuited and exploded. He blinked, dumbfounded. Had he heard you right? He looked flustered, and confused. All he could mutter out was, "W-what— what do you mean?"

"I mean... must be annoying to just... get hard out of nowhere, yeah? I'm just saying that... whenever it happens, you could maybe come to me, and..." You grow frustrated trying to explain yourself in a way that sounds PG-13. "Look, I'm just trying to be an ever so thoughtful and considerate sister, here."

Daisuke's mind was in a state of near paralysis. He was trying to process what you were suggesting to him, the most embarrassing, yet tempting idea that ever entered his mind. After a while of fumbling, he was finally able to meekly utter, "S-So... you're saying, I can ask you... y'know... to help me out? Whenever?"

It was absurd, the idea of doing things like that with his blood relative. Yet the thoughts racing through his dirty mind only served to make the tent in his pants that he's been trying so hard to conceal grow more uncomfortable.

"Yeah. Whenever." You lean in, gently moving his hands aside so you can get a good look at his... problem, a bead of precum already dampening the fabric.

"Including right now, if you're down."

[a-killer-obsession]

Shared Smiles [Heat x Reader]

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

Despite being forced on board against your will, you find yourself connecting with a commander, and finding solace in your shared traumas.

CW: wounds, off-screen amputation, loss of limb, comfort, trauma, mentions of mutilation, fingering, p in v sex, afab reader

WC: ~6k

Masterlist || AO3

The chains holding you creaked slightly as you swung back and forth, blood running down over your face and dripping to the floor below you as you hung upside down. Your ankles were bound together in metal cuffs, your hands tied to your torso with chains, and your body bare save for your panties and the many fresh wounds that littered your body. Two Supernovas of the Worst Generation stood in front of you, Eustass ‘Captain’ Kid and his first mate, Massacre Soldier Killer. The captain pressed his boot against your face again, letting back off and making your body swing, the ankle cuffs digging into your skin at the added pressure the movement created.

“Last chance,” the redheaded captain gloated, kneeling and grabbing a handful of your hair to force you to look at him. You could barely keep eye contact, not out of fear but, because you'd been upside down for so long that you were nearly unconscious. “I don't usually give out mercies like this, but your skills are useful to me, and my girls enjoyed your company before you fucked up”

Said fuck up was simply rejecting the large man of his sexual advances. You'd met some of his crew, a couple of girls named Hip, Hop, Quincy, Emma and Dive, at a bar nearby. You'd seen a lot on your travels as a for-hire mercenary, but female pirates were not common on the Grandline. They'd made you laugh, a rarity for you, and hadn't judged your unusual mask that hid your mouth and the end of your nose. Of course they hadn't, they were used to a first mate who covered the entirety of his face in white and blue stripes. They didn't even ask questions about it, which was a breath of fresh air for you, only commenting on how cool the sculpting that decorated it was - a relief of a open lion's jaw, with large, sharp teeth and a lolling tongue, trimmed by a nose and cheeks curled mid roar. The whole mask gave you the appearance of having a lion's snout, and along with the clawed gloves you wore during combat, was the guiding force for the moniker the marines had given you: ‘The Lioness, [Y/N]’.

Now, had your rejection perhaps been a little harsh? Maybe, by normal standards. A large, attractive man with such infamy as him was probably not rejected often, let alone with such sass. You knew you had a knack for being too brutally truthful, never filtering your words or pulling your verbal punches. It'd gotten you in trouble on more than one occasion, but you were a talented fighter, fast and agile, you didn't usually get caught in situations like this. When the Massacre Soldier snuck up on you in the alley outside though, you found you were no match for him, he had such a high bounty for a reason.

“How bout it little kitty?” Kid purred in faux sweetness, bringing you back to reality, blinking as you fought the pull of unconsciousness. “You can join my crew, or you can stay here and get tortured till you die. This is the last time I'll ask”

Did you want to be a pirate? No, you liked running solo, you liked having the freedom to go wherever you wanted and take whatever jobs were convenient. Having your life dictated by someone else was the last thing you wanted, and being around the same people every day would make it hard to avoid forming attachments. You had sworn to never get close to others again, after your last relationship resulted in the unforgivable reason you wore the mask. Making friends you'd never see again in bars was one thing, but you weren't looking for long term relationships, platonic or not. On the other hand, you liked being alive. You would not let a man be your death, not after everything you'd been through.

“Fine,” you spat. The single word was a struggle to push out, your head felt like it was in a vice and the rest of your body was going numb as a new droplet of blood rolled down your face and caught in your eyelashes.

“Wise choice,” the first mate noted from behind his unreadable mask. “One of our commanders is gonna love that pretty little smile of yours”

“Bite me,” you spat back, voice laced with venom.

“Tell the girls to clean her up and get her settled,” Kid addressed the first mate as he used his devil fruit to release your bindings, dropping you to the hard floor unceremoniously. He threw your mask at you, bouncing with an audible clunk off your already sore head, and you grabbed it greedily. Killer watched you with empathy as you desperately covered your mouth back up, he knew that feeling well and felt like an asshole for knowing what you hid underneath. You shot daggers up at him as the mask was settled in its rightful place, the room brightening for a moment as the door opened for the captain to leave before returning to its barely lit state.

As the months passed, you found yourself feeling surprisingly comfortable amongst the Kid Pirates. It'd taken you a while to heal and stop being so jumpy, but it came as no surprise to learn you were not the only crew member who had been hired via torture after pissing the short-fused captain off, and they all thought it was hilarious in retrospect. You hoped one day you'd find it funny too, but for now you still had aches from where new scars pulled taut on your skin as you moved. You found yourself at home among the other girls, and learned that Kid protected them with fierce loyalty. You had expected to have to reject more advances from him, but as it turned out, he treated the girls on his crew like sisters, and after months of getting past the violent way you were brought on the ship, you found yourself able to laugh in his presence. You never expected to enjoy the life of a pirate, but in truth it was nice to not have to fight for everything and take care of yourself, it was soothing to know someone had your back if you got into trouble. The girls had been diligent in tending to your wounds and nursing you back to health, and you'd gotten to know them well over the last few months. At first you thought about running every chance you got, but now you felt a pang of guilt whenever you thought of leaving the women you'd come to call friends, and ultimately pushed away the idea of leaving all together.

Much like the first mate though, you never removed your mask in front of the others. They'd allowed you to put up a curtain around your cot so you could sleep without it in privacy, you ate your meals in solitude sitting on the figurehead skull of the ship, and thankfully the showers were built as separate cubicles with doors. Nobody asked why you wore the mask, they respected your privacy the same way they respected Killer's, to ask what lay underneath would be a disrespect against both of you. As for the two that had seen, Kid and Killer kept your secret, even from the other commanders. Their word was gospel, so nobody pried, and it helped to make you feel safe here. You hadn't gone this long without someone asking about what the mask hid for months, the only questions you ever got from the crew were in regard to the mask itself. How was it made? Why a lion? Where did you get it? Is it annoying to wear? Curiosities that you couldn't fault, but always asked in a respectful manner.

This evening, like many other evenings, you found yourself drinking with the crew. It was a crew of around thirty, and although there were a few members held higher than the rest - the captain, first mate, and four commanders - it was clear the whole crew were friends, and there was no divide when they drank. You found yourself sitting next to Heat, a quiet, tall man with an almost grey skin tone, thick blue hair that fell in waves, and an almost perpetually sad expression. He was sweet, and easy to be around, and you often found yourself seeking his company. He didn't pry about your past as long as you didn't ask about his, and he was okay with a comfortable silence, making him one of your favourite people to spend time with, along with his best friend Wire, another commander who was similar in personality, though a lot more stoic, an a significant amount taller. Heat looked tough, but on a more personal level seemed far too soft to be a pirate. He didn't have a devil fruit, but he could breathe fire, and his long thorn-like tattoos fascinated you. He was an interesting man, someone you could see yourself opening up to in the past, if you hadn't sworn to close your heart from all men after the betrayal you experienced with the last one.

For obvious reasons, you didn't actually drink around the others, you just took part in the conversations. Unlike the Massacre Soldier, who could thread a straw through the holes in his mask, your mask was one solid form, the only holes being a mesh for ventilation hidden under the top row of sharp teeth, and the holes in the lion's nose where there the anatomy dictated, again so you could actually breathe. You enjoyed the company none-the-less though, and you'd never been one for drinking before the mask anyway so it was no loss. You didn't like the way alcohol made you feel, you preferred to keep your wits about you. That was another thing you enjoyed about Heat, he was your comrade in sober arms, also preferring not to drink. Apparently last time he got drunk he accidentally set fire to a bar, so he chose to stay sober for everyone's safety.

You laughed wholeheartedly as Quincy fell victim to a well planned truth or dare, admitting she'd had a raunchy sex dream about another crewmate, Bubblegum, the crew erupting in laughter as the two of them flushed bright red. The laughter died down and it was Quincy's turn to ask a question to the next victim, and your breath caught as you thought she was going to pick you, only to move one more over and pick Heat. You let out a sigh of relief.

“Truth or dare Heatie!” She coughed out, trying to quickly divert the crew's attention.

“Truth,” he replied calmly.

“Okay, mmmm,” she pressed a index finger to her mouth as she thought, “tell us who you have a crush on!”

A few of the crew went “ooooooh” as Heat turned bright red, and Kid sat up, his attention piqued.

“Look how red he is!” Kid barked, “there's definitely someone!”

“Tell us! Tell us!” Someone called out.

“It's… it's…[y/n]” he finally stuttered out, finally breaking, curling in on himself and trying to hide his flushed face from you. Your own face went pink at the admission, you hadn't expected it at all and there were butterflies in your chest. Heat quickly picked the next victim to move the attention, and you quietly excused yourself from the gathering.

“I didn't mean to offend you,” Heat said softly as he approached where you sat on the figurehead skull, facing the ocean. You quickly wiped your tears and sniffed, replacing your mask which you'd removed to keep it dry from your crying. “Were you crying? [Y/n] I'm so sorry, please forget I said anything, it's just a dumb game”

“It's not that, Heat,” you sniffed, “it just… brought up some not very nice memories is all. It's not your fault”

“Oh, well I'm sorry anyway,” he shifted awkwardly on his feet, “do you want to talk about it?”

“The last man I was with was not kind,” you tried to explain, “he… decided I was no longer worth the trouble, and he did this,” you pointed at the mask.

“Can I… see?” He asked shyly.

You looked out to the ocean, thinking hard about whether you were ready for that, ready to let someone past that heavily guarded wall. If anyone would understand, it was him. In truth, you didn't want to carry this burden alone anymore, and you knew he was more than willing to carry it with you. You looked around the deck for spying eyes, and seeing no other life you gave him a small nod and patted the figurehead next to you, inviting him to come sit. He climbed up and sat beside you, cross legged and patient. You sighed nervously as you unlatched the mask with shaky hands, turning to him anxiously.

“Oh,” he said softly.

Staring back at him, stretching from the corners of your mouth to the apex of your jaw, were the jagged scars of a Glasgow smile, just like his own. His heart stung when he saw it, he knew the pain you'd been through, physical and emotional, and the way you no doubt feel every time you look in the mirror. You turned away from him again, replacing the mask and looking back out to the ocean.

“Did you kill him?” He asked, shuffling a little closer so your shoulders touched, staring out to the sea with you.

“Yes,” you replied flatly.

“Good,” he huffed. “How long ago did it happen, if you don't mind me asking”

“Three years,” you idly picked at the cuticles on your fingers.

“The dysphoria will pass, in time,” he assured you, then pointed at his own scars, “rival gang, eight years ago. I wore a scarf over the scars for five years before I finally got comfortable with my own reflection. It'll pass, and nobody here will judge you when it finally does”

You nodded quietly and rested your head on his shoulder, and the two of you sat in comfortable silence till you started to fall asleep and decided to head to bed.

“MOVE, GET OUT OF THE WAY!” Heat shouted at the other crewmates that had crowded around your fallen form.

In a blink of an eye, everything had gone so very wrong. The crew had been raiding a marine base, rampaging through it as they always did, cutting down marines left and right. Nobody could have known the building you were fighting next to was structurally unsound, closed off from use years ago, scheduled to be demolished before it could collapse on someone's head. One small shake of the ground from a nearby explosion and the whole outer wall crumbled, burying you in heavy cement faster than you had a chance to register what was happening. The crew had been quick to dig you out, working together to move the large slab of concrete that was crushing you. Heat took in your seemingly lifeless body with baited breath, the limbs on your right side twisted in unnatural positions, deep purple bruises already forming on any skin that was visible, blood running from your nose and ears.

Your body moved just a little, and suddenly you were screaming. Awaking in absolute agony, everything was on fire, you could barely think through the pain. Only one coherent word escaped you, a shrill, desperate scream of his name, before the world went black again. Thankful that you were unconscious again so you didn't have to feel your injuries, Heat carefully lifted you, holding you close to his chest as he carried you back to the ship, tears silently rolling down his cheeks and neck as he tried his best to keep it together for you, to get you somewhere safe and start the long, hard process of healing.

For five days you slept in the infirmary of the Victoria Punk, and for those five days Heat never left your side, sleeping in an old metal chair next to you, his head against your arm and your good hand held gently in his, praying to whatever god that would listen that you'd wake up. His back ached from sleeping upright, he had deep, dark bags under his eyes, and he smelt as bad as he looked, still covered in the grime and blood from the battle, refusing to leave your side for long enough to shower. You needed him here, he needed to be here when you woke up, because you had to wake up, and he fought tooth and nail against anyone who dared to try and drag him away.

When you finally awoke, you did so with a small whimper, unable to remember what had happened, or understand why half your limbs weren't reacting the way you wanted them to. Heat had been asleep next to you, but was quickly at attention, standing over you and making sure you knew he was here before you had time to question whether you were all alone.

“Shh, don't try to move,” he said softly, stopping you from sitting up too fast with a firm but gentle hand against your chest, “you got hurt real bad, but you're safe now, you're gonna be okay”

Your hand flew to your mouth, feeling for your mask, looking up at him with wide shocked eyes when you found it was missing.

“Shh, shh, it's okay,” he took your hand back in his and removed it from your face, “only the doc saw, nobody else except Kid and Killer have come in here, and they said they'd already seen”

Your breathing calmed down again as you accepted his assurances, squeezing his hand and trying to sit up again. You wanted, no, needed to know how bad the damage was, you needed to see for yourself. You felt heavy, no doubt from painkillers, but you could still tell something was very wrong, your right arm and leg still not responsive. Heat saw your efforts and sighed, he knew there was no keeping you from it any longer.

“I'm gonna help you sit up okay?” He slid his arm around your shoulders and held the other against your chest, “But I need you to not panic. Your injuries were life threatening, Emma did everything in her power but she couldn't save everything”

You tried your best to stay calm but you couldn't help but start to hyperventilate as he sat you up and pulled the blanket that covered you aside, finally seeing the damage for yourself. Your right arm was in a cast, from your armpit to your hand, set in a bend. Your pinky and ring finger were missing, only stubs of them remained. You were wearing nothing but your underwear, your entire torso wrapped in bandages, healing graze marks and yellowing bruises peeking out from wherever the wrapping didn't cover. But the worst of the injuries was your right leg. Or rather, lack thereof, because from your mid thigh down was just empty space where your leg should have been, a bandage wrapped tightly around the short nub that remained.

Heat held you tight to his chest as you took in the damage and started to sob, your tears soaking into his corset shirt and rehydrating some of the blood and dirt on his chest. You weren't sure how long you cried for, at some point he climbed up on the bed and sat behind you, rocking you back and forth and cooing reassurances in your ear until you were able to settle your breathing and your sobs turned to teary-eyed hiccups.

“It's gonna be okay,” Heat assured, his arms around your torso as he pressed a kiss to your dirty hair, “Kid is already working on a prosthetic for you, Emma said the amount she was able to save is plenty to learn to walk again with one, it's gonna be okay, I'm gonna be here the whole time”

You nodded as you let yourself rest back against him, the weight of your emotional burden too much to bare alone anymore, letting him support your exhausted body and keep you afloat.

A few days had passed and Emma, as the ship's doctor, had cleared you to leave the infirmary. You couldn't walk given you would need two working arms for crutches, and with your dominant arm out of action you struggled at even the most basic tasks, so Heat insisted you stay with him. He'd pulled a spare mattress from the henchmen's quarters and was sleeping on the floor with it, leaving the entire queen size bed for you. As a commander he had his own room and a small humble bathroom, nothing compared to the grand rooms Kid and Killer had, but it was private and it was comfortable, and it kept you from embarrassing yourself in the middle of the night whenever you needed to go to the bathroom. He'd even rearranged his room for you, and made Kid install metal railings, all you needed to do was hop a few supported steps to make it to the toilet. If you had to travel any further he didn't hesitate to carry you, he didn't even need to be asked, all you had to do was look at him and he was moving.

The first thing you needed after leaving the infirmary was a good wash. Emma had done her best with Heat's assistance to sponge bath what they could to keep your wounds clean of the blood and debris you'd been covered in when Heat had carried you in, but you really needed a soak to wipe away the thick layer of grime. You couldn't wash yourself though, you needed to keep your casted arm out of the water, which meant a shower was out of the question - not that you'd be able to stand in one - and with only one hand there was no way you were washing your hair on your own. Even with the one working arm, your chest and side were still aching from the deep bruising you'd received as a result of being crushed, you were lucky you hadn't broken any ribs, but every movement hurt badly.

Emma had offered to wash you, but you'd surprised yourself and Heat by asking him instead. Somehow you felt more comfortable with the idea of him seeing you naked. Not that you had anything against Emma, you just felt safest with Heat. He'd carried you wordlessly to his room, wrapped in the infirmary blanket, and sat you on the closed toilet seat in his bathroom while he ran the water. Emma had given you the all clear to remove your bandages, though the one on your amputated leg would need to be replaced afterwards, so you worked on removing them while you waited. When the water was ready he helped you to your… foot… and held you steady while you used your good arm to manoeuvre your underwear past your hips, letting it fall to the floor at your ankles and leaving you entirely naked in front of him except for your cast.

He lifted you gently and lowered you into the water, your good arm around his neck for support. Using the old bandages he fashioned a sort of sling hanging from the curtain railing to keep your other arm out of the water, so you wouldn't have to worry about holding it up yourself the whole time. He was so careful and methodical as he washed you, a light dusting of pink on his cheeks the whole time, unable to look you in the eye for shame of how much he enjoyed seeing your naked body, how much he enjoyed touching you, when such horrible circumstances had led to this.

He avoided your genitals, letting you wash them yourself, and you sighed as his strong fingers worked shampoo into your scalp, washing away thick layers of grime that a sponge bath couldn't touch. It was quiet and intimate, the only words shared being him asking consent and you granting it as he worked on the different parts of your body, wiping away the blood and dirt. You whimpered as the cloth ran over your stump, burying your face in his chest for moral support as he diligently cleaned the old blood from it, the conditioner in your hair transfering to his skin.

Finally finished, he discarded the cloth and held you close while he knelt next to the tub, and you couldn't help but cry more at the awful state of your body. He didn't question your need to cry, he just held you while you got it all out till you took a deep breath and pushed yourself away from him, nodding that you were ready to move on. He rinsed the conditioner from your hair and drained the tub, wrapping you in a soft towel as he picked you back up and carried you to the bed. He held you in his lap as he dried you with an extra towel, patting dry your hair and wiping the dewdrops from your limbs. He held you firm to his chest, your arm around his neck, your head tucked under his chin as you listened to his rhythmic breathing. It was enough to lull you to sleep, so he carefully slipped an old baggy t-shirt over you, trying his best to not wake you, and tucked you into his bed, leaving you to rest.

It'd been close to six weeks since the accident. Your arm cast had been removed a week ago, so you were now able to get around on your own using crutches, though the distance you could go before tiring was limited. Kid had built you a beautiful prosthetic leg, even going so far as adding a lion's clawed paw for the foot to match your mask, and Emma had given the go ahead for you to try using it in a few more days. For now, your stump remained covered in a compression sock, to promote healing and make sure it was ready for the prosthetic to be fitted. Kid had become an unlikely ally in this battle, having lost a limb himself he understood how you were feeling, and had helped you through more than one dark episode while you mourned the loss of your leg.

Mostly though, it was Heat that was there for you. You were still staying in his room, even though you assured him you could manage on your own. He insisted you would be more comfortable here, and try as you might he refused to share the large bed with you to at least alleviate a little of your guilt, telling you over and over that he was more than comfortable on his mattress, even though it was clear to everyone that his back was hurting and his eyes had heavy bags. You could hear him toss and turn at night, his quality of sleep significantly diminished because of his chivalrous sacrifice, but he'd give up anything to make you even slightly more comfortable. You had to admit though, having the privacy to sleep without your mask without fear of peeping toms was a luxury in itself. You didn't wear the mask in the bedroom, more than comfortable without it in front of Heat. He still helped you bathe, but it'd become significantly less awkward, now a time for conversation and laughter. You no longer had a cast to keep dry, and you really didn't need help anymore other than getting in and out of the tub, but neither of you had said anything about it, so he happily continued to help you, and you graciously accepted the help and his company. Subconsciously, neither of you wanted to let go of that time alone together, and you secretly enjoyed the feel of his hands wandering over your body, and the way he silently scanned your curves, a quiet hunger in his eyes that never left no matter how many times he saw you naked.

On this night, the ship was on route to a winter island, the long reaching weather system already chilling the air significantly as Heat helped you into bed. He stole a chaste kiss on the top of your hair, as he often did these days, before excusing himself to his mattress on the floor.

Hours passed, and he woke as he often did, sighing to himself and twisting his torso to crack his sore back. He strolled in his sweatpants to the bathroom to get a glass of water, thankful that his natural abilities kept him well heated, so he didn't feel the chill of the snowy weather outside. You, however, were not a fire breather, and were very much feeling the cold. You were shivering in your sleep, hunched in on yourself to try and conserve any heat from escaping but failing miserably. He felt a pang of guilt at your shaking form, and opened a cupboard to get you another blanket, only to discover you were already using the extra one. What was he to do? His own blanket was barely anything, more of a thin fabric to cover him for comfort than for warmth, it wouldn't make any difference to put it over you. Should he go find you another blanket? Where from? Maybe he could wake Wire and see if he had a spare? Everyone else on the ship felt the cold the same as you though, they were no doubt all using their blankets.

Stressed that you would fall ill, he pulled at his hair, trying to find a solution, till a small whimper escaped you and the solution was abundantly clear. He lifted the blankets and slid in beside you, wrapping himself around your body, covering as much of your icy frame as he could with his hot skin. Your shivering quickly stopped, and a small smile formed on your face as you settled into a deeper sleep. He let go a sigh of relief and shuffled till he was comfortable, laying so close that his head was on the same pillow as yours. It felt like a violation of your personal space, but he couldn't bare to watch you shiver anymore, and he felt butterflies at being able to hold you so close in what was really his bed, even if it mostly smelt like you these days, not that he had complaints.

You were so warm when you woke up, wrapped in what felt like an army of hot water bottles, your skin sticky with sweat but you were too comfy to care. It took you an embarrassing long time to realise you weren't alone, a soft breath rustling your hair gently in a rhythmic pattern that matched the movement of the warm form next to you. Your eyes traced the thorn like tattoos that ran up and down the arm that was draped over you, a thick, muscular thigh trapped between yours, a pillow of pale blue hair intermingled with your own. You had wrapped yourself around him like a koala on a tree, seeking out his warmth in the night and clinging to it so it couldn't escape. You tilted your head up, your face now millimetres from his, inspecting fondly the scars on his face that matched your own. The dark eyeliner he liked to wear under his eyes was smudged, always too lazy to remove it before he slept, and his chin was covered in a fine layer of blue stubble. You blushed at how handsome he was, and how close said handsome face was to yours, his strong arms wrapped around you like he was just as unwilling to let go as you were.

His eyes fluttered open, his dark irises immediately focusing on you and his pupils blown wide in surprise as he realised the position he was in. He tried to pull away, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but you pulled him back to you, pressing your lips to his on instinct, in a desperate plea for him to stay. For a moment he didn't move, frozen in fear that this wasn't real, that you hadn't really kissed him, till he finally accepted the reality and kissed you back. His kiss was tender, full of devotion and longing, and you made a small moan as his tongue ran over your bottom lip and his hand wove into your hair. You opened your lips for him and his tongue dove inside, rutting against yours with his own quiet moan as you held him tight, pulling lightly on his hair to wordlessly beg for more.

He rolled you on to your back, pressing his thigh further up between your legs, and you whimpered into his mouth as you tried to roll your hips to rub against him, desperate for friction but unable to get it with your stupid useless stump. Understanding your frustration he ran his hand quickly down your front, threading it under the waistband of your pyjamas and your panties to slide between your wet folds. He pressed a thumb to your clit, circling it as his index finger toyed with your entrance, before sliding in and pumping you with slow, shallow movements that made you cry out. You hadn't realised how badly you needed him, how much you needed him inside you, filling you and sharing your breaths. He pulled away from the kiss and you could see your own feelings reflected in his eyes, all that longing and need and love. Love you didn't think was possible for you to even feel again, but it was there, without a doubt, and you knew he felt it too.

He watched your face carefully as he slid a second finger inside you, then a third, his pace quickening as your walls fluttered around his digits, his clothed erection rutting against the thigh of your good leg in his own desperate need for friction. He wanted to he inside you so badly, he wanted to feel your hot wet walls take him in and see your face contort as you came on his cock, the thought alone was almost enough to make him cum as he groaned and kissed you with fervour. He swallowed your moans as you clamped down on his fingers, your back arching off the bed as you came hard, shuddering underneath him.

As soon as your high had settled, you were sitting up and trying your best to claw away at his pants. You wanted him inside you so fucking bad, you'd already cum once but you ached with need. He pushed down his pants, his cock springing to attention, red and swollen with equal need, precum leaking from the tip. You eyed him hungrily, he was thick and longer than average, a set of three piercings running up the underside, you wanted to know how they would feel inside you. He helped you pull off your own clothes before settling between your legs, his tip prodding at your entrance but not yet inside, much to your frustration.

“Are you sure?” He asked nervously. You pulled him down by his neck and kissed him, forcing your tongue in his mouth before biting his bottom lip, pulling a groan from him.

“Please, Heat,” you begged, “I need you inside me, please”

He returned his lips to yours as he slid inside you, stretching you out, till the need to breathe was too much and you broke the kiss to pant, holding his shoulders tight as he sheathed himself inside you. You let out a stuttered moan, your breathing haggard as you rolled your hips to try and get him to move. He pumped you deep and agonisingly slow, just enjoying the pull of your walls on his length, till you wrapped your good leg around him and pressed your heel against his ass, moaning and clawing at his back as his pace finally picked up. He buried his face in your shoulder as he fucked you hard and fast, holding the headboard above you for support while his other hand held your hip tight, his fingers leaving bruises in your skin. You cried out a flurry of curses, mixed with his name and a string of yes yes yes as he groaned and panted in your ear, whispering sweet nothings and praising you for how well you were taking him.

His movements became erratic as you started to tighten around him again, your fingernails sinking into the skin on his back as you screamed his name and came hard, clamping around his cock and pulling him forcefully with you. His thrusts stuttered and stilled as he unloaded inside you, his hot thick load dripping out of you for lack of space as he shook and groaned. He collapsed to your side, pulling you with him, his softening cock still buried inside you as he held you to his chest. You draped your leg over his hip, kissing him softly, slowly, your tongues pressing together with more careful and tender movements, no longer driven by the carnal need for him to be inside you. You were full and content, comfortable despite his cock still buried in you, you felt like you could stay connected like this forever. He made you feel safe, and beautiful, despite your scars and mutilated body, as he pressed loving kisses over your Glasgow smile, and you returned the favour with kisses traced along his.

[s-4pphics]

first vi brainrot

… heyyyy arcaners 😋

getting back into writing after like a month LOL art by lottie-lot :3 @trackinglessons

fck you free palestine. 

WORD COUNT: not eem 1k just some plotting 

CONTENT: rugbyplayer!vi, femcel!oc… is she deranged or is she in love who knows fr, a lil horny, brief mentions or familial death/grief

rugbyplayer!vi who’s loved dearly. . . 

shines brighter than the sun whenever she enters the room; makes every person she comes across glow with her charisma, her laughter. she’s so polite and gracious. people can’t help but gravitate towards her radiance. 

no one would’ve ever guessed the turmoil she experienced before moving to her college town. loneliness was no longer comforting. the silence she was once eased by brought forth distress she couldn’t control. 

rugbyplayer!vi who moved through university like a ghost who never crossed over. only left noticeable tracks in the smiles she gave people before vanishing to nothingness in her room. 

rugbyplayer!vi who had no idea what rugby was. only got introduced to it at a bar where matches played on the tv screen above as she sipped her drink in silence. it seemed like watered-down football and made her nose turn up. 

who would’ve thought she’d be at her university’s rugby tryouts a few months later. one poorly made sign with every single one of her crushes in shorts and she ended up with her heels in the wet dirt, nerve wracked in front of both coaches. only then did she realize how out of shape she’s gotten. sports were her escape in high school, but the loss of her sibling destroyed her. crumbled every aspiration she ever had into dust that buried her baby sister. 

when she first got recruited, she was fearful. how would she ever be able to focus on practice when she’s surrounded by people she’s desired to emulate? they’re strong and resilient and quick; she’s leagues behind them in terms of skill and she knows it. her brain discourages her like no other. 

rugbyplayer!vi who was relentless the first few months of training. the aches in her thighs and the salt leaking from her pores and into her eyes did nothing but motivate her, distract her, drive her to do more. to reach where her peers sat comfortably at the top. she pushed so much that she called out of class multiple times; she couldn’t fucking walk. 

it took seven ruthless months to get where she wanted to be. seven months of self-doubt, of quitting and forcing herself to retry. her teammates believed in her more than she believed in herself. whenever she struggled, they were right behind her, carrying whatever weight her limbs couldn’t support. 

her teammates swiftly became her family. . . not a day goes by where she doesn’t miss her sister. 

it’s been a year since her recruitment. . . her exhaustion finally paid off in wins and meticulous tackles of her opponents. the sport aids her aggression, keeps her attention off of her damaged past for hours as she rides the high of a successor. whenever she walks onto the field she’s cocky, ego blasted to the clouds because she knows people are there for her; every time her cleats sink into the dirt, she’s home. 

it’s a rush she can’t explain. she loves this fucking game. 

. . . but you love her more. 

it’s not an obsession. you’re observant. you enjoy watching people. . . do things. you feel socialized whenever you study the joy, the grief, the yearn individuals exude through their behavior. you don't feel as lonely. almost connected to yourself through other people. 

when you first met rugbyplayer!vi, it was through a window during sophomore year. 

sat on a beanbag on the second floor of the library, completely distracted from your coursework, you gawked down as she conversed and smiled and laughed with people you didn’t know but wished to. rugbyplayer!vi captivated you like no other. education be damned. you’d drop everything for her at that moment if she asked. 

you’re not stalking her. it’s not your fault that wherever she is, you are. call it fate. you never say a word. simply stand off to the side and crave and think and fantasize. your mind is sinister. 

rugbyplayer!vi is the sun. you’re a moth, shadowing wherever light trails. 

witnessing her rugby career develop was a blessing. you’re always in the stands, hiding in plain sight from her. the muscles in her legs and arms are much larger than when she first started; they flex whenever she snags and throws the ball. pummels other women to the ground. lifts her shirt to wipe her sweat. clenches her fist when she’s angry. what you'd give to ease her tension. 

how can you not love her? everything she embodies is perfect. every cell that crafts her being is godsend. 

you crave to be in her presence. but you can’t. 

people are turned off by you. you’re not sure why, but you’re always alone, comforted by the repulsive compartments of your brain. the voice that encourages you to detach. 

so, you go where there’s no judgment. dump all your thoughts of the love of your life where no one can find you. where she can’t find you. forever undiscovered. forever anonymous. 

REDDIT.

[nyctoaerah]

Can u please post the other parts of Wish Granted?:( i can't open the links for some reasons and it says that I don't have the access to read it or something. I'm really hooked, but I'm sorry for bothering

-❤️‍🩹

WISH GRANTED: CH 2 & 3.

⋆♱⋆SYPNOSIS: In which, Eyeless jacks develops an infatuation with a grade A detective and ends up granting her wishes in the most twisted way.

⋆♱⋆WARNINGS: Gore, Mutilation, Mentions of Torture, Jack Being creepy.

⋆♱⋆PAIRINGS: Yandere! Eyeless Jack x Fem! Detective! Reader

⋆♱⋆PREV

⋆♱⋆NOTE: Hey pookie, idrk why it isn’t working for you because it’s working for me properly:( maybe you should restart your pc/phone? Or maybe it’s on your internet? I’ll try checking on the links later and revise them. But yeah, dw, it’s not a bother, i don’t mind it anyways. I’ll just post the other parts later<3.

Ps; Hearts and reblogs are greatly appreciated!<3

⋆♱⋆MASTERLIST

AS SOON AS THOSE words reached your ears, a chill crept down your spine causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand at attention. Your heart dropped into your stomach, the thundering rhythm filling your ears drowning out all other sound. The blood seemed to freeze in your veins as icicles of dread rapidly spreads throughout your limbs, numbing you from head to toe. Your breathing became shallow and you were wide-eyed and unblinking, your pupils dilating until only a thin ring of iris remained,

That certainly wasn’t a news that you wanted to hear.

your grip on the phone faltered and it slipped from your trembling hands, crashing heavily onto the ground as your breath hitched in your throat.

“Your boyfriend and best friend were found dead.”

Those words kept repeating in your mind, the weight of those words bore down on you, sending an icy shiver cascading down your spine. Your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, leaving you unable to discern what you truly felt. Your breath caught in your throat, threatening to suffocate you as dizziness washed over you, threatening to pull you into unconsciousness.

‘But i was just with them a few hours ago...’

It hurts so much, it felt like your heart strings are about to break.

It was a tumultuous mix of fury, grief, betrayal, heartbreak, and a profound sense of self-pity that overwhelmed your senses. This day had already been marked by a series of unfortunate events, beginning with the painful revelation of your boyfriend’s infidelity and culminating in the relvelation that your closest confidant had been a traitor all along.

The news of their deaths hit like a tidal wave, crashing into the already shattered pieces of your heart.

You stumbled back, collapsing onto the closest piece of furniture that hadn’t been destroyed in your fit of rage. Your body shook with tremors, the weight of grief becoming almost too much to bear. Regret seeped into your veins, staining your conscience with a haunting question: Could you have prevented this?

As your mind raced, memories of your boyfriend and best friend flooded back. The joyous moments you had shared, the laughter, the support – all now overshadowed by the painful truth of their betrayal. How had you been so blind? Anger surged through you, sparked by the overwhelming hurt, as you cursed their names under your breath.

But amidst the anger, a profound sadness settled in, casting a bleak shadow over your soul. You mourned not only the loss of their lives but also the friendships and the love that was once so pure. The realization that you would never hear their voices again, never feel their warm embrace, tore through you like a serrated knife.

You needed to do something.

with trembling hands, you reluctantly reached for your phone, only to discover a crack on its screen. It must have happened when you dropped it. A heavy sigh escaped your lips. Your throat was dry and your eyes were bloodshot due to how much you've cried.

Using your shaky fingers, you unlocked your phone and wiped the moisture off the screen with your hands. As you opened it, a flood of notifications greeted you, including messages from Earl, Jhenicca, and others. Slowly, you navigated to your contacts and dialed the headquarters. They answered promptly, causing you to release a shaky breath.

“What happened?” you inquired, your voice raspy from the lack of moist and use.

“Lieutenant, how are you holding up?” came the concerned voice on the other end of the line.

You let out a heavy sigh. Of course, you were far from okay. The pain of heartbreak still lingered, threatening to tear your emotions apart. But you were determined not to let your personal turmoil interfere with your duty. Despite their betrayals, your love for your boyfriend and best friend remained, and you couldn't bear the thought of them meeting such a gruesome end.

“I’ll manage, don't worry about me,” you replied, trying to sound composed.

“Information please,”

You requested.

“We discovered Lieutenant Earl and Detective Jhenicca’s bodies near the Forest,” they informed you, their words hitting you like a blow.

“What do you mean at the forrest?”

you exclaimed, your voice tinged with shock as you processed the information.

“I was just with them at the station just a few hours ago, they would never go to a forrest.” you stated, your brows furrowing in confusion. The image of that encounter still haunted your mind, causing your voice to falter slightly.

“Jhenicca despises forests,” you muttered, your fingers tightly gripping your phone. The situation was becoming more puzzling by the minute.

“That’s the very mystery we’re trying to unravel, Lieutenant,” they explained. “That’s why headquarters is requesting your presence.”

You let out a snort.

Of course, they would want you there.

As one of the last people to see them, you were likely the prime suspect in their disappearance.

“Interrogation,” you stated, weariness evident in your voice.

“Yes, Lieutenant, they want to interrogate you,” they replied.

You couldn't help but release a heavy sigh, feeling drained.

 “I’ll make my way there later,” you mumbled, the exhaustion weighing on your words.

“How did they... die?”

You asked slowly.

“We believed that the cause of death is by blood loss.”

“They got mutilated, all of their fingers in both hands and feet was removed, and  they were skinned alive, moreover, their bodies were also covered in honey and other things and bees were swarming over them, and so does other bugs, that were probably eating them slowly.”

The image of their mutilated and dismembered corpses sent a shiver down your spine.

Torture.

“So they got tortured first before dying then...”

You mumbled, realizing that they got a painful death and it is indeed a murder.

“We believe so,”

You let out a sigh.

“Have their bodies been taken for autopsy?” you managed to ask, your fingers involuntarily curling up in distress.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” the voice on the other end confirmed.

“Forensics are currently examining the bodies at the morgue. We’ll let you know as soon as we have any updates.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. It was essential to stay focused and maintain your composure despite the heart-wrenching news. These investigations required a clear mind, and your team relied on you for guidance.

“Thank you,” you replied.

“Please keep me informed of any new findings.”

“We will,”

they assured you.

“And remember, you aren’t alone in this. We’re here for you, Lieutenant.”

You smiled a little, even though they couldn’t see you, Their support was essential, but there was still a part of you that felt isolated, grappling with the weight of your emotions. You had loved and trusted both Earl and Jhenicca, and their betrayal and death had shattered your world.

As you hung up the phone, you closed your eyes, trying to push away the painful memories and focus on the tasks ahead. The investigation couldn’t wait, and justice needed to be served.

And suddenly, out of nowhere, you felt a wave of tension wash over you, it felt as if someone is watching you right now.

Now that you weren’t bawling your eyes out and not having a breakdown anymore, you noticed this strangeness.

Your brows creased as you opened your eyes and scanned your surroundings, checking left and right for any signs of an intruder.

But there was no one in sight. It had been three long months since you first sensed the eerie feeling of being watched, but the demands of work and the constant presence of either Earl or Jhenicca by your side had distracted you from paying it much attention. However, now that you found yourself alone, the unsettling sensation began to gnaw at your thoughts.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of your window slightly ajar. Your brow furrowed in confusion as you struggled to recall if you had ever opened it. Opening the window was not a regular occurrence for you; in fact, you rarely ever did.

“I don’t recall opening my window,” you muttered to yourself, as you stood up, wobbling a bit as you walked towards the window to investigate.

but before you could investigate further, a sharp pain shot through your foot. You looked down to find the cause, only to see an assortment of glass shards scattered across the floor—probably from the vases and other things you had threw on the ground. You must have accidentally stepped on the broken glass, and warm blood began to trickle from the wound.

This really is such a bad day.

Suppressing a curse, you quickly hobbled over to your bathroom to tend to the injury,  As you made your way towards the bathroom, an overpowering stench assaulted your senses. It was an amalgamation of metallic notes, mingled with a sickeningly familiar odor reminiscent of raw flesh, like the scent that lingers at a butcher shop. It was a scent you had encountered many times before, while investigating crime scenes. But the difference is, it wasn’t a crime scene. It was your own bathroom.

Your brow furrowed in confusion as you cautiously pushed open the door, the repulsive smell growing even stronger.

At first glance, everything appeared normal. But when your eyes traveled upwards, a blood-curdling scream escaped your lips.

Multiple human fingers were nailed and plastered in the walls like some sort of furniture, both fingers from the hands and toes, you can see the bones under them as blood dripped from them.

they were forming a word, three fingers were on a shape of the letter ‘W’, one for the letter ‘I’, five for the letter ‘S’, Three for the letter ‘H’, five for the letter ‘G’, five for the letter ‘R’, six for the letter ‘A’ and ‘N’ Two for ‘T’, four for ‘E’, and with the last letter being ‘D’, which had three fingers on them. 37 fingers, were nailed in your walls, with the words being....

𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃.

...

...

You were utterly shocked, repulsed, scared, evident from the way your eyes were protruding out of their sockets.

You instinctively recoiled by taking a swift step backwards while simultaneously covering your mouth with your hand in disbelief.   The intensity of the sight before you was so overwhelming that your stomach twisted and turned, disturbed by both the visual and olfactory aspects of the situation.

Your gaze shifted anxiously from each finger that protruded from the walls, their bloodied presence revealing the exposed phalangeal bones, their hues tainted by the crimson fluid. Overwhelmed with revulsion, your head whirled in a nauseating manner, unable to tolerate the repugnance before you.

As the sensation of vomit surged uncontrollably, you swiftly clasped your abdomen, succumbing to its intensity and disgorging the contents of your stomach.  

As you expelled the contents of your stomach, the regurgitated food landed repulsively on the ground.   Simultaneously, you struggled to catch your breath, your throat and esophagus ablaze from the corrosive stomach acid that accompanied the vomiting. Overwhelmed by a burning sensation, you instinctively clutched at your chest in despair, desperately gasping for air.

This reaction was unprecedented, as these circumstances were nothing compared to the gruesome crime scenes you had encountered before.   However, the sight that now haunted you was beyond horrifying—The scenes on the crime scene might be more brutal and horrifying in the perspective of others, but fuck, this was more horrifying in your point of view.

Fingers were grotesquely displayed upon your walls, gruesomely nailed in place. Both severed fingers from hands and feet were arranged in this macabre exhibit, leaving you utterly revolted.

As you breathed heavily, your lungs felt burdened and your chest throbbed painfully. Gradually lifting your gaze, saliva slowly trickled from your mouth, intermingled with traces of vomit that had inadvertently stained your clothes. The previous cut on your foot, which once caused you considerable discomfort, seemed inconsequential compared to the searing pain originating from your bruised esophagus.

As you carefully observed the fingers, There was a significant change in the size of your pupils—It shrunk down in shock. Some of the fingers had an unmistakable feminine appearance, while others displayed a more masculine quality. The sight of these fingers caused a sharp, involuntary reflex as you instinctively averted your eyes, overwhelmed by a sensation that made you cringe in discomfort—You felt as if you were going to vomit once again.

“Come on, breathe, [Name]...”

You told yourself.

The offensive stench of severed fingers combined with the repugnant odor of your vomit further intensified your disgust, while your chest continued to burn fiercely.

“Calm the fuck down, [Name].. calm down... breathe..”

You urged yourself to regain composure, but despite your efforts, you couldn’t manage to achieve it.   The intensity of your emotions caused an overwhelming surge of hot tears that pooled in your mouth, leaving you surprised that you still had the capacity to cry given the torrent of tears you had shed upon discovering your boyfriend’s infidelity.

The bitter taste of regurgitated stomach acid lingered in your throat, a distressing reminder of the moment when you couldn’t contain the contents of your stomach any longer, resulting in a forceful expulsion and a fiery sensation in your esophagus.  

Overwhelmed by despair, you found yourself clutching at your hair, desperately digging your nails into your scalp as you pulled at your [H/c] colored tresses, hoping that this agonizing reality would dissolve into a mere figment of your imagination or a horrendous nightmare.

Already enduring a dreadful day, this traumatic scene shattered your fragile emotional state, sending waves of anguish through every fiber of your being, making you fear that you might lose consciousness.

With each successive backward step, your cheeks were drenched in a seemingly endless stream of briny tears, as if the act of retreating physically symbolized your desire to distance yourself from the emotional turmoil consuming you.  

With trembling and unsteady hands, you hastily reached into your pockets and frantically retrieved your phone.

It almost slipped from your shaky fingers, but you managed to tighten your grip on it. Filled with fear, you immediately dialed the number for your department, desperate to share the terrifying news that had just unfolded before your eyes. The sheer terror coursing through your veins made it difficult to steady your voice as you trembled with every word you spoke.  

“Please, please, pick up!” 

You couldn’t comprehend how these gruesome objects could have appeared in your fucking bathroom without your knowledge.   Fingers, bloodied and gruesome, were inexplicably plastered on your wall, mocking you with a message that sent shivers down your spine.  “Wish granted” it read, like a sick joke or a cruel twist of fate—What kind of sick psycho would do that?

You are in danger.

Deep down, you desperately hoped that it was all just an elaborate prank, but the harsh reality crept in as you realized the horrifying truth.   This was real.   The sight of the bones protruding from the severed fingers, the nauseating smell that permeated the air; it was all too real to fucking deny.  You were in danger. Someone broke into your house and placed those nasty things, you will probably be the next victim— no, no, you shouldn’t think like that, you needed to fucking calm down. But you couldn’t bring yourself to.

“Pick the fuck up, come on, come on, please, please!!”Your voice cracked with desperation as you urged the recipient of the call to answer. After what felt like an eternity, they finally picked up on the other end.

“Fuck, fuck...”

You breathed out, the relief that washed over you was drowned out by the urgency in your voice as you struggled to convey the gravity of the situation. 

“I need help, fuck, fuck, please... i need it asap!” Your words were slurred and rushed, with your fear causing you to stumble over your sentences, barely able to articulate your pleas. 

“lieutenant? What’s wrong? You seemed to be panicking.”

“Come here, please, please, come here as soon as possible!   I’m begging you!” Your voice quivered with a mix of terror and desperation as you practically wailed into the phone. The overwhelming sense of danger that loomed over you threatened to consume your every thought, leaving you trembling in its wake.

“Lieutenant [Name], calm down please, i cannot understand you, breathe lieutenant.”

The person on the other end of the line tried to calm you down, struggling to understand your panicked state.

“No! P-please! I beg you!   I-I’m in danger! I need help, ASAP!” You cried out, your voice cracking under the weight of the fear that gripped you. Gathering whatever courage you had left, you knew you had to escape the horrors that surrounded you.  Without hesitation, you dashed towards the door, paying no mind to the disarray of your appearance. Your hair was wild and disheveled from the frantic tugging and pulling, while your clothes were stained with the remnants of your own vomit. You didn’t even bother to slip on your shoes, desperate to flee as fast as possible, clutching onto your phone as if it were your only lifeline.

“I-i’m in danger, s-someone just fucking— blood, blood everywhere!”

You shouted frantically, your words tumbling out in a rush.   The sight of disembodied fingers had sent you into a state of panic and fear.   As you hurriedly fled the scene, your foot unintentionally landed on the broken shards of the road, causing searing pain to shoot through your body.   Despite the agony, you dared not glance back towards your dwelling, consumed by the urgency of escape. Each breath you took was labored and heavy while physical exertion and emotional turmoil that coursed within your veins.

“Lieutenant, please take a moment to catch your breath,” the concerned voice from the other end of the line implored—you were talking too fast after all and your breaths came in ragged gasps.

The person on the call was genuinely worried about your well-being, but the sheer intensity and speed of your words made it challenging for them to grasp the full extent of your distress.   What did you truly mean by ‘fingers’? The mention of that word stirred memories within them, reminiscent of the horrifying ordeal your boyfriend and best friend had endured just hours before.  Both of them had suffered the gruesome fate of having their fingers, hands, and feet forcibly severed.   And now, here you were, frantically babbling about fingers and succumbing to panic.   Your rapid-fire speech only served to further hinder comprehension. 

“Lieutenant, please try to compose yourself,” the voice urged, attempting to soothe your frenzied state once more.   This behavior was uncharacteristic of you, as you were never one to succumb to panic easily, unless something truly devastating had befallen you.    

Between sobs, you managed to utter,

“Fingers on my walls, blood...   blood was everywhere.” The words trembled with anguish and terror as you continued to run, tears streaming down your face.   The sight that had confronted you was undoubtedly traumatizing, imprinted in your mind like a horrifying image that refused to fade.    

“And i fucking know who those fucking fingers belong to!” you suddenly declared,

“They’re from Earl and Jhenicca!”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Chuckling quietly to himself, Jack discreetly pressed the play button on his phone once again, the soft melody of the recorder filling his ears through the earphones he wore.   The recording, which captured your horrified scream upon discovering his little surprise gift for you, played on repeat as he leaned against the walls of your bedroom.

The sound of your screams, like a symphony to his ears, resonated deeply within him. As he listened intently, tapping his gloved hand against his masked face, he couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed that you wouldn’t get the chance to witness the ‘gift’ he had carefully prepared for you in your bedroom. 

Unbeknownst to you, while you were having your break down, he had been concealed within your closet all this time, meticulously recording each moment of your suffering.

Every cry and retching sound had become music to his ears, fueling his sadistic pleasure. As was his usual routine when stalking you, he overheard your emotional breakdown while you were alone in your car, expressing a fervent wish for your unfaithful boyfriend and treacherous best friend to suffer a painful demise. And so, he decided to grant your fucking wish!

In his twisted mind, he saw himself as doing you a favor by eliminating the people who had caused you pain— They deserved nothing but torture and pain upon hurting you and he couldn’t help but wonder how that pathetic excuse of a man managed to pull someone like you.

Fuck, you were just so cute when you were wailing that he couldn’t help but want to hear that pretty cries of yours more, and so he killed your boyfriend and bestfriend to add more pain and make you more vulnerable, break you apart. And he killed your beloved bestfriend and boyfriend for you, after all, that’s what you wanted, right? right? right? You wanted this. You wished for this.

He deserves to be praised for doing such a great job in making you mentally unstable.

You provided him great amusement. as always in the past, you would display intense effort in attempting to identify the perpetrator and obtain even the slightest hint. Your unwavering determination, firm resolve, and intellectual capabilities were captivating, drawing him towards you.

For him, it was particularly enjoyable to unravel the complexities of someone as resilient as yourself,  and break that fucking adamant nature of you, unlike certain shy timid schoolgirls who become frightened merely at the sight of blood.

He sought amusement and you were the sole individual capable of providing it to him without inducing him in boredom.  

Your breakdown both surprised and amused him greatly, providing him with a sense of power over your vulnerable state.   The scent of your blood,  when your feet were cut on broken glass, wafted into his nostrils, providing an intoxicating allure that seemed almost heavenly to him.

And it made him wonder about how you tastes like.

[moonstrider9904]

It's taken me a while to process the fact that Crosshair lost his hand, and I've seen many different takes on the subject. All takes and sentiments are valid and I understand they all come from somewhere, and I'm grateful to have seen such a diversity of opinions before forming my own. Cards on the table, I disagree with the sentiment that Crosshair losing his hand was a bad writing choice on the basis of it meaning that he's now healed.

Let me elaborate (and I will elaborate a lot on this):

I feel like the relation between the hand coming off and the tremor/PTSD stopping is more a symbolic connection that the fandom perceived rather than something explicitly established by canon. It was never said after Crosshair lost his hand "he is now healed because of this." If anything, the way Crosshair was written through season 3 shows us he is putting in effort to healing way before losing his hand. Meditating, slowly opening up, moving past the horrors of Tantiss, etc. These are all things Crosshair does throughout the season that help him move forward. When the subject of Tantiss is brought up again, the tremor returns, and this is a very normal response.

But if I'm honest, I doubt how much PTSD and the concept of healing is truly understood by those so openly criticizing this writing choice, because that would also mean understanding that healing is not linear and it does not come magically through one sole act, deed, or loss. If the aforementioned was understood, so many people wouldn't have an issue with this connection in the first place because, symbolic as it may be, it is not fact. It is a symbol. What we did see was healing being depicted throughout the season: you work through your issues and you do better but then you can be back at square one the next day. Even if you're doing well for a period of time, the source of your PTSD can return, and your physical symptoms along with it, and of course this is normal and valid and it is wonderful to me that this was put on screen with Crosshair.

If it had been explicitly established on screen that Crosshair was magically healed because his hand's no longer there, I would have some other things to say about the matter, but again, it was not. This is something that fandom is coming up with and people are now deciding they have an issue with, because canon did not turn out to accommodate their theories and beliefs. And, even if it had been established that Crosshair fully healed from his past demons because he lost the hand that had the tremor, that wouldn't erase all the healing he had beforehand. I think it's invalidating - to the writers, to anyone with PTSD who relates to Crosshair, and to the character's phenomenal character arc - to assume that Crosshair's hand loss is the most significant part of his healing when he did so much work on himself before it.

And I would also argue that the loss of a limb is a traumatic event in itself, and I question how exactly it would be possible for one trauma piled on top of past traumatic events is supposed to heal someone.

I hate the fact that Crosshair lost his hand as something that happened to him, I hate it because it's Crosshair. Because I saw him getting hurt on screen, more than he already was. Because his whole body was trembling when it happened. Because I witnessed a man I've loved since day one, who's so kind and caring and has grown so much have to go through something so terrible. Because he had to endure pain and suffering yet again. Because I love him. Because my heart breaks for him.

As a writing choice, however, it was shocking, but it led up to a key moment between Crosshair and Hunter, and by extension, the climax of the finale. Yes, it would be significant for Crosshair's hand to have stopped shaking for him to take the clean shot, I wouldn't have objections if that had happened in canon either. But I think the power of Crosshair landing that final shot wasn't in the hand tremor. It was in losing his shooting hand, after a lifetime of equating his own worth to being a sniper, then hearing his brother Hunter, who he went through so much trouble and resentment and forgiveness with, encouraging him. Hunter really said "you can do it" and that was when Crosshair stopped thinking of himself as a sniper, and more as a brother. And he helped saved his sister. And with that, he saved all his other brothers on Tantiss. As a writing choice, Crosshair losing his hand is something that I accept and acknowledge as canon and I have processed the initial shock to the point where now I can talk about it more, and analyzing the scenes further makes it not just sensate writing, but poetic.

Back to the subject of the PTSD, Crosshair was able to rise above losing his hand in the moment on the bridge to team up with Hunter and save Omega, and that is admirable. And even if he was peaceful in the finale, one thing we can say for sure because it actually works that way in reality is that Crosshair will have to do a lot of healing and a lot of coping post losing his hand. I arrive at that conclusion quicker than I would conclude that "he's fine now" because the latter is not humanly possible. Even when people are capable of summoning the strength in the moment, there is a lot of healing and coping needed afterwards.

Being strong in the moment and mustering a smile when things turn out alright does not invalidate the struggle and effort put into getting better both before or after that moment of strength. Crosshair was so brave on Tantiss, but he's not fully healed upon returning to Pabu because no, PTSD is not stored in the hand, and I sincerely don't think that was the writers' intention on what to convey. If anything happens afterwards that we don't see on screen, I would anticipate it's the continuation of his healing process, which is not linear or constant.

And before anyone gets angry and wants to come at me with a pitchfork, let's remember Tech's wise words: Understanding you does not mean that I agree with you. While I see and understand the reasons why many people perceived this writing choice as a lazy one, I only wish to shine light on reasons that to me make this choice make sense. I've suffered PTSD from more than one traumatic event in my life, and for a total of twelve years (and counting) I have put in the work. I have had my share of non-linear healing. I have seen first hand and know this process all too well and it is yet another reason why I think Crosshair's character arc was masterfully done.

Lastly, I want to make one final call to be respectful towards the writers of The Bad Batch for how they chose to write their story. Here on tumblr, many fanfiction writers would be appalled if a reader came up to us spewing the things they hated about our story and how we should change it. I would be appalled too. That is not a cool thing to do to a writer. So let us treat other writers with the respect we want for ourselves.

May the Force be with you all ❤️ Now that the finale's done, us writers have the whole world of TBB to explore, adapt, and make into our own, and all of it will be valid and beautiful. Just be sure to always embrace others for their differences, for that makes you whole.

[sunnie-angel]

The Mourning Years

conrad oxford x reader summary: the war has taken your brother and now you live in fear that it will take conrad too. a complete (mostly) canon compliant rewrite of the king's man (no knowledge of the movie is necessary to read) tags: period misogyny, grief, minor injury, off screen death, unresolved sexual tension, angst rating: mature | wc: 10.7k a/n: i have very few words for you about this chapter except that i'm sorry. the poem quoted in this chapter is wilfred owens' dulce et decorum est. @batchilla has once again been the best beta reader ever, please send all tomatoes my way part 1| part 2 | series masterlist | ao3

Grief settles itself over the house. Curtains are drawn shut and mirrors covered up, the lamps dimmed and the doors barred shut. Georgie's gone and taken all the light and laughter with him, sucked out all the air from the building. The official death notice comes, as Lord Kitchener said it would, and your mother's grief stricken wails could be heard clear across the village. You hope they do, hope they reach the Oxford estate and Lord Kitchener's guest room. Hope that they haunt him the way they haunt you. Georgie will never know happiness again — most days it feels like you won't either — so why should the man that killed him get that pleasure?

Once — only once — do you try and approach your dead brother's room. It's a path you've tread hundred of times and yet this time the hall seems to stretch away before you, the short walk suddenly interminably, unbearably long. The shadows clinging to the walls seem to grow, thick with memory, but still you had braved those dark corners. Walked right up to the door and put your hand on the knob, clutching the packaged bundle tight to your chest.

One pair of socks, hand knitted by yourself and finally approved by Celeste as fit for wear. Two packets of sweets, one of aniseed balls in memory of Private Henry Hart and one of pear drops for Georgie. A letter, three pages double sided written with your new pen.

Nothing has changed about the room since the last time you'd entered looking for a mechanical manual Georgie had requested be sent to him in one of his last letters. The covers on his bed are still the same shade of patterned dark blue, adjusted and cleaned to the housekeeper's precise standards. Dust hasn't managed to make much progress on his writing desk and the curtains have not yet been drawn tight. Nothing has changed. Nothing but the fact that the occupant will never return.

The package is placed with shaking hands on the desk, scribbled notes shoved aside to make space. A tear falls fat and heavy on the polished wood. With a terrible cry you lurch backwards, grief striking like a physical blow sending you to the floor. The room seems to swallow you up in its stillness, no teasing joke or yelled instruction to get out I'm changing! filling the air. You barely notice the pain of falling onto your arse, hands desperately scrabbling over the floor and catching on the carpet fringe in your panic stricken search for the door.

It hits your spine, the solid wood, pressed shut with the weight of your body thrown against it. Strength has deserted you, your unwilling limbs unable to take the weight of you. The bed stands cold and empty in the middle of the room, as much a grave as the one they're preparing down at the parish church. No more pillow fights or blanket forts will happen here. Never again will you be able to borrow one of the marked up tomes without feeling loss cleave you in two. His sleepy voice will never reluctantly make way for you on the nights that the heavens shake or your father's wine drunk voice echoes in your head too loud. Georgie's abandoned room suffocates you as you sob until your fingers go numb and your eyes go blind. No one enters that room again.

Grief, that unwanted guest, has truly made a home for itself in your house. It's silence, silence it's deepest truest form, cold and shadowy, swallowing up everything in its path. Even the clocks out of respect don't tick so echoingly. Winter has returned out of season to your home for all that the flowers bud and bloom outside.

Numb isn't the right word. You simply….refuse to feel anything, to acknowledge anything, because to acknowledge the world around you would be to acknowledge that your brother's not in it. To allow yourself to feel the knife buried in your chest, grating against your clavicle, torturous to leave in but far more dangerous to remove. You had seen the damage it could cause, locked in the tomb-like embrace of your brother's bedroom. You can't— it's too painful, too much and so it all must be buried under the numbness too.

There is mourning, the things you try so desperately not to feel, and then Mourning, the strict rituals you must observe. A funeral — ha! a funeral without a body, without a scrap or trace of the man your brother is, was, will never be — is organised. Black, the dreaded mourning blacks, are donned. Every time the movement of your crape skirts catches the corner of your eye you are reminded of the unfairness of the world by their dark colour.

People will say that the service is lovely, later. They will say that the Reverend spoke a beautiful message of duty to one's country and peace in God's embrace. You will remember none of this. The funeral will only ever come back to you in snatches.

There is the memory of your hands clutched tightly in your lap, the fabric of your gloves drawn tight over your knuckles and the world shaded by the black lace veil pinned to your hat. There will be snatches of hymns sung from choked up throats and an organ with one wrongly tuned foot pedal. The Duke, Conrad's father, steadying you as you stumble with a hand on your shoulder. A man sitting in the back row of the church — one of Georgie's Eton friends? — weeping openly. That awful final portrait of Georgie in his uniform smiling down serenely at the congregation. The scent of lilies will always choke hereafter.

What will always be seared into your memoruy is after. The burial. An empty coffin weighed down with sand. Did they calculate his weight, you wonder, or simply guess at something heavy enough to make the pallbearers earn their daily bread?

The early spring wind is strong enough to make you clutch at your veil, wiping the tears from your numb cheeks even as they fall. Georgie's name is engraved on the coffin lid. It's even accompanied by the days he lived. Too short, whatever measure of time it should have been was too short. Still a boy, your brother, not yet ready to be a man and now he never would be, no matter the grand stories your mother and father may cling to in their grief. The skies open up and rain starts to mist over the proceedings.

A flower lands on the coffin lid, then another. Roses, lilies, even some carnations. Hothouse flowers all of them, perfectly grown then cut down in full bloom. One after the other they stream into the open wound of the empty grave. There— there should be bluebells, Georgie would want bluebells. For Harry.

Dirt rains down. Smears across those pretty petals. You can't breathe. You'll miss him when he's gone, like there's no air but you're still breathing. Georgie was right. There's no air left to breathe, not when they're going to bury him again.

Your mother nudges you forward and a stranger pours dirt, closer to mud in the smattering showers now, into your hand. With a gasp, you tear yourself away from the sight. You can't— you won't — bury even the ghost of him under the cold wet mud. He should be up here, breathing the cool air and racing you to climb the trees. There's no light down there and Georgie had never been afraid of the dark but he shouldn't be condemned to it forever. Not your brother with his soft eyes and secret smiles. He doesn't— he doesn't deserve to be trapped down there, forever, waiting on help that never came. Won't ever come.

The crowd parts around before your hurtling, trembling form. Voices call your name but you pay them no heed. What hold do they have on you, these people who would kill your brother a hundred times over, one handful of grave dirt at a time? But your flight cannot continue forever and it comes to a stop on the other side of the church in the oldest cluster of graves sheltered by a spreading oak that drips with the rain. The bark of it is rough even under your gloved hands. Panting, you tear the veil from your head and let it pool in the patchy grass. Tremors wrack your body, though from the dampness of the rain or from the anger working its way through you, you couldn't say.

How dare they all claim to mourn Georgie while murmuring hollow words about duty and for his country. How dare they claim his life for their own, to be spent at the whims of older, more powerful men. Your brother isn't at peace. He will never know peace because he will never know anything but the dark and the dirt again. What's heaven to a lump of meat?

A hand holds out a handkerchief to you but you dash it away, the grave dirt sullying it's pristine whiteness. Conrad pants, hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath.

"Don't," you tell him sharply, barely holding yourself together at the seams. He needs to leave, to not be here when the sharpened edges of your grief carves you into pieces.

"I'm sorry," is what he says instead, all earnest blue eyes. "I'm so sorry." He reaches out to you again but you can't. Not after last time. You know he won't be able to contain your grief for a second time, the way its carving you open. His outstretched hand falls.

"Don't. Don't give me your sad platitudes that I don't know what to do with." Even the fresh air tastes like earth to your tongue. "It's all so meaningless," you choke out. The damp and the mud cling to your skin through your gloves and hasten to tear them from you, unable to bear them any longer.

"It's not," he insists, reaching out again. Again you avoid his grasp and throw your gloves down to join your veil.

"Don't you see? George was so loved and he's going to be so missed. That's all this is. Everyone missing him terribly."

"Missing him! Missing him! Ha!" you laugh, hysterical laughter bubbling at the back of your throat. Long gone is that treasured numbness. "That's the point Conrad, that's the point everyone's missed. My brother—" Conrad flinches at the way your possessive tone excludes him from any claim to Georgie "—is dead and for what?"

"He died bravely in the service of his country," he says stone faced and stoic, mumbling through all those fine empty words that have been repeated over and over until your ears bleed and ring with them. "He knew the risks and chose to do the right thing anyway, to do you all proud and he has."

You reach down, grab one of your gloves and throw it at him. He manages to turn just enough to avoid the mud splattering on his white shirt, but it catches on the black mourning band attached to sleeve of his suit jacket before once again falling limply down to be reunited with the earth.

"Get this through your thick skull," you grit through your teeth. "My brother is dead. Gone. Snuffed out. And he didn't go easy or through a freak accident my brother died because someone killed him. I don't care however many pretty words you dress it up in, his entire future, his friend, all of it is gone. Forever. England won't bring him back. Making us proud," you scoff at the very idea, "won't make him any less dead."

"But—"

"But, but" you mock him and his shock. "My brother died alone and in pain. He suffocated to death slowly under tons of wet Belgian dirt if the initial impact didn't kill him. Or maybe it tore him up just enough that he could bleed out. Do you think that would have been kinder?"

He opens his mouth to speak but you rush onwards, desperate to get this bubbling, roiling anger some outlet before it burns you alive.

"What ever happened it happened to him alone. Can you imagine? Alone and clawing in the dirt, calling for help that never came. Help that never came because his only true friend in the world had already died—" the hurt that flashes across Conrad's face will forever haunt you "—and because no one else was there. We weren't there. You weren't there."

It's an accusation as much for yourself as it is for him. If you had been there, defied your mother's wishes and your father's orders and volunteered to help nurse, would that have changed something? Would that one small ripple of your presence have been enough to perhaps keep Harry alive long enough to keep your brother from dying? Or to save your brother when injuries threatened to pull him under?

The thought is as nonsensical as Conrad being able to do anything to save your brother but the grief and the anger that is rocking your body is not beholden to any kind of logic.

"Fine. Fine!" you laugh through the tears clouding your vision. "Pat yourself on the back about how sad it is to lose him while making yourself feel better by putting yourself in proximity to his 'glory'. It's not like you've got any you've earned for yourself, have you?"

Conrad's posture stiffens, his face shuttering as you land the killing blow. It's always the ones that know you the best that know where to cut and you wanted to make him feel a fraction of the pain you're in. Calculated, killing, cruel, you want to take it back as soon as the words have left your mouth. You're too late. In this, as in so many things, you're too late.

"I can see that you're not yourself. Pardon me for imposing myself where I am clearly neither needed nor wanted." He bows stiffly, then strides away before you can do more than gawp.

The dirtied lace of your veil flaps feebly in the wind.

Two weeks. You have two weeks of pure unending solitude before polite society deems you in control of your womanly emotions enough to receive guests. Two weeks of pure hell with only your thoughts to keep you company along with the shell of a person your mother has become and the smell of whisky lingering in the halls outside of your father's study. Two weeks before deepest Mourning will end and you are allowed to apologise.

There's no guarantee that it will work is the thing, no kind of certainty that no matter how you grovel and beg that this is reparable damage. You've had two weeks to go over the fight from every angle and you truly can't tell anymore. Yes, the grief had rubbed you raw until you were more bleeding wound than girl. Yes, you had warned him against your rage. But none of that erases the facts of the matter, namely that you had used all of your love and all of his trust in you with the intention to hurt and hurt him you had. Deeply. Intimately. Without any thought to whether or not he deserved the pointed violence of your anger.

To hell with your heart, you want your friend back.

On the 15th day Celeste — lips pressed into a thin line, the colour in her cheeks having never recovered since the day Lord Kitchener visited — accompanies you to the Oxford estate. Your mother had barely noticed when you had announced your intentions to go out, staring into the distance and unseeing of the world around her.

After so much time indoors, the fresh air washes over you as heady as hard liquor. Celeste, dear Celeste, says nothing on the walk. She has said very little to you of her own private grief, tucked behind flannel handkerchiefs and private corners, but you know in her watery stare that it exists. She smiles at you though, when the butler announces you to the drawing room, squeezes your hand before settling herself down into a chair placed at a discreet distance.

Conrad rises to greet you and it's worse this time, worse than when he wouldn't look at you during that accursed dinner because he looks at you now through a stranger's eyes. There's a guarded distance despite the smile painted on his face, his offers to sit down and have tea. You recognise it because you put it there, that hurt. You don't know where to start, all the fine pretty words you'd rehearsed suddenly melting away at his studied pretence of indifference.

"How are your parents?" is his opening salvo.

"As well as can be expected, under the circumstances," your inept rejoinder. The moment drags out, the soft murmurs of Polly and Celeste keeping careful watch competing with resounding echo of your heartbeat.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out, the words too raw, to clumsy to be practised. "I treated you terribly the other day. I said untrue, cruel things to you because I desperate to make the world hurt as badly as I was."

"I'm sorry as well," he says, holding up a hand to cut you off before you can interrupt. "I was insensitive and careless to your grief at a particularly sensitive time. It didn't matter why you'd lost him, only that you had and I was too inept to understand that."

"Yes but he was your friend as well as my brother," you begin slowly, not liking the way he seemed to say words he should. "You lost someone as well."

"That may be so," Conrad concedes mechanically, "but even still I was wrong—"

"Stop it. Stop it!" you hiss, hands tightening in your lap. "Stop pretending to be your father or whoever it is that's taken over your body. Be angry at me," you plead. "Be angry with me. Be sad, be whatever you need to be, just please stop being this cold detached stranger. Stop being someone I don't recognise."

Unconsciously, your little speech has drawn the two of you closer, knees bumping together. He's close enough to touch, this strange marble statue sitting there in the likeness of your friend, and so you do. Reach out with one gloved to cup his cheek needing to feel the warmth of his skin under your palm and the soft exhale of his breath at your wrist. He sags at the touch, exhaustion rewriting itself into the lines of his body.

"No I— I miss him. Terribly. Like a limb, though George of course would joke and claim to be the sole source of my brain." He pulls away from your touch with a weak smile.

"He wouldn't," you tell him, feeling strangely bereft at the absence of his warmth and insistent on correcting his assumption. "Georgie wouldn't say that because he knew you were clever in your own way. I know that despite all my teasing. I'm sorry if the other day I insinuated otherwise but it's not true. You're going to make everyone so very proud of you one day."

"I hope so," he responds shyly.

You leave your visit with a sense of hope knotted up with a twisting fear that something had been irreparably changed between the two of you. An unsighted, irrevocable thing that would only show its face with time but who's true nature you dread. But until that moment there is the hope left to sustain you that this last tie to Georgie may remain unfrayed. That one part of you may survive this.

Time marches onward, an unfair onslaught that brings with it the agonizing knowledge that every moment is a step forward without your brother. There is no never ending present for him anymore, only the ever distant land of the past. Georgie is past tense now.

The only thing that seems to bring your mother out of her grief induced stupor are the rumours. An offensive in April at Ypres, days after your brother had died there. Tales of it spread through the servants' chatter, stories brought back from newsreels at the picture houses, the papers, letters home from relatives. Horrific, whispers the rumours, a new weapon never yet seen that drowns men on dry land. Gas, is what the pilfered papers that your father no longer reads declare. Poisonous gas that had caught the men unawares and claimed far too many. There's a kind of awe to the words, a sense of their own tragedy unfolding.

It is this tragedy, those righteous deaths of brave young men struck down by cowards hiding behind unsportsmanlike weapons, that awakens your mother. Visitors trickle back into your home, sad condolences for your loss turning into a ghoulish curiosity. All your mother has to do is utter the magic words, my son died at Ypres, and suddenly she is the centre of it all. Attention, gossip, condolences and grieving cards pouring in. She blossoms wielding this social capital no one else in your social circles can claim, a queen bee in her mourning robes. It turns your stomach like nothing else.

There is nothing of Georgie to be found in her trite stories, the repeated refrains of a hero gone too soon. Not a trace of him to be found in the greedy maws of the vultures circling through your drawing room and perhaps for that you should be grateful. But still to hear his life and death flattened so, into a story designed to squeeze tears out of the stoniest heart, that you cannot abide.

You cannot escape your attendance in her parlour, cannot ignore her summons and entreaties, not when she drags you out anyway to trot around as a prop in her grand play. And so you grit your teeth and smile forlornly, nod and agree at what a great tragedy it all is until one day it all boils over.

Visiting hours are nearly over and even the last most gossip hungry straggler has finally left the house. Your mother chatters mindlessly, hashing and rehashing the high points of the day, which lady had gasped at which part of the telling, which detail had elicited the most tears. With an almost audible snap the last threads of your patience and good will snap.

"Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time," you start to recite, the poem long kept in tucked away into your book.

"But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning."

"Dear, what are you going on about?" your mother asks nervously, eyes darting around the room. Not to be dissuaded, you carry on reciting.

"In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,"

"Stop," your mother says quietly. "Stop! I will hear no more!"

You continue instead, voice growing louder until you are almost shouting, determined to make her listen to you for once.

"And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—"

She closes the book on your fingers and throws it across the room.

"I told you to stop and you will stop this, do you understand me?" she hisses, her face contorted in her disgust.

"But didn't you want to know, mother dear?" you ask, all wide eyes and innocent smiles. "Didn't you want to know exactly how you're telling all of your friends how your darling son died?"

"Your brother is dead. Leave it at that," she says, body sagging with the wind torn from her sails.

"You will not, and so I cannot," you reply, stalking over to pick up your fallen book. The hard corners of the cover cut into your chest from being hugged too tightly.

"I've told no lies to anyone," your mother says defensively. "If they choose to believe something untrue then that is entirely their fault."

"But it isn't. You never lie outright but you lead them right to that knife's edge. And maybe it shouldn't matter, but Georgie only exist in the memory of him now and you won't stop twisting it all up for your own gratification. How am I to stand idly by while my brother dies another death?"

She sighs, heavily, then finds a seat to perch her unsteady weight. "You've always been a dramatic child," she says finally. "I suppose that was our fault, allowing you to attend lessons with the Oxford boy, filling your head tales and stories so detached from reality."

"It is your fault," you accuse her. "You knew that one day there would be a very specific kind of future waiting for me, one you decided not to prepare me for in order to curry favour with the Duke. If you had simply kept me home, kept me cloistered and tutored and ignorant of everything but the world you wanted for me, I could have been in ignorant bliss. Or instead, if you had let me learn anything of value, any practical trade, I could have made a living of my own. We woman are so close to being given the vote and yet I hardly know how to cook my own eggs. Instead, I have the training fit for a future Duke and yet neither the opportunity nor the ability to actually put that to any kind of use. So yes, to you I am dramatic, to you I am silly and foolish."

You dash away the tears before they have a chance to stain your book.

"So I will sit here and I will read my useless stories in dead languages and think of how all that lovely education you provided for me has instead meant I know every excruciating detail of how my brother actually did die. Because this is what you made me."

The silence stretches out between you, brittle and poisoned. A clock chimes in another room. A maid, come to collect the tea tray, opens the door then quickly closes it again, breaking the moment. You turn to leave.

"You know, there's never been a particular future that I've wanted for you," your mother says, and you wince at the carelessness that it implies. "Not for the reasons I am sure that you think. Sit."

Hesitantly, you obey.

"There has never been a particular path that I have wanted for you, my dear girl, because the world does not change fast enough for it to yet exist." Her gaze is electrifying in its steeliness. This is not the woman you know. "You were my brilliant, wild thing and even when you were young I knew that whatever the future was going to hold for you, it would be too little. What I would want for you is to continue to be that headstrong, intelligent girl that was always showing up her brother in her lessons, fearless. But that is not a road I can clear the way for or adequately teach." Her grip on your hand is clammy.

"So yes, I did not prepare you for what becoming an adult would eventually mean and that is to my regret, but for a few perfect years, you were allowed to be the girl I'd always dreamed of for you. I know you may think me a very silly woman indeed, but the power and the influence I have been given, that I know how to wield, is limited in the extremes. I do not know how to live without those crutches. I do not know how to mourn without needing to turn it into something that can save me. But never, never doubt that in my own way, I have always been proud of you and of your brother."

The woman sitting across from you has not changed from the hour before in which she entertained a rotating crowd with details of young men dead early but she is also a stranger. Your grief stricken simpering mother, more concerned with appearances and mannerisms than newspapers or fine art speaks with a fierceness and an energy nothing else has ever drawn out of her. All of her choices, spanning back across your life, the ones that you had resented her for for all that they act as more constraints around your world, shift. She is by no means now the perfect mother, but perhaps she has been a loving one in the only ways she has let herself imagine she can be.

But hasn't that always been the problem, you think, blood heating your face as you struggle to understand the turn things have taken. That to your mind she has always simply been your mother, rather than Elizabeth, sixth Lady d'Orcy?

She reaches out and grips one of your hands firmly, the skin around her knuckles softer and looser than you remembered it being. Lips pressed together firmly, watery emotions lining the inner corners of her eyes, she nods at you once, sharply, then takes her leave.

Maybe it is the frankness of your grief, maybe it is the rawness of the truths she has shared with you, but you are no longer forced to join your mother in receiving visitors. A further kindness perhaps, but neither of you bring up the conversation, the painful things said. Despite your complicit silence, there is still a knowing that cannot be forced back into ignorance. The burden of growing up is to no longer see your parents simply as your parents, but for the fallible people they are.

There is no talk of preparing for another social season, indeed with the continuing war there isn't to be one at all, but it is the lack of lamentation that indicates that perhaps your mother, Elizabeth, is aware of her foibles.

You do not eat the first currants that year, nor the wild strawberries even when they are mid-season plump and their stems are pulled towards the earth with their heavy weight. It does not feel right to, to enjoy this simply pleasure that your brother first introduced to you. Still though you pick them, gather them up in your mourning skirts, the colour too dark to show the deep red juices. A gift for Georgie. His body may not be under the gravestone marked with his name but it is all you have and so you must make do.

It is on one such visit that you run into Conrad again. Bravery seems to have deserted you for after that first, painful visit to apologize, you have become terrified of provoking him into once again becoming that solemn stranger. Conversation no longer flows the way it once did, nervousness pushing you to swallow down your anxieties where once you would have confided them easily. That is not the case today.

There is bright red juice stuck to the crevices of your nails, an unfortunate underestimation of how ripe a blackberry had been. There are flowers too, joining the bounty collected in the basket slung carefully over your forearm. Celeste does not join you for this part, she never does. Her refuge is the church where yours is the softly blooming grass over the empty mound of dirt. The day is warm for early summer, though the stiffness of the breeze will not let you forget how recently spring has left.

Usually you are the lone visit to the cemetery, a stillness and peace you are not often afforded elsewhere, and so the presence of a visitor is already unusual to you. Disappointed that you might not be able to talk to Georgie so freely, you inhale and steady yourself before pushing through the graveyard's gate.

Those straight shoulders, the slope of that nape, surely there isn't a world in which you don't recognize them.

"Conrad?" you ask quietly, so as not to startle him. He startles anyway.

"I'm sorry," he says, tugging at the hem of his jacket despite it not needing any straightening. "I didn't mean to intrude."

There's fresh flowers on Georgie's grave. You'd wondered who had been leaving them.

"No, no, it seems like I'm the one that's intruding today," you reassure him. "Do you always leave bluebells?"

"If I can find them," he answers, stepping forward to help you spread the picnic cloth from your basket. "Do you visit often?"

Perhaps because of your most tenderfooted efforts at restraining your interactions with him, it feels like you are making small talk to a stranger. You hadn't been prepared for company so the fabric is small. Still, you invite him to sit with you.

Perhaps it is the sacred ground or simply the ghost of Georgie's presence, but this does not feel like an a day for half-truths.

"He doesn't write to me anymore. This is as close as I can get to writing back." You laugh thin and high in your throat. "Being dead hasn't made him any better of a correspondant."

"It's his first letter all over again," Conrad agrees, studiously avoiding looking at you. "All redactions and only the barest hints at a real message."

You pull your meagre offerings from your basket. The flowers have held up well, but you remove the few dead leaves that hadn't been caught your attention when you had first picked them. The sap is sticky between your bare fingertips. You had not been so lucky or perhaps as prepared as Conrad and it is a mix of bluebells and other wildflowers you bring for him. Hopefully Georgie won't mind too much. Thankfully after the first few visits the habit of bringing a small stack of leaves for a plate and the berries are served up far more tidily than they had been collected. It's a sad little picnic the two of you are on, facing the grave that doesn't hold Georgie.

"I feel quite silly, but its the first time he hasn't really been here for something we've always done," you confide in him.

"I couldn't eat any of them— the berries I mean," Conrad says conspiratorially. "I went looking, like we always do — did — but it didn't feel right. Nothing feels right."

"I think I'm the worst person in the world," you say, the sudden non sequitur startling him into looking at you skeptically. "Because in a weird, awful sense I'm glad. I'm glad that the horrid, endless wait of 'what if' is over. The worst has happened now, I don't have to dread when or where it will come anymore."

"It's not awful to not want to live in terror," he replies fiercely, reaching out a hand to where yours are folded limply in your lap. They burn against your bare skin. "No one, no one could ever doubt how much you love and miss George. Not even him."

You swallow thickly and wish your basket had contained a flask of something. Perhaps something strong.

"It doesn't make things better or bring him back, but I'm grateful that you aren't living in fear."

"That's what Georgie said, in his last letter," you tell him, eyes blurring. "That he didn't want me to hold my breath. Waiting."

"He was surprisingly good at giving advice, when it made it through the censors," Conrad says, his own voice thick. "I can't help but feel like I've let him down."

The ground should open up and swallow you whole if any kind god — or even the ghost of Georgie — is watching. It's too much to hear him break your heart when your brother is freshly dead and meant to be buried less than a metre away. You extract your hands from his.

"I'm sure he wouldn't have held you to a promise you felt you were unable to keep." The words come out strangely even.

"I think— I think I could have done better. I should have treated you better, been there for you as the friend I've always claimed to be, instead of ruminating on my own feelings. I promised him that much." He reaches for your hand again and you let him take it. It feels strangely cold this time.

Nursing a heart that has been shattered by grief and ground down into a fine powder by heartache is no easy thing. Its like relearning how to walk in many ways. One foot forward, don't read too much into the softness of his eyes, other foot forward, enjoy leaning into the strength of his side but not too much. Balance on one leg, accept his invitations but never stay as long as you would wish. Hop, skip, jump and never take more than three barley sugars from his pocket. You manage it all somehow.

The falling leaves outside match your mood more often than not. Listless, purposeless. Buffeted by the whims of those around you. Mr. Lucius Thomassen of New York writes once or twice but those letters are sent straight into the bin unopened. The whims of a stranger or not another concern you are willing to shoulder. As the leaves fall faster, the rains grow more frequent, and the cold grows stronger, you are unable to stray very far from the house, that cold echoing place. Not even your newfound understanding for your mother makes it any more of a home, not with the loss of George hanging so freshly over you all.

Still, you find ways to break your heart regularly despite the changing seasons. Morgana, the sweet grey mare of your childhood, is still young enough to carry you on her back (Conrad must still rely on the strength of his bribes but you she carries with glee). Shola has finally let you drive the car out of the yard and around the country roads on the estate. Conrad pouts at being left at home but Shola notices the way you tuck your chin to your chest at the thought and insists. It almost feels like Georgie is in the car sitting next to you when you complete your first full circut.

On a rare, rare occasion, you will allow yourself the poisonous joy of going into the village on Conrad's arm. A taunting echo of what you can never have. It's a beautiful lie, that the two of you could be any young couple seeing each other without a care in the world. The illusion is brutally shattered.

Mr. McClintock, the old man that runs the sweets shop, had looked at you with pale sorrowful eyes before gruffly adding a few pear drops to your bag of barley sugars and 'forgetting' to add them to your bill. Your face had frozen into that mask of saintly gratitude perfected after so many mornings playing attendant to your mother's guests in her grief but it had felt clumsy. The part does not comes so naturally now that you do not perform so regularly.

Already knocked off kilter and clinging to Conrad's arm like a lifeline, you barely notice the women as they stride past. You nearly miss the exchange, the white feather they give him. When you do, you see red.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" you hiss, snatching the feather from his fingers.

"Oll our men are off fightin'," one of the women says hautily, looking down her nose at you. Her awful hate makes her look like a scarecrow. "If 'e were a real man, e'd be off fightin' with 'im, not stayin' ome and 'idin behind a woman."

"If 'es gonna be a coward, then the 'ole world should know," the other one agrees viciously.

"You awful vile evil people," you howl at them at them through gritted teeth, throwing the feather to ground at their feet. "His — our — brother was just killed at the Front and now you'd send him to die too?"

"E can follow in 'is brother's footsteps and do the 'onourable thing then," the ghoulish scarecrow sniffs.

"He's not even 19 for the love of God!" You laugh, a hollow, empty thing that has even the vicious one stepping back. "The blasted Army wouldn't even take him, and you'd send a boy out to war to die against men? You awful, heartless cows!" You scream the last word so loudly they glance once at each other before hurrying on, cowed by your rage.

Panting, you don't notice him stooping to pick up the dirtied feather. You do not notice poor, sweet Conrad whose large frame and long limbs had seen him prematurely mistaken for far older than his age, tuck it into his pocket with trembling hands.

The event is not so easily forgotten as you try to pretend. By the way Conrad's interest in the war only grows, you'd wager your least favourite set of pearls he hasn't forgotten it either. For a few months longer he will remain 19 and you hope and pray with the last ounces of faith that Georgie's death had not stripped from you that his interest will fade before then. It has to.

A brittle, fragile accord springs up between you when, unable to bear hearing him discuss the most recent battlefield losses for the umpteenth day in a row, you beg him to stop. Is it underhanded to bring up Private Hart and Georgie in one fell blow? Yes, but you are no longer beyond underhanded means if the end result is Conrad's interest being dissuaded. Fair rules of play are for children, or at least that seems to be what the world has decided and neither of you have remained any such thing.

Celeste comes to you one day with an apologetic look and before she can even open her mouth you know instinctively that the earth is about to shift under your feet again. The very last vestige of your childhood you had thought a living part of you slips out of your fingers.

"I'm sorry," is what she begins with. "I'm sorry to be leaving you." Already your tears are flowing. "But I've had an offer of marriage and I can't—" her voice cracks under the strain of her emotion. "I thought that for you, for you I could stay on a while longer, until I was sure you would not need me. But every corner, every hallway, I see the echoes of the little boy I raised."

Surging forward you clasp her trembling hands. "I know," you murmur thickly. "You need no forgiveness from me."

"It's a fresh start," she tries to explain anyway, words tripping over themselves in haste. "I'm not likely to get another, not like this one, a household of my own. You're too old to be needing a nanny and without the social season you've no need for chaperoning that a maid couldn't do. This way I shall leave with my head high and of my own accord before I'm asked to."

"I'm happy for you, truly," you say and try to mean it. You won't, not for a very long while. "Is he very handsome, your new fiance?"

"Oh!" Celeste says, cheeks pinking despite the tears slipping down them. "I should think him very handsome, though I hope you don't feel the same way about your old dancing master."

"Monsieur La Roche?!" you gasp.

"Mr. O'Reilly, actually," she confides.

"No!" you press your hands to your mouth in shock. Your face is not so damp as it was.

"Oh but you mustn't tell!" she giggles, no longer just the woman that had dogged your steps and fretted over you ceaselessly. "He's quite good at what he does but no one will hire him without that ridiculous accent."

"It's rather terrible," you agree, struggling to contain your own laughter. It feels an awful thing to laugh as you say your goodbyes, the comfort of the past suddenly cut off from you by this last landslide. No path forward but a future on increasingly unsteady terrain, threatened on all sides by the war, the machinations of others.

Later, when you stand by your window looking out to watch her leave, you allow yourself the full weight of your grief. Celeste looks so small hurrying down the lane to meet him, Mr. O'Reilly. He greets her with a warm embrace before taking her bag and offering her his arm. The pair disappears into the distance of the evening, a long drawn out departure. The hollowing sensation of once more being left behind lands like a blow and you stumble. Your fingers catch in the thick fabric of the curtains. Your ribs shudder and expand, prey-quick, the looming jaws of your own isolation inescapable.

Alone now. Well and truly alone. Georgie's been taken and Celeste has gone. If Conrad has his way, he'll leave too. Already he feels half gone, his eyes ever more firmly turned towards a horizon that doesn't include you. One day, and you pray it isn't to war, he'll go. Leave you behind in this house where the gates are growing ever higher and the walls pressing in too close. Just like Georgie, eventually you'll be just the ghost of a memory too.

"You still haven't told me what you'd like for your birthday," you remind Conrad, looking up from your well worn copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses. The fire in the library grate crackles cheerfully, the tea Polly had had sent up long gone cold. Moments like these are growing increasingly rare, his interest in the war and respect for your wishes to keep far away from it dragging him away from you more frequently.

"Where is the fun in that? Far more entertaining to have you guess so that when I do open it, you're dancing on tenterhooks," he replies with a smile. His own book — that rather petty novel on first aid from his birthday only a year ago — has been set down. You flush at the realization that he's being doing nothing but stare for the last few minutes.

Jutting your chin out towards the discarded book and sniff, "Well I've never had any complaints."

"Then I'm sure you'll have no issue again this year without my input." Very reluctantly you resist the urge to stick out your tongue at him. Instead you place your bookmark very precisely between the pages.

"What are your plans for the special day in any case?" you wonder. "I shouldn't like to interrupt simply to deliver a gift."

He shifts in his seat, unable to look you in the eye, and doesn't answer. The moment draws out like spun glass, so still is the silence that you almost don't expect him to answer until he opens his mouth and begins to speak.

"I'm to go to Russia. With my father. Cousin Felix invited us for his Christmas celebrations." Still he won't look at you.

"Isn't that how Lord Kitchener died?" you ask, throat slowly collapsing in on itself.

"Yes, well, we'll be going by train instead of boat. Much safer," he says getting to his feet and pacing before the fire. He runs a hand through his hair, breaking up the pomade in it and mussing it up.

"But you'll still go anyway." It's a statement, not a question. Everything's already been settled while you weren't looking. Your protests and concerns are meaningless, pebbles tossed in a stream. And why would they mean anything? Your voice carries no weight here.

"Only for a few days. I'll be back by Christmas Eve," he tries to placate you. "Cousin Felix has been begging Father to try and talk some sense into Uncle Nicky and maybe this time my attempt at going out in polite society won't end in an assassination."

"You're going to risk travelling through several countries currently at war with each other—" you interrupt slowly, desperate for him to contradict you "— so that your father, the renowned pacifist, can convince the Tsar of Russia not to pull out of the war." Hysteria unspools in the pit of your stomach, bubbles up until you can taste it. "Are you mad?"

Conrad recoils and another brick in the growing wall between you is laid.

"It's not pointless to try," he argues. "Don't you want this awful war to be over as soon as possible?"

You look away, not wanting to let him see how deeply the question has cut you.

"You, of all people, should know how badly I want that," you say flatly. The brittle edge of your voice is sharp enough to cut. He bows his head, shamefaced. "I think I shall take my leave—" you stand, fussing with your skirts so you don't have to look at him. "—I should start thinking of a gift if I'm to catch you with it before you leave the country."

"We leave tomorrow," he offers weakly.

You freeze, then with a great act of will, force your shoulders into a parody of relaxation.

"After, then."

In the end, it is surprisingly easy to decide on a gift for Conrad. The photographer down in the village still had the negative and it wasn't hard to find a small frame with a hinged cover in the large town an hour away, smaller than a palm and able to be put on a chain and worn around a neck if desired. The hardest part had been convincing your parents to allow you to go make your purchases, but with the excuse of the Christmas season on your tongue you had managed it. Now the three of you — Georgie, Conrad, You — stare up at you from your cupped palms. The three of you had looked so young in the photograph. Had it really been less than year since—

With a firm shake of your head, you put the thought away. Snap shut the case and begin to wrap it carefully for the short distance into Conrad's hands. Just to be sure, you had called ahead to make sure the family were home. Shola had answered the phone strangely subdued.

It isn't until you see the front page of your father's discarded morning paper that you begin to have the horrifying realisation why.

TSAR'S MYSTIC MURDERED BY PRINCE FELIX YUSUPOV, it screams up at you and you have to readjust your grip lest the present go crashing to the floor. Cousin Felix had been desperate indeed.

Unlike your own house, the estate is decorated in full Christmas cheer. The atmosphere inside does not match the light-hearted decor. The servants are more silent than usual, a grave air to their every movement. Shola does not meet you at the door as he usually does, and so you walk yourself to the drawing room. That, at least, holds the familiar sight of Conrad pouring over the papers.

"Are you quite sure it's safe for you to join society?" you ask, startling him. "That's the second time it's ended in the assassination of an important man."

He chokes on air and you take pity on him, pouring him a glass of water from the carafe on the side table.

"Yes, well, I'm sure Cousin Felix had his reasons," he croaks after draining the glass. He looks down at the empty cup as if surprised at how quickly the water had disappeared. Idly he begins to spin it between his hands. A bruise, fading and yellowed, decorates his cheekbone.

"Did you meet him, then, this mystic?" you ask. He chokes again and you roll your eyes before pouring him another glass. Conrad drinks it down just as eagerly.

"I wouldn't— I wouldn't say we met. Properly." His eyes dart around cagily and you let the matter drop, resolving to get the details of his 'not meeting' out of him later.

"It's certainly put a damper on things, but I hope that this—" you hold out your gift, "—goes some way to redeeming your birthday this year."

Pouncing upon the distraction, he enthusiastically but neatly, tears into the coloured paper. The little photo frame looks so much smaller in his large hands and you hold your breathe as he cracks it open.

Come back to me, you scream silently, handing him your heart on a plate. See all you have to return to? Come back home to me.

With wide startled eyes he looks up at you and you hope some part of him has heard your pitiful desire.

"I know— I know that you have your own copy, but if you keep insisting on travelling all over the continent, then I thought perhaps you might like one to keep with you," you explain in a rush, embarrassment suddenly turning you verbose. "A reminder of us at home. And look—" you slot yourself beside him and reach over to take the frame from him. "—you can add another photograph to the front of the cover too."

"I—"

"Oh you despise it, don't you?" you fret. "I did ask for your input you know, it's not my fault that—"

"Would you— would you take another picture with me?" he interrupts. "For the other side?"

You giggle in a fit of nerves. Shared photographs are for family or for lovers. They aren't something that friend do regularly. "It shan't be the same you know? Georgie won't be there in his grand uniform, it'll only be the two of us."

"No but I will," Conrad says. The smile starts to slip from your face.

"Will what?" He can't possibly hint at what you think he is. He's been 19 for less than a week.

"I'll be in my uniform," he repeats, a nervous smile on his face.

"No, you won't," you reply hotly. "Because if you are, then you wouldn't be the Conrad Oxford I know. Because the Conrad Oxford I know, the one that is my dearest friend, wouldn't be foolish enough to sign up for a mass slaughter that's already taken one person we both love."

"It's not like that," he insists stubbornly, his brow low and set the way it is when he insists on playing chess or going to the village and no other substitute will do.

"It's exactly like that." You move to leave, to stand up, to do anything but sit there as he merrily discusses getting himself killed but he is too quick for you. He clasps your hands in his, heat searing through your frozen fingers, slips from his seat to kneel before you.

"I know that you fear the worst," he begins, you look away, unable to bear the earnestness of his gaze. "It won't happen. I promise. But I need to prove myself to— to my father. To myself. That I'm a man, fully grown, not a boy anymore. I need to make him proud. As soon as I've done that, I'll stop. Become a medical orderly, or a supply driver or— or even an administrator." Fingers graze your cheek and you are helpless to stop yourself from turning to meet his soft eyes. "I just need one chance to prove I'm not a coward, that's all."

Closing your eyes, you steel your heart against the breaking already shredding your rib cage. Cruelly, you throw off his touch.

"Conrad it's been two years — three, in only a few more weeks. Three years of war the likes the world has never seen, millions — not thousands but millions — dead already and still you treat it all like some…. some game." Anger, disgust, disdain, all of it drips from your voice. "Georgie dying, was that just some game to you?" you spit, watching the weight of the words land with unerring accuracy at your target. You get up, pacing back and fourth as all of your love pours out of you like the richest venom.

"Will it make you better than him, do you think, to win the game, win the glory and escape with your life while the masters that are sending you out to die in the mud don't have the nerve to call back their armies and talk? You need to prove your manhood so badly that you've got to step over a dead man's grave to do it? Because you're going to have to kill someone, someone else's son, to prove to your father that you're not a child anymore. You'd waste your life on a chance at this?"

"ALRIGHT FINE! YES! Is that what you want me to say?" he roars back. "Is it such a crime that I want to do something with my life? I mean, it's my life to waste anyway," he repeats mockingly. Snow is beginning to fall outside the window.

“You’re going to give up you father’s pacifism — the principles that your mother died for — just to prove to some nebulous version of society that you’re what, good enough for them?”

“I already have!" Conrad yells you into a shocked silence. "I already have,” he repeats again, more gravely. "The bomb… those—those people in Sarajevo. I killed them—"

"You don't know for sure," you interrupt him.

"I checked!" he cries, getting to his feet. "I checked and three people died because I killed them. I've already left those principals behind, why does it matter then? At least it'll be someone that deserved it and not— not two sisters and a husband." His voice breaks on the last word but you cannot afford to give any quarter.

"So Georgie deserved to die then?"

"Wha— no, you're putting words in my mouth!" He scowls, hands balling into fists.

"According to you, my brother deserved to die simply because he was there. That the German that sent off the shell that killed him, as long as he was like you — was just trying to prove himself — was doing the right thing." Conrad looks away but you step back into his line of sight. Your voice is soft, pleading. "Is a little ambition all it takes for me to lose another brother?"

"I. Am not. Your brother," he seethes. "This has nothing to do with hurting you, but of course yours are the only opinions that matter, aren't they."

You rear back as if slapped, nostrils flaring.

"If you are not my brother then you are a stranger and I do not know you. I do not care to know you. I will not remain to watch a stranger turn their nose up at everything they have been given and waste their life so pointlessly in the pursuit of killing others. Good day sir."

"Wait!" Conrad calls as your hand grasps the door handle. You refuse to look back. "Wait for me. Just— just give me a chance to prove myself. If I have to, take a life to save my own but I'll save two, no three, for everyone that I take. I'll— I'll make you proud. So just wait for me. Please."

You inhale, sharply, and then force yourself to leave without a word.

You won't speak to him again.

Since the day you were first introduced to him at a mere 10 years old, you have never gone so long without speaking to Conrad. Weeks fade into months and the itching sensation of a lost limb never fades. You'd been losing him, his departure had been inevitable, and so you had made the first cut. Amputated the gangrenous appendage before the poison could spread to your heart. But the wound still hurts, pulses with a heartbeat that is not yours every day the separation does not end. The pointed glances of your mother over silent meals every day that you do not go out simply makes it harder to ignore.

You've heard almost nothing since he left for training, not from him or anyone up at the estate, just the perfunctory news delivered by note that he had finished training at the end of March and promptly been shipped to the Front. Now the frost has melted enough for you to resume your morbid little picnics with Georgie. He's the only one left listen to you after all.

Polly — never quite a confidant but firmly a past ally — is the one that calls. Its with shaking hands that you hold the phone to your ear.

"He's alive," is the first thing she says and you shudder with relief, the echoes of your brother's name ringing in your ears. "His Grace has pulled enough strings and Conrad's being stationed in London. He'll be in on the 3:15 train tomorrow, you might catch him on the platform before he's to report for duty."

“Thank you,” you breathe down the line, voice thick with relief.

“Give him my love,” she says brusquely, before hanging up promptly.

It’s not as hard as it should be to convince your parents to let you go up to London unaccompanied to see Conrad, the spectre of your brother and the last time anyone saw him still haunting your memories. The entire train ride to the city, you can’t help but feel that your lungs are too big for your chest, your heart fluttering and desperate to escape your ribcage. Too soon, too quickly, you stand on the crowded train platform in the middle of the station, one among hundreds longing for a single glimpse of a loved one. The cold chill of the winter air still bites at your cheeks but you barely notice, so distracted by straining to watch the train pull in.

A cry goes up from somewhere on the platform at the first sighting and the crowd surges forward in excitement. The chuffing and squealing of the train is almost deafening, steam billowing and obscure the faces pressed to the windows. It’s a true free for all when it comes to a complete stop, men pouring out of carriages, tossing luggage to one another and helping each other onto the platform. Wives, mothers, fathers press forward, tears and joyful cries as familiar faces are recognized. Dazed, you push through the crowds, desperately searching every face for the features you know so well. There! Turned away from you but the same height and build, it has to be Conrad only a few feet further down down the platform. You run, uncaring of the way your heel threatens to twist your ankle.

You crash into him, gasping out his name, only the face that turns to greet you is wrong, wrong, wrong. His eyes are the wrong shade of blue, his features not delicate enough. There’s no trace of the fine scar on his chin from when a branch broke under his weight or the easy smile he’s always had for you. Mumbling your apologies, you press on, desperate to find him. To apologize.

Slowly the crowd thins, and still you can’t find Conrad. Families walk away embracing, couples twining their fingers together. Yet you remain achingly alone. Roaming up and down the platform you search every face, every window of every carriage for a sign or hint of the boy you know better than your own features. It’s only you and the porters on the platform now and Conrad still hasn’t gotten off the train. Maybe Polly got the trains wrong or— or maybe he had to take another train. That must be it. He must have been delayed for some reason. You’ll go to the rooms you’ve booked at a nearby hotel and return tomorrow and check that 3:15 train too.

Conrad doesn’t arrive on that train or any of the other earlier trains that day either. You are forced to admit defeat, to board your own train home trying to ignore the crumbling pit in your stomach. He’ll be in London soon and he’ll write and Polly will chaperone and it will all be like it was before. It has to be.

Polly is waiting for you in the foyer of your home. Her eyes are a red rimmed nightmare you see daily on the face of your mother and in your own mirror since the death of your brother. Your knees crumple.

[imbxdateverything]

Whump List: Gintama

Character: Sakata Gintoki (+ few bonus ones)

(Image credit: E264)

DISCLAIMER: Gintama is predominately a gag anime. Therefore, most of the earlier episodes (1~100) and a few later ones are mostly comedic in nature, but the whump is still there. Also, I've excluded some hits and bleeds that are purely used in a comedic fashion (such as Gintoki being thrown off a high story building to dispose of a bomb in ep. 5, or getting stuck in an elevator in ep. 174) unless they are part of an arc, otherwise we'd be here for a while. This also means that the episodes rarely have any aftermath, especially outside of arcs. I've added whatever aftermath I saw, but don't expect injuries to stick for longer than a couple of episodes at best.

This post will be extremely long.

Additional notes: i) I've added each arc name for easier viewing, ii) I haven't added the season numbers since Gintama is counted as an overall series, despite having multiple separate seasons (although, I have added the name of the season in which the episodes appear, e.g. "Gintama°" to refer to S4), iii) some episodes with no whump have been added as to not break up arcs, iv) some timestamps have been added between square parenthesis, v) the format used is for easier browsing, hopefully it holds true for there are many things to scroll through, vi) episodes with a red colouring are to indicate some whump moments I highly recommend watching, vii) I've added some extra characters (like Hijikata Toshiro) here and there because it's good whump and I'm definitely not making another list.

—

Gintama (2006-2010):

E009 - challenged to a fight, cut shoulder, bleeding, in pain

Harusame Arc:

E013 - hangover, attacked, outnumbered, manhandled, stabbed, fall from great height, nightmare, bandaged, collapse, in pain, fights while injured to rescue loved ones

E017 - threatened with a sword to his back, cut hand

E027 - [20:00-21:00] ring fight, blow to the side, blood from mouth

Memory Loss Arc: (overall comedic)

E031 - vehicle accident, bleeding, amnesia, bandaged, hospital, worried loved ones

E032 - amnesia (cont.), tied up, taken hostage, protected by loved ones/friends, memories returned

Umibozu Arc:

E040-041 - no whump

E042 - fight, bleeding, hurt arm, self-sacrifice to save loved one, punched

Infant Strike Arc:

E051 - no whump

E052 - cut shoulder, death (imagined)

Benizakura Arc:

E058 - [hit with hammer, black eye, punched (comedic)], sword fight, slammed into wall, slashed chest, stabbed, blood from mouth, collapse, fainting

E059 - bandaged, [slapped, threatened (comedic)], goes to fight despite injuries

E060 - thrown off vehicle (comedic), [22:00] fight against arc villain begins

E061 - sword fight, in pain, wound reopened, heavy breathing, cut, blood on face, unconscious, captured, rescued, thrown, tired & shaking, supported to walk, fight against multiple opponents

E062 - (aftermath of Benizakura Arc:) bandaged, fussed over by loved ones, (otherwise comedic)

Fuyo Arc:

E069 - [scared, fainting (comedic)], pursued

E070 - fight against multiple opponents (no whump)

E071 - punched, blood from mouth, stabbed, bleeding, in pain

Yagyu Arc:

E076-077 - no whump

E078-079 - (whump for Hijikata Toshiro)

E080 - sword fight, slammed onto ground thrice, panting, hit, bleeding, bruised

E081 - [1st half] attacked, hard fall onto structure. rest is comedic/has no whump

Okita Mitsuba Arc: (Hijikata Toshiro whump)

E086 - angst

E087 - angst, goes to fight against mob on his own, shot in the leg, bleeding, covered in blood, dragging his injured leg behind him, using a wall as support, heavy breathing, surrounded, rescued by friends in time, trouble walking, keeps fighting despite injuries, bandaged & using crutches, crying (off-screen)

Shinsengumi Crisis Arc:

E101-103 - (whump for Hijikata Toshiro)

E104 - bleeding, sword fight, held in place by strings which he fights against, cuts around limbs from strings

E105 - sword fight (cont.), cut shoulder

Guardian Dog Arc:

E107 - [17:30+] attacked, grunting, shot in the arm, bleeding, dizzy, poisoned, falls to his knees, outnumbered, pursued, panting, vomiting, slashed, blood on clothes, shot in the stomach, fall into river

E108 - no whump/aftermath apart from visible bandages around his arm

Ghost Ryokan Arc:

E131 - (overall comedic:) scared, attempt to knock himself out by banging his head on a rock, loved ones get possessed by ghosts & leave him on his own

E132 - (overall comedic:) scared, threatened with loved ones' safety & forced to work, crying, treated badly

E133 - locked in a prison cell, referred to as a dog, breaks out of cell, cornered, thrown, blood from mouth, slammed into wall, punched, bleeding, belittled, beaten up

E134 - knuckles bleeding, punched

Yoshiwara in Flames Arc:

E139 - no whump

E140 - stabbed with kunai (comedic), attacked, hit, blood from mouth, thrown onto ground, worried over loved one

E141 - [17:10] stabbed with kunai (comedic)

E142 - no whump

E143 - [16:00+] fight with arc villain begins, severely outmatched, hurt in front of friends, straining, thrown, bleeding, head grabbed & pinned against the wall, groaning, in pain, collapse, kicked, unconscious

E144 - covered in blood, [13:00] wakes up, fights despite injuries, tired, kicked, spitting blood, slammed into wall, hit on his side

E145 - fight (cont.), panting, takes hit meant for friend; stabbed by 3 kunai, bleeding, groaning, on his knees

E146 - [in the beginning] covered in blood

E150 - [05:30 - 07:05] bloodied (special episode, no follow-up)

Tama Quest Arc:

E167 - (overall comedic:) exploded, punched, smashed with a hammer & shrunk

E168 - face grabbed & head slammed by lookalike, headbutted, bloody nose

E169 - butting heads with his lookalike resulting in general harm (for both), lookalike electrocuted

E170 - more infighting with his lookalike, flown into wall, light angst, lookalike loses limbs (& gets them back shortly after)

Red Spider Arc:

E177 - [2nd half:] surrounded

E178 - attacked by arc villain, stabbed with kunai multiple times, bleeding, slammed against wall & strangled, slashed shoulder & back, fall into water, presumed dead, rescued by friend, bandaged, worried over by loved ones

E179 - bandaged (cont.), angst

E180 - bandaged (cont.), fight with arc villain, stabbed through the hand, bleeding, heavy breathing & tired

E181 - no whump

Gintama' :

E209 - [06:30-10:45] backstory, time in war, fighting, bloodied (special episode, no follow-up)

Kabukicho Four Devas Arc:

E210 - (overall comedic:) pretends to have broken bones, spits blood, stuck in trash bin filled with concrete

E211 - jumps into water to save someone, worried over mother figure, running for an extended period of time, panting, holding himself, heavy angst, flies into rage & attacks strong opponent, fight, thrown, stabbed through forearm with sword & pinned, bleeding, grabs blade with his bare hand, punched, collapse, crawls under heavy rain while injured

E212 - bandaged, slammed against wall & yelled at by friend, angst, punched & comforted by loved ones, surrounded by mob

E213 - bandaged (cont.), fight against mob (no whump)

E214 - bandaged (cont.), fight against multiple opponents while hurt, covered in (so much) blood & bleeding, stabbed twice, heavy breathing, slashed, collapse twice & tired, final 'fight' with 'enemy', (even more bandages as aftermath)

Jail Arc:

E225 - (overall comedic:) arrested & jailed, threatened by warden multiple times, hit on the head & bleeding (comedic), threatened by prisoners & lifted by his shirt, 'stolen' item planted on him so that the warden can harass him further

E226 - prison break (comedic), blood on face (not his)

Baragaki/Thorny Arc:

E244 - [~11:00] hit by car & arrested (comedic)

E245 - chain & ball shackled around his wrist that he briefly uses as a weapon (comedic)

E246 - (whump for Hijikata Toshiro), [near the end] Gintoki reveals his own secret identity

E247 - [~11:30] identity revealed and arrested (comedic)

Gintama': Enchousen:

Kintama Arc:

E253 - forgotten by everyone, angst, mindfuckery, [stripped to his underwear, tied up & whipped (comedic)]

E254 - suicidal & jumps off tall building (an act to save someone), rescued by loved ones

E255 - accused of murder, seen as an enemy, pursued & attacked by friends and loved ones, slashed, bleeding, in pain, protects friends even though they're trying to capture/kill him, fall from great height, heavy breathing, stumbling & grunting, holding his middle

E256 - bleeding, fight w/ arc villain, thrown around, sacrifices self to save everyone, comforted

Courtesan of the Nation Arc:

E257 - (overall comedic:) stabbed with kunai on the head, kicked & nosebleed

E258 - surrounded, imprisoned, freed

E259 - fight against multiple opponents, angry, fight with strong opponent, blood on face, falls down stairs, pierced by poisoned darts, bleeding, paralysed, thrown, protected, fights against strong opponent again, (flashback: war time, bleeding, restrained, loved one gets taken away), straining, punched, spits blood, face grab, pierced & paralysed again, so much blood, unable to move

E260 - covered in blood (cont.), shot with antidote, worried over by friend, goes against strong opponent yet again, hurt & bleeding, slammed, pierced multiple times, fall from great height, (flashback: restrained, bleeding, promise with loved one), stabbed through the arm, hit, spits up blood, impact after fall

E261 - covered in blood (cont.), helped to stand & supported by loved ones, [7:10-7:15] bandaged & surrounded by loved ones, [11:51-12:20] bandaged & walking with crutches

Laser Beam Arc:

E262 - no whump

E263 - pretends to be an asshole & goes to fight the arc villain by himself, overpowered, blood on face, stabbed & pinned to the wall by sword, coughing up blood, almost killed, rescued by loved ones

E264 - covered in blood (cont.), removes blade from his side, collapse, grunting & in pain, spits blood, tries to fight despite injuries, trembling/unsteady & using his sword for support, panting, comforted by loved ones, collapses again, worried over by loved ones

Gintama° :

Joi Patriot Reunion Arc: (overall comedic)

E271 - strangled, (flashback: backstory, time in war, covered in blood, bandaged), at gunpoint/swordpoint

E272 - more backstory & infighting with friends, very scared & jumpy, targeted along with friends, surrounded by 'ghosts', gassed, (more blood in flashback)

Shinigami Arc:

E279 - [near the end] blackmailed

E280 - (flashback: imprisonment, flogged, bleeding), fight

E281 - fight (cont.), shot, bloody clothes, collapse, on his knees, (flashback: reason for imprisonment), accepts death, cut neck & bleeding, in pain from being shot, (flashback: imprisonment, prison escape (post torture), bruised, trouble walking, in pain, using wall to keep from falling & holding himself)

Soul Switch Arc: (very comedic) (entries for both Sakata Gintoki and Hijikata Toshiro)

E287 - [Gintoki:] kicked, chased, [both] hit by truck, soul switched between them (& cat's behind), bickering & punched multiple times. [Gintoki in Hijikata's body:] exploded by grenade & bleeding, at umbrella-point, plunged in water, briefly unconscious. [Hijikata in Gintoki's body:] dangled upside down from great height, head hit & bleeding, dragged, kneed & thrown, at swordpoint, plunged in water, unconscious

E288 - [both] surrounded by loved ones who see each as an enemy, stepped on. [Gintoki in Hijikata's body:] at swordpoint, hit & blood on his head. [Hijikata in Gintoki's body:] rope around neck & dragged by vehicle through the street, blood on his head

E289 - [Gintoki in Hijikata's body:] kicked, head slammed & bleeding. [Hijikata in Gintoki's body:] head slammed & bleeding. [both] thrown

Kaientai Arc: (Tatsuma Sakamoto whump)

E290-291 - some backstory but main focus is on Sakamoto, whump for Sakamoto

Shogun Assassination Arc:

E300 - no whump

E301 - pursued, surrounded, (+ whump for Okita Sougo)

E302 - attacked & pursued by multiple strong opponents

E303 - surrounded by strong opponents, face grabbed & head slammed, thrown onto floor & held in place, hit & blood on his head

E304 - covered in blood (cont.), fight w/ childhood friend begins, (flashback: war, bloodied), cut shoulder, hit multiple times, (many flashbacks to childhoood), thrown, stabbed through the wrist, cut multiple times, collapse

E305 - fight (cont.), (more childhood flashbacks), covered in blood, big slash on chest, heavy breathing, punched & spits blood, kicked & thrown back, tired, (flashback: loved ones in peril, forced to choose), hit & punched multiple times, angst, continues to fight despite everything, (flashback: forced to kill, crying, heavy angst), stabbed in the abdomen & shoulder, spits more blood, strong opponent appears

E306 - covered in blood (cont.), heavy breathing, exhausted, trouble standing & picking up his sword, attacked by many, fights again, helped by previous enemy

E307 - covered in blood (cont.), supported to walk, loved ones worried for him, collapse, in pain, in the hospital & bandaged

Farewell Shinsengumi Arc: (picks up right after the SA arc)

E308 - angst, bandaged (for the duration of this arc), using crutches to walk & limping, bruised, angst, surrounded & at swordpoint

E309 - takes punch meant for someone else, bleeding, at swordpoint, handcuffed, rescued by friend & running away

E310 - (flashback: angst, hand shaking)

E311 - no whump

E312 - cut cheek, (+ whump for Katsura Kotaro)

E313 - (whump for Kondo Isao & Hijikata Toshiro)

E314 - cut shoulder, ambushed, stabbed through the wrist, bleeding, hit by blast & pressumed dead, fight with strong opponent, angst, hurt arm, sword on neck & blood drawn, rescued by loved one, heavy breathing, (+ whump for Okita Sougo)

E315 - (whump for Katsura Kotaro & Kondo Isao)

E316 - everyone's in bandages, angst, saying goodbye

Gintama.:

Rakuyou Decisive Battle Arc: (picks up right after the SA & FS arcs)

E317 - nightmare, in hiding, shot at & at gunpoint

E318 - flashbacks to childhood & angst

E319 - shot at, almost falls from great height & rescued

E320 - (whump for Katsura Kotaro)

E321 - (whump for Sakamoto Tatsuma)

E322 - (comedic) fight, illusions of himself killed

E323 - flung back & cannon pointed at him, rescued

E324 - no whump

E325 - picks fight w/ strong opponent, punched & bleeding

E326 - fight (cont.), covered in blood, punched & kicked multiple times, spits blood, face grabbed & held in place, worried loved ones, broken finger, trouble picking up his sword & strapping it to his injured hand, angst, stumbling & collapse, heavy breathing, loved one attempts to protect him & protects loved one instead, slammed against wall & unconscious, wakes up & keeps fighting

E327 - covered in blood (cont.), supported, bandaged & using crutches

E328 - bandaged & crutches (cont.), some angst

Movies:

Gintama: The Movie 1 (2010) (Benizakura Arc) - sword fight, stabbed, bleeding, collapse, nightmare, bandaged, hair pulled, fights despite injuries, knocked out, captured, rescued

Gintama: Be Forever Yorozuya (2013) - (flashback: war, cut, cursed), presumed dead, angst, attacked, fight with future self, hit multiple times, spits blood, hair grabbed & face slammed into a wall, kicked down a flight of stairs, more angst, goes back in time to kill his younger self (unsuccessful), fight against multiple opponents, cut multiple times, comforted by loved ones

—

The ones below will be added as a reblog to this post as soon as I finish the anime.

Gintama: Silver Soul Arc: TBA

Gintama The Final (2021) - TBA

[goodolddumbbanana]

(Molten/Sun platonic) A little nightmare [TW: Violence, blood, maybe bugs]

Summary: I like angsty and fluff. i have problem man.

The Thing Creator install still inside Sun's head. It still totured Sun but it made him forget everything after he woke up.

They say there are three things that separate machines from humans.

The first is that humans feel pain, machines don't.

The second is that humans can dream, machines don't.

And the last is that humans have emotions, machines can only fake them.

So when all three conditions are met, can machines call themselves human?

***

Someone's heavy breathing. The hallway is dyed red with blood, seeing the fleeing figure struggling in the swamp of flesh and bone that is dragging them down. They are like trapped in the stomach of a monster, with the walls vibrating in a steady rhythm as if breathing and the flickering eyes that watch their misery like something to behold.

Sun tries to pull himself out of the swamp. His limbs thrash in panic, as his mouth opens, hoping to get some oxygen. A sweet, fishy taste rushed into Sun’s mouth, making him make pitiful gurgling noises as he was about to choke.

‘It’s not real.’

‘It’s all in your head, Sun.’

‘Be patient, Moon will come to save you.’

But no matter how many times he repeated the mantra, Sun himself couldn’t believe it.

Every night. Every damn freaking night. Sun would be stuck here, reliving the endless pain his dear old father had left him the day that wretched old hag hacked into his head.

First was the broken leg .

Pain that made him hard to breathe. Pain that felt like his lungs were being squeezed and submerged in water. Pain worse than anything Eclipse and Moon had ever put him through before, pain that left him unable to scream. His nails dug into the metal, bending it and creating ugly scratches and dents as an unhealthy defense mechanism to ease the pain. 

If Sun had a tongue, he would have bitten it off by now.

Then came the loss of vision .

The mist was so thick it was hard to breathe, surrounding Sun like a heavy, wet blanket. It clung to Sun’s throat, sharp as if it contained tiny metal fragments, invading Sun’s circuit boards and fans like termites, feasting on the wires inside Sun’s body. It felt like thousands of worms were eating him from the inside out, with buzzing sounds mixed with screams that almost reached the limits of Sun’s madness.

‘Tear it out… Tear it out… Take it all out! PLEASE!!!’

Sun cried out for help, but nobody came. His pearly eyes were still red, the smell of burning flesh lingering in his nose like sap on the hottest day. The electric explosions were whistling inside him, the system kept popping out golden triangles, even now, it was replaced by plump white legless creatures crawling across his inner screen.

Hearing was the last thing.

In that eerie silence, Sun's screams were swallowed into nothingness. He had a mouth, but he couldn't scream.

***

"Frog dissection experiments are really inhumane, right Mr.Sun?"

Sun blinked, and suddenly, he was in the daycare. The room music was whispering in his ears, and the brilliant colors of light kissed Sun's skin.

'Wha–?!'

A small hand grabbed Sun's ribbon and shook it. The little boy with the superhero cape had eyes shining like stars, looking at him with anticipation and excitement.

"What did you say? I don't understand..." Sun stuttered. "Well... It's educational to some extent... I guess?"

"Sunny!!..." The kid huffed. The other kids looked at each other with amusement.

"See, Huey, you're wrong!" Another kid, wearing big glasses and blond hair, shouted.

"Shut up Jackie! My mom says it's not nice to hurt animals!" Huey waved his arms wildly, for some reason the red of the cape wrapped around this kid reminded him of blood.

"Pfft!! You are chicken!! Chicken Huey!" Jackie stuck out his tongue.

The twins behind him squealed with laughter, matching the rhyme: "Huey's a chicken! Huey's a chicken!"

"Come on James, Jamie. You can't tease Huey like that." Sun cut off the teasing when he noticed Huey was starting to tear up. “That’s not good, okay?”

“I’m not a chicken.” Huey’s eyes were red, his voice starting to crack. Sun pulled Huey into his arms, patting the child’s back. A sick feeling came over him as the child lay snugly in his arms.

“No one said Huey was a chicken. You’re the bravest person I know. Those kids were just teasing…”

“But what do you think, Sunny?”

A whisper rang out in Sun’s heart. The music had stopped at some point, and something was dripping behind Sun.

“What–!?”

“Do you think that because a frog’s life is worth less than a human’s, it deserves to be tortured like that, Sun?”

Something slipped out of Sun’s arms, falling to the ground. A human body, the body of a child. In Sun’s arms was only Huey’s head. Two empty eye sockets stared at him, the boy’s mouth still open, smiling at him.

In the blink of an eye, what had once been the daycare was gone. Bodies were strewn everywhere, and blood was in Sun's hands. But right now, Sun was too small, too weak. A laugh rang out, a laugh that Sun was sure was his own, but it didn’t escape his mouth.

His clone, another Sun, stood before Sun with a look of satisfaction. There was blood on the other’s sunbeam, and his intestines and brains were still neatly placed on the monster’s shoulders.

“Brother, look. We have a winner~~~”

“Oh~~~Why don’t we give the winner a prize?”

Sun didn’t even have time to react.‌ The other’s claws shot out, grabbed Sun’s head, and slammed it hard against the ground. He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but watch as his brains were splattered and his limbs were torn to pieces like rag dolls.

***

“Doctor, look at this specimen.” Sun suddenly found himself trapped in some kind of operating room, with his real body. Surrounded by anatomical images of fish, frogs, and even worms. Opposite his sight was a fish tank. The goldfish swam silently inside, circling around a moon doll whose head was torn off by someone. “Even though it’s dead, it can still move~~~”

Bloodmoon appeared before Sun’s eyes, the red moon model grinning at him with delight, the monster wearing a pure white nurse’s uniform, not a single blemish in contrast to their bloody hands.

The other person was also Bloodmoon, but it was the one who had been destroyed by Puppet. Over their red and blue coats was a surgical gown that specialized doctors often wore.

Sun felt the inside of his chest split open, these two gremlins's hands rudely stirring up the wires and circuit boards inside.

“ Hmm, you’re right, my nurse. Let’s say, I think if we increase the current, I feel like we can make some progress .” Blood nodded, as they ruthlessly tore the fan off Sun’s body.

“ Aren’t you afraid it will die again? ” The other chuckled, but his hand was already ready to plug the power cord into Sun’s charger.

“ Isn't It just a useless thing, my nurse? We can easily replace it with something else .”

And the pain tore everything white, accompanied by Bloodmoon’s cruel chuckle.

***

Sun felt like he was going crazy.

Maybe he was already crazy.

In a blink of an eye, he was back in hell. His whole body was shaking, choking on the air filled with mist and smoke, with a heavy feeling like someone’s hand was dragging him down into the mud. Sun could only limp to the ground, even moving an inch was enough to hurt him so much that he couldn’t breathe.

A black figure stood staring at him, an almost octopus-like body with tendrils shooting out all around, pitch black with irises staring back at him.

“What more do you want!!?” Sun spat. He glared at the person in front of him. His torturer. His prisoner. His newest roommate for over a dozen days.

The Thing.

And as always, the bastard said nothing. A virus, whose sole purpose was to torture him, that didn’t even have a sentient yet.

It moved closer to Sun, the seemingly delicate yet sturdy metal wires pulling Sun up despite Sun’s feeble struggles. The wires clung to the joints and shafts of the frame, tight enough to make him walk like a puppet.

“What?!‌! Say something!!!”

There was only silence in response. There was the sound of dripping water, and the rattling of plastic balls in Sun’s ears. The pain suddenly disappeared, as did the unreadable look on ‘The Thing ’s’ face, always shrouded in red mist.

Sun felt no pain. He felt nothing. He felt empty, so empty and peaceful that it was scary.

Suddenly, a loud, harsh noise, the sound of metal breaking.

What could it be? Sun wondered absentmindedly, suddenly finding his vision lowered.

Oh… The thing that broke turned out to be him.

Piece by piece… Piece by piece the metal that had once shaped Sun fell, crumbling to dust. His face fell off, sinking into the water.

The darkness was cold and too suffocating.

Sun prayed that this would be his final destination.

***

“Sun? Sun, wake up.”

A strange, monotonous, mechanical sound rang out in Sun’s ears.‌ The saffron-colored animatronic jerked awake in confusion, its mouth opening in a jumble of questions.

A soft icy blue light caught Sun’s eyes. A Freddy model with white fur and orange spots, looked at him curiously.

“Oh? Molten? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, no. I saw you fall asleep. Are you tired, Sun?”

Sun looked around in confusion. He was sitting in front of the movie screen. It was strange, when did he fall asleep? He and Molten were watching a movie. Something from Marvel… Then maybe he fell asleep because he was bored? Sun checked his internal system, and found that his battery was only below 30%.

“Oh… It’s okay Molten, I just forgot to plug it in. I guess practicing magic somehow drained my energy more than usual.”

“Can I help? I want to help.” Molten’s ears twitched as if he was excited. It was strange because Sun had never seen Freddy or any Freddy model like Molten.

It was… quite cute to some extent.

“Oh, no need.” Sun stood up and stretched. His whole body was sore, probably from lying in the wrong position. Right now, all he wanted to do was lie in bed, but the thought of going back to sleep or standing up to charge somehow made him feel discouraged .

Never mind, he could charge himself standing up with the solar power anyway.

“Are you used to everything here, Molten?”

“Yes! Everyone here is really nice!!” Sun could feel stars twinkling in Molten's eye as they rambled on about Moon, about Solar, about Daycare…

“And you haven’t met Jack and Dazzle yet. They’re all pretty cool, trust me.” Sun chuckled, his eyes wandering to the chair where the popcorn crumbs were scattered. It was dirty , bugs, bugs, he hated bugs… Why does he feel like he wants to hit something right now?

“Oh, new friends? I like having new friends. We can play games, and watch movies…” Molten nodded. Their hands were bent, but the sharp, smooth wire still made a rustling sound along the way. Something made Sun feel uneasy, but Sun didn't know what it was.

Maybe he should ask Moon to run the system again, it had been a long time since he had upgraded anyway.

But maybe later. Moon was quite busy, and Solar too. The Computer got broke, which caused them a lot of trouble. Too much work to do and too little time to spend.

"But you're fine, Sun." The words sounded so gentle in Sun's ears that he was startled. Sun looked up, Motlen's face still looked the same, a look of innocent joy that made Sun a mixture of guilt and relaxation.

Why are you so nice to me? I don't deserve it, I really don't deserve it at all. I'm not as smart as Moon or as reliable as Solar. Even Monty is more responsible than me.

I will destroy you.

I will be the venom that will burn you from the inside.

I will turn the best part of you into something ugly, like Rocksan, like Nexus, all because I dare to think about caring.

Eclipse is right, I'm an ungrateful idiot who only knows how to cling to others.

As if reading his mind, Molten smiled. "I love to hang out with you because I know you are a good and caring person. But I know it is hard for you to believe it. So I will keep saying these words until you believe the words I say are true."

Something stirred in Sun's chest, so quickly that he immediately suppressed the feeling.

Can he really have a friend? Someone wouldn't suddenly break like Rocksan, someone wouldn’t be so spiral like Nexus.

Is it okay for him to have someone other than Moon?

“Hahahaha… yeah sure, Molten.”

Sun laughed, but inside he had no answer to that confusion.

Please leave me.Please stay with me.

***

“Hope is a terrible thing, Sun. It keeps you from giving up no matter how hard things get, but it can also make your situation worse without you even knowing it. Why is the sinner clings to a spider’s thread, even though he knows it will break, he still tries to climb up countless times?

That is because of hope, or desperation?

A song that is danced to many times will become boring too, don’t you think it is true, son? Are you ready to give up?”

Creator asked his creation affectionately, who was forcefully sitting on a throne that was stacked high with human bones.

Exhausted, bloody, bruised, and stained with a clean brown and yellow, the son of the most self-absorbed bastard on the planet, who could only move his head right now, gritting out the words.

“Go to hell, old man.”

“Oh well, and I thought I am making some progress.  It's a shame this talk didn’t work out. Let's try again, my boy. See you next time, Sun.”

The brain chuckled, and once again the hands grabbed Sun and pulled him into the water, making gurgling, gurgling sounds.

“Maybe I should switch the target to Molten.”

[joels-shitty-puns]

The Key To Your Heart - Track 10

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Musician!Reader

Series Summary: After writing your feelings for Pedro into a song, it gains a lot more popularity than expected. Ultimately it brings both criticism and support, with new possibilities around the corner.

Series Warnings: 18+ only (MDNI). Alluding to sexual scenarios. Kissing. Panic/Anxiety Attack. Fat shaming, name calling. Mentions of food, weight loss, weight gain, dieting, weighing, potential eating disorder, food guilt. Potential for puns/dad jokes (name of my blog, and the fic) should give that away. This is my first fic which should be its own warning, lol. Also some cursing. Mentions of masturbation (f). Sadness, reader is pretty depressed. Poor body image. Rude people. Bullying-ish and just lack of support? Anxiety. Age gap! Reader is in her mid 20's, Pedro is current age (48).

Other stuff: Reader is plus sized. AFAB. Inexperienced. Also has a dog, but you can pretend it is another creature probably. Further, in case it isn't clear, italics almost always are the reader's inner thoughts!

Word Count: 6.6k

Series List: Here!

Miss Track 9? Here!

Hi!!!! Once again I want to apologize for taking so long with this. I can't seem to ever stay awake to do anything. That being said, here it is! This is the last main chapter of our little lovebirds. There will be at least one, likely two bonus tracks coming soon though :) Also there's a smidge of Spanish in here from Pedro, but the translation is included in the end of the sentence. I took some Spanish classes back in the day but I don't speak it and had to use Google translate. So if it ISN'T right and you do speak Spanish, please let me know lol. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these little cuties on their first date. There's a lot, a lot, a lot of kissing in here (sorry...) and overall they're just grossly in love lol. Please let me know what you think, and if you've seriously read this far, I LOVE YOU! This is my first series, and honestly my first fic other than the one I wrote in my diary lmao. Like the reader, I am incredibly inexperienced so writing a relationship has been a bit of a challenge and half the time I don't believe the actual words I'm writing. But I really only started writing it as a way to write down my daydreams :) So to have support means the world to me, and hearing people comment/DM me saying how much they relate has meant so much and makes me feel a lot less alone, because ultimately, it doesn't matter how fictional it is, most of reader's feelings are my own. To anyone else in the same boat, I get you! Hang in there. I think there's a Pedro out there for us all. Someday. Anywho, pardon my ramble. Thank you for reading, I hope you like it. ❤

The next morning, you woke up and stretched your limbs, rolling over in your comfortable bed as the sunshine poured in through the window. At the shuffling of your body, Skipper groaned, wiggling a little in bed, nearly shoving you off the edge. You reached for your phone, blinking through your sleep a couple times before seeing a text from Pedro. “Good morning beautiful! I can't wait for our date today. I was thinking maybe we could start around 2:30 and spend the day together, if you'd like. But if that's too much, we can just make it a dinner date. Up to you which you would prefer. I understand either way. Love you ❤️”

He wants to spend the whole day with me!? And he sent me a good morning text and called me beautiful? Then signed it with a heart and love you?!!!! How did I get this man?

Your grin eclipsed your face, making you squint. If Mr. Grumpybutt weren't sharing the bed with you, you'd probably squeal and kick your feet. Tapping your phone screen, you typed out a reply. “Morning handsome ❤️ I would love nothing more than to spend the day with you. I love you too!” You sent the message before crawling out of bed gently, receiving a dirty look from Skip. 

“Alright Grump. Go back to bed. Geez,” you laughed. If looks could kill, you thought. He turned back on his side, letting out a grumble and sigh, resulting in a laugh from you. Acts like he pays rent and works 40 hours a week…

You took a relaxing shower, making sure to be all nice and fresh for your date with the man of your dreams. While brushing your teeth, you noticed he had replied. “Great, I can't wait. I'll be at your place at 2:30. :)”

“Can't wait to see you. What do you have planned? I'm wondering how to dress.”

“Wear whatever you feel good in, baby. I'm sure you'll look amazing. Probably something casual you can walk around comfortably in for the day. Maybe something a little dressier for the evening, but you don't need to carry it around. We will make a stop at your place before and you can change”

Wow he really has this planned out.

“What have you got planned, P? This sounds elaborate. You know you don't need to put in all that effort, I'm already yours ❤️”

“You deserve the world, my love.”

Dressed in a pair of leggings and a light sweater, you felt reasonably cute while still being comfortable for whatever activity Pedro had in mind. Plus, with the crisp November air, you would be nice and warm. You were just finishing tying your sneakers when your doorbell rang. 

You opened the door to find your handsome boyfriend standing on your step, a bouquet of red roses in his hand. “Mi amor,” he handed you the roses, kissing your cheek and hand. “Thank you Pedro,” your cheeks heated. “Come in,” you pulled his hand across the doorway towards the living room. Skipper pushed past you to investigate, causing Pedro to drop your hand.

“Well there he is! That handsome boy!” Skipper’s tail wagged and his butt wiggled as Pedro crouched to give ear scratches. “Oh, I love you too,” Pedro answered when Skip kissed his face frantically. A fit of giggles erupted from Pedro, making your heart swell with joy. He has the cutest laugh, and the fact that your dog is causing it was surreal. 

“You're just a beautiful boy! Aren't you?! Hermoso, igual que tu mamá,” he held Skipper’s face, kissing his nose. (Beautiful, just like your mama)

Your chest was filled with butterflies. Holy shit, he's charming. “Thank you, Pedro,” you said in a whisper, not even sure if he would hear. Turning his head from your dog, Pedro looked up at you, giving you a gentle smile; but the eye contact was quickly torn away when Skipper pressed a needy paw to Pedro's chest. Both of you now giggling, Pedro continued to pet Skipper, stopping to give him a hug and some more nose kisses.

“Alright. I gotta ask…” you prompted, causing Pedro to turn his head towards you again. “Are you just dating me to hang out with my dog?” You smirked.

Pedro turned back to Skipper, speaking in a low voice. “She's catching on to us buddy. We've been made.” You burst out laughing, Skipper looking over at you as if his plan really had been foiled.

Pedro gave a final pat on Skipper’s head before standing and walking over to you. “Nonsense,” he pecked a kiss to your lips. “I do love that sweet boy of yours,” he replied before turning his face to whisper in your ear. “But I'm absolutely enamored with you, Mamacita.” The hair on your neck stood as a chill rushed down your spine. You bit your lower lip, and he stared back into your eyes, leaning in for a passionate kiss. 

“You look beautiful,” he tucked your hair behind your ear.

“You look rather handsome, yourself,” you replied. His hair was brushed back and to the side, his curls neatly swept and threatening to break free around his face. You wondered whether he asked for help to make his hair look extra nice for your date or if he styled it himself.

Running your fingertips over his patched salt and pepper beard, your hands found the small heart shaped patches near his chin. You brushed your thumb over his jaw before leaning in to press a kiss on the bare skin, causing his eyes to close as he let out a sigh. The whiskers tickled your cheeks as you continued kissing up his jawline, back across his cheek, and on his nose before pulling away to look into his eyes.

He opted to not wear glasses today, allowing you a closer look into his deep brown eyes which were softening under your gaze. “You ready to go, baby?” He asked you, his hand on your hip as he rubbed circles with his thumb.

“Absolutely,” you smiled. He wore a pair of dark jeans, tennis shoes, and a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearm. He looked absolutely… incredible.

While you were grabbing your bag, he grabbed Skipper's leash. “Is Skipper coming too?” You asked, confused.

Skipper was twirling now, impatient to go somewhere.

“Sure is! Couldn't leave him out. But don't worry, you and I will have the night to ourselves,” he winked.

You looked downward, feeling shy and flushed. “Okay,” you giggled, clipping Skip to his leash and heading for the door.

“Do you want to take my car? You'll get dog hair and slobber in yours,” you offer.

“I don't mind! I love dogs,” Pedro replied, opening the door for Skipper to climb in the back seat. After closing the door, he opened the passenger door for you. Such a gentleman, you thought with a sigh, getting in and thanking him. 

As the car sped along, you looked over at your boyfriend driving the car. Boyfriend! That'll never get old… you thought to yourself. The air conditioning blew the few loose strands of hair on the top of his head, and his left hand gripped the wheel, making the veins on his hand prominent. With his right hand, he reached over, holding your left in his, resting on top of your thigh. 

He really did look beautiful. You couldn't help but stare at him as he expertly drove the car, hand flexing as he turned the wheel. His mouth pursed and he licked his lips, his tongue slowly jutting out to wet them. 

Damn, I want those lips on mine. That tongue in my mouth, you thought, feeling rather warm, despite the air conditioning swirling around the car.

“So where are we spending the day?” You asked, trying to quiet the flames of attraction licking at your pulse.

“It's a surprise! But we're almost there,” he answered, rubbing his thumb over the top of your hand.

Pedro looked in the side mirror and laughed. “Babe, look at Skipper.”

You looked to see him with his head out the window, ears and lips blown back with the wind, his tongue lolled out to the side and blowing with the speed of the vehicle.

You both chuckled before you warned him, “your car is going to be covered in slobbers, Pedro!” He gave another quick look to Skipper before replying. “That's okay. It'll help me remember this day until I wash it again,” he looked over at you and smiled. It felt so natural. So… domestic, the two of you sitting in the car, going on a date, him holding your hand while driving, and the two of you laughing at your dog in the back seat. It was just perfect. Everything you dreamed.

He wasn't joking when he said you were almost there. It was only about five more minutes until the car pulled into the parking lot of the dog-friendly beach. 

Stepping out of the vehicle, you took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar smell of salty sea air and hearing the chatter of gulls. The breeze blew your hair gently, but the day was relatively warm for November.

After the three of you exited the car, Pedro opened the trunk, pulling out a large picnic basket and tote bag. “You really came prepared, didn't you? Pedro, this is really special. Thank you.” Your eyes felt teary and the smile you held was genuine. Nobody has ever put this much effort into anything for you. Other than him.

“You don't need to thank me. I want you to be happy and I want the three of us to have a nice day,” he added, pecking your lips.

“Wait.. Pedro,” you frowned. “It looks kind of crowded. Should I be nervous about paparazzi or anything?” Your stomach bubbled with nervous energy.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. Celebs come here all the time. I've come here before. If they do, they might take pictures, but usually it's pretty low-key here. Try not to worry too much. I want you to have a nice time,” he squeezed your hand affectionately.

“Okay. I trust you,” you smiled at him as the three of you walked towards the sand, finding a nice place to picnic. Pedro unpacked, laying down a large blanket before setting up the spread of sandwiches, veggies, and fruit. He offered you a cold drink from the basket and the two of you sat, using a metal stake to secure Skipper’s leash near your blanket. He flopped onto his side, content to be sunbathing with some of his favorite people.

The lunch consisted of peaceful conversations and laughter, learning more about each other despite having talked for several months now. It seemed you could never run out of conversation topics. But even in the quiet moments, it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt relaxing. You were both content being able to sit together in silence and just enjoy each other's company.

After your meal, you packed up the basket and headed for the car again to put the things away, opting for a walk unburdened by carrying items across the sand. Neither of you brought a swimsuit today, but despite the California sun, it was still November, and the Pacific ocean was never really warm, even in the middle of summer. That didn't seem to bother Skipper very much though. As the two of you walked hand in hand near the water, barefoot in the wet sand, he ran laps around Pedro holding him on the leash, occasionally splashing through the shallow water before joining close by his family again.

He would definitely need a bath later, but you didn't mind. He was happy splashing around, having a great day. You were happy walking with the man of your dreams, fingers intertwined together. Everything felt right. You weren't even nervous, despite the way Pedro looked like the most handsome man you've ever seen, or the fact that he was famous, and that you occasionally received stares from other beach goers. Instead of the usual first-date nerves people get, you just felt love.

“So,” he started excitedly, “Obviously I have most of this date planned, but I also wanted to check in with you and see if you had anything particular in mind that you wanted to do together.”

You thought for a second, letting a memory burn into your thoughts. “Well,” you began, "I don't want to sound like a total creepy fan or anything...” you added, cautiously. You kinda were, with all the photos of him you had saved on your phone (prior to deleting them before your first meeting in person). But that's not important right now, and he probably doesn't need to know that. Maybe it can be a funny story later.

Pedro laughed, that cute little wheezy laugh he does with his giant smile that makes your stomach do somersaults. Those same somersaults you've been getting since you first saw that smile on the screen and knew you were absolutely screwed until you got over this crush. Or, unexpectedly, when you walked hand-in-hand with him, like you were now.

“But…?” he pondered, looking down at you sideways, with a playful smirk and those big brown eyes that could make you lose your mind. They absolutely glittered in the sunlight right now, reflecting all the joy and love he felt for you.

“Okay maybe I'm a little creepy…” you nudged him with your side, still gripping his hand in yours as the two of you walked peacefully. The beach was crowded, but you and him, and Skipper, were the only ones here as far as either of you were concerned. There could be a loud scream and it wouldn't compare to the squealing in your mind. A firework show would simply feel like a projection of your sparks. A tornado couldn't sweep you off your feet as well as he could. 

“Is this where you tell me you've been watching me sleep through my window for the past three years or something?” He raised an eyebrow, playful smile still on his face as he licked his lips.

“What?” You squeaked, laughing. “No. I mean… I did have some pictures saved of you, and have maybe read a fictional story or two about you and your characters…” or a few thousand, you thought.

You cringed. Why the fuck did I say that out loud?!

Your cheeks felt hot and you diverted your eyes away from the man beside you, a nervous grimace painted across your mouth. He barked out a laugh, pulling you into his side for a hug. “Baby, you're cute. I don't mind that you used to read those. I don't even mind if you still do. No different than a book, right? Maybe it'll give us some fun date ideas.” He rested his head on top of yours innocently.

Oh, if only he knew the things you read.

“Right. Fun date ideas,” you smirked to yourself. He pulled away to look at you, eyebrow raising playfully.

“Sweetheart,” he interrogated in the same tone you use when Skipper steals a sock from the laundry, “what kind of stories are you reading about me and my characters, huh?” He lifted your chin to meet his eyes. You'd feel nervous from his tone if he didn't flash a smug, knowing grin at you.

“Oh, you know…” you shrugged. “Just the typical romance stuff,” you turned, facing him and resting your hand on his chest, tracing a circle over his heart with your finger. You felt his pulse pick up under your touch, and saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

“What kind of thoughts are going through that pretty head of yours?” He asked, raising his brow while you continued tracing little hearts into his shirt with your index finger.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” You winked before removing your hand from his chest. Starting to walk away, you continued your earlier statement. “Anyway, as I was saying-”

“Oh, no you don’t,” he interrupted, laughing. “Don't think you're getting out of this conversation that easy,” he gently pulled your forearm, stopping your movement and sending you twirling into his arms once again.

“Maybe someday I'll tell you,” you giggled, booping his nose. 

“Someday? Why not tell me now?” He ran his thumb over your lip, eyes drifting down quickly before returning to your eyes.

“I'll show you the fanfics I read about you when I know you're stuck with me and you aren't going to run for the hills,” you laughed nervously, only partially joking.

His playful demeanor vanished before your eyes, turning into a look of… concern? Oh no. This is it. Where he realizes what a mistake he made. Where he says he doesn't want to be together. Where he breaks my heart.

He gently held your arm, rubbing soft strokes. “Honey. What are you talking about?” His soft brown eyes searched your face. You gulped, not wanting to make eye contact, but he again pulled your chin up, forcing you to look at him. “I…” you floundered for the words. “I don't want to scare you away.”

“Why would I be scared away?” he asked in almost a whisper, concern and sadness lacing his features.

“Because I just had this huge, huge crush on you. So, I read fanfics and I saved all your photos and I watched all your movies. I spent more time on social media looking for updates on you. Just so I could see you, or imagine what being with you would feel like. Like a total crazy person. An absolute psycho creeper.”

“Baby…” he brushed his thumb over your cheek. “You aren't any of those things. I actually think that’s kind of sweet. Although, it makes me a little sad thinking about the pain you must have felt, having these strong feelings and not having found each other yet.” He brushed your hair out of your face, settling his other hand on your waist before continuing.

“Feelings make us feel a little crazy sometimes, and although I never read fanfiction about you, or had any pictures to save, I would be lying if I said I didn't take a screenshot of us that first night you showed me your face.” He rubbed his neck bashfully.

Fanfic about me? What? If that even exists, I gotta see what people are saying…

“You did?” His admission surprised you, to say the least. He sighed before answering. “Yes. I had - have,” he corrected himself, “a pretty big crush on you too, baby. But I felt like I was betraying you in a way, taking a picture of you during our video chat. I just wanted to remember your face if I never saw it again,” he sighed.

“I fell in love with you the first time I heard your song... I heard you sing about your feelings and daydreams. So… you admitting about fanfiction and pictures isn't all that surprising.” You lowered your eyes in embarrassment.

“Hey, look at me.” He stroked your cheek. You looked up and he continued. “I took that picture because I had already fallen so head-over-heels for you that the first time I saw your face, I stopped breathing. Although I knew I wouldn't be able to get the image of you out of my mind, I couldn't risk forgetting the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life.”

You dropped your gaze again, cheeks feeling a permanent state of warmth and butterflies dancing from your stomach to your chest. “You don't honestly mean that, Pedro.” You sighed. “I appreciate it, but there's no way. I really don't know what you could ever see in someone like me,” you whispered, barely audible. If you weren't standing so close, he would've missed it.

Instead of responding, he dropped his arms from your body. At the loss of contact, your heart sank. But when you lifted your head to meet his eyes, he was fishing around his pocket for his phone. Calling an Uber to leave? Your self-doubt pestered.

A few taps to his screen later and he held up his phone. There you were, sitting at your table in your favorite dress, with your favorite food and flowers on the table. You had the biggest smile on your face and in the bottom corner, you could see Pedro looking handsome as always, and absolutely smitten with you, the largest grin painted across his features.

At the sight of the image, your heart warmed. “See what you mean to me?” He asked, putting his phone back into his pocket. You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you,” you choked out, leaning forward to mold your lips to his. They fit together perfectly. Like they were made for each other. He pressed back before opening his mouth ever so slightly to lick at your lips. Matching his movements, your tongues met, dancing a waltz in exploration as he pulled you forward by your lower back, seeming as if trying to get as close as possible somehow.

As the two of you paused for air, he ran his hand further down your back, just barely grazing the dip of your spine where your torso meets your butt. He gave you a look, almost to determine your reaction, asking permission to let his hand continue. When you didn't back away, going as far as pulling him closer around his neck and leaning in for another kiss, he pressed his lips against yours in return and let his hands wander a little further down. When his hand wrapped around the cheek of your ass, you squeaked. This is new… and I like it, you thought. His whole hand fit across your cheek. His huge hands. You whimpered as he gave a squeeze, like he was claiming you as his own.

“I love you too.” He finally responded, pulling out of the kiss to search your eyes. “So tell me… what was this activity you wanted to add to our date? The one you fear makes you sound like a creepy fan?” He let out a small laugh, brushing your nose with his.

“This,” you replied, pressing another kiss.

“Kissing?” He asked, rubbing his thumb over your waist and resting his forehead to yours. “I think we've already been doing that, if I'm not mistaken.” He pecked your lips with his.

“Yes,” you kissed. “Well,” kiss. “Actually,” you pulled away enough to explain. “I read this interview you gave a few years ago about your ideal first date?”

“Yeah?”

“You said something about ‘a date that doesn't feel like a date. And

hopefully by the end, or throughout, very

good kissing.” You said, slightly cautious at your memorization, a bit nervous at the implication of what you're saying.

“Oh, is that what you want?” He flashed his eyes up to look at you, giving a devilish smirk. 

“Well, as someone who hadn't been kissed yet when I read it, I sorta lost my mind over it,” you laughed. “Obviously we've kissed before, but if it were up to me your lips would never leave mine,” you pressed your lips to his again.

“I think we should be able to make that happen,” he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours before pulling you in for another kiss. “Mmmm” you sighed, pulling away from his lips. “Never gets old.” You held his hand in yours, the two of you walking again down the beach.

“So I was thinking,” he began, “since you said you deleted all your photos, and I only have the one, maybe we could make some new photos… together,” the corner of his mouth turned up into a crooked smile. You grinned and nodded excitedly. “Please!”

Pulling out his phone, the two of you took several photos together. Some just smiling, some with Skipper, and your personal favorites, the ones with him kissing you. This will make for a perfect lockscreen, you imagined.

As you approached the edge of a rocky cliffside at the end of the beach, a sea lion barked in the distance. Skipper perked up, tilting his head and letting his ears twitch before returning a “boof.” The two of you laughed, ushering your dog away from making any wild ocean friends, and headed towards the boardwalk.

After grabbing an ice cream at a candy shop, you were so deep in conversation and laughter that you didn't notice the girl off to the side looking nervous. Slowly she walked over. Skipper put up his guard, but as she approached, she gave a kind wave. “Hi… I'm sorry to bother you. I'm a big fan of you both.”

“Us… both?!” You responded, surprised. Pedro shook his head with a laugh before thanking the fan.

“Of course! Your music is amazing! I listen to it on my way home from work everyday. I relate to so many of your songs.”

“Wow, thank you so much. I never expected to be recognized. You're so kind,” you replied honestly.

She asked for a photo with you both, and after obliging, she mentioned before leaving, “by the way, I was following all the news that went down. I just want to say I think it's cute how you guys got together and you make a really cute couple. Okay bye! Thank you again!!” And with that, she scurried away, leaving you to look at Pedro in surprise. “Wow” you replied with a laugh. “I can't believe I'm getting recognized,” you spoke quietly.

“How do you feel about it?” Pedro asked cautiously.

“I feel… okay, so far. This was a nice interaction, and even though people keep looking at us… being able to be out in public with you, to show my face, kiss you, hug you, hold your hand,” you gave his hand a squeeze, “it makes it all worth it.”

“I couldn't agree more,” he looked into your eyes, giving a soft smile. You matched his expression before his face slowly faded into concern. “Do you think work will go okay for you? Now that it's out there?”

You took a deep breath, walking a few more steps with him down the boardwalk before replying. “I don't know. I guess so. Or… I hope so at least. I've had a few of my friends and coworkers message me kind words of encouragement. So at least I'll have some people on my side, even if anyone else has something to say. But really, they shouldn't. They already know me. They knew I liked you,” you leaned into him. “So they should be happy for me if anything. And if not, then… well, they didn't deserve to be my friend anyway,” you shrugged. “But I think I might take some time off to figure out everything, career wise,” you added. Still leaning into his side, Pedro unlatched his fingers from yours, opting to reach his arm around you, giving your shoulder a squeeze and rubbing soft circles into your upper arm.

“Baby,” Pedro began, his voice vibrating through your body as he leaned his head on yours, “I’m so proud of you. Have I told you how strong I think you are?” Your cheeks warmed and you grinned. “Thank you Pedro,” you wrapped your arms around his waist to hug him. “But I don't think I'm that strong. I struggle to open pickle jars just like the rest of us,” you joked.

Pedro gave a quiet snort. “You know what I mean, honey,” he laughed. “I don't mean physical strength. Though I'm sure you could hold your own in an arm wrestle, I mean your ability to handle all of this thrown at you so quickly. Your ability to adapt and stay cheerful about everything. You just keep continuing to amaze me,” he pulled his head away from yours to meet your gaze. He smiled softly and you thanked him.

“I don't feel very strong,” you mumbled, breaking away from his stare. “You are, though. You're strong, smart, beautiful. Talented. Passionate,” he kissed your lips.

“Pedro, I love you, but you always seem to use all these words I don't feel. You see me as someone completely different than the way I've always seen myself. I want to believe you, but-” you sighed. “No one else has ever shown any indication that those are true,” you pouted, trying not to tear up.

“Hey, hey, whoa. Stop,” he halted your movements, pulling your chin up to his face. “Maybe they didn't see you, but I do. I feel all those things about you, and I'll spend every single day trying to prove it. I told myself I wouldn't get involved in romance a long time ago. But you changed all that.”

His chocolate brown eyes felt like they looked directly into your soul as he attempted to unravel your self-doubt. With a deep breath, you calmed enough to reply. “I love you, and I feel all those things for you as well. I'm glad you opened yourself up to love again.” You pressed a kiss to his lips. “I'm glad I met you” you sucked his lip. “I'm glad you're mine.” You kissed him again, deepening it, letting your tongue press gently to his and tangling together in passion before pulling away. 

Skipper had completely rolled into his side in wait for you both, between the conversation and the kissing. When the two of you broke away with matching grins, you looked over to see the sun had sunk down to the border between sky and ocean. In its wake was a bright orange sky, with pink, purple, and yellow streaks mixed in, as if a painter had gotten a bit too carried away with the paints. It was blindingly beautiful. 

Drawn to it like moths, the three of you walked towards the shoreline once again. You started to sit, but Pedro pulled you into his chest and fished for his phone. 

You gave him a confused look before he kissed you deeply and held out his arm. Unlatching his lips from yours with a pop, he held up his phone to you with a smile. In front of the vibrant ocean sunset, the silhouette of a couple shared a loving kiss. For once, it was you in this couple photo. You and the man you love.

You walked a little farther down the sand before sitting down just above the line of wet sand to admire the sunset. Pedro sat behind you, his legs on either side of you while you lay back into his chest. As you leaned into him, he hugged around your body, molding himself to you and tracing light circles into the skin on your arms, making the hairs stand on end and a shiver to run down your spine. 

Skipper flopped down nearby, clearly sleepy after a long walk and plenty of new smells. You ran a gentle hand down his back until you heard soft snores, then let him sleep, leaning your head on Pedro’s arm around your shoulder. “This sunset is beautiful,” you sighed, watching as the sun descended further below the ocean. It looked as if it was sinking deep below the surface, offering its light to the deep sea anglerfish miles below.

“It is amazing,” Pedro agreed, staring at you. “But my view is even better,” he added, and you could feel his eyes on the side of your face as he kissed your shoulder. You looked over at him, meeting his eyes, now sparkling with the orange of the sky. “Mine too,” you whispered, tilting your head to press another kiss to his lips.

When the sun went down completely, you headed to the car and Pedro drove back to your place so you could get ready for dinner. 

Pedro sat on the couch patiently, stroking the fur on Skip’s back while he snoozed, his head in Pedro's lap. In your bedroom, you searched for the perfect outfit to wear, finally deciding on a nice dress and sweater.

Hopefully the restaurant isn't too cold, you thought.

Walking out of the bedroom, you joined your boys in the living room, only to be greeted by Pedro’s jaw hitting the floor. “Te ves tan hermosa mi amor,” he stuttered in Spanish, flipping languages so easily when he was overcome with emotion. (You look so gorgeous my love.)

He gently stood, sliding out from below your dog, before walking over to you. His eyes scanned your body from head to toe and back up again, making you feel nervous. “You… you look… wow.” He rubbed his hand over his chin, his thumb grazing his lip. His pupils grew, making his eyes ever-so-slightly darker. You shivered under his gaze.

At your shiver, his demeanor shifted. “Shit, are you cold? Baby, you look incredible, but if you're cold -” 

“I'm not cold, Pedro,” you interrupted.

“Are you sure? I saw you shiver.” He stepped towards you, touching your arm. A buzz crept under your skin like a live wire. “It wasn't from the cold…” you replied.

“It wasn't from-?” He paused, the realization hitting him as he understood your shiver wasn't from cold but frankly.. the opposite. “Oh,” he hummed, settling his hand on your hip and stepping closer.

Another chill.

“Feeling excited for our date, huh?” His voice caressed into your ear as he kissed his way down your neck, pausing to take gentle nibbles on the skin of your collarbone, neck, and chin, before pulling you in by your waist to press a deep kiss to your mouth, his tongue finding yours. 

This was starting to feel natural, kissing. And you two were getting good at it together. Knowing just the way his tongue moved, finding just the spot to make you whine. You even managed to find a spot of him that made a groan slip from his lips nearly every time. Kissing him was addicting, and you had no intention of kicking the habit.

He pulled away, pulling your lip with his teeth as you let out a slight hiss. “I'd love to do this all night, but I promised you dinner, my love,” he kissed your cheek, his beard scratching your face just right. You sighed, agreeing to dinner and taking a minute step back. It felt much warmer in the room than before, and you could tell he felt the same. As your eyes drifted across his body, he nervously rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat. Slowly sweeping his eyes down his body, it was evident you both wanted something beyond dinner.

But the gentleman he is, Pedro stepped forward again, taking your hand and leading you toward the door. 

Pulling up to the curb, Pedro opened your door for you before handing his keys to the valet. Linking his arm with yours, the two of you walked into an elegant Italian restaurant. He gave the waitress his name, and she led you back to a secluded room where a single booth sat.

The room was dimly lit, illuminated by candles and twinkling fairy lights. They lined the ceiling, mimicking the starry sky, were it not for the smog of the city. You two walked toward the only booth, settled against the nook of a window, draped with a soft, thin white curtain covering the view from outside. Only the reflection of street lights peered through the thin drapery.

Sliding into the booth, Pedro sat next to you, close enough to touch, yet due to the curve of the corner booth, you were able to converse without craning your neck awkwardly. At the center of the table was a single red rose in a vase, sat next to the glow of a candle. The table itself was rounded and draped with an elegant dark red tablecloth.

Grabbing the triangular folded napkin off your plate, you folded it across your lap, Pedro doing the same. He reached over to you, taking your hand in his. He rolled his hand over the top of yours, linking his fingers between your own and giving a gentle squeeze while offering a soft smile. 

You looked into his eyes, searching for the words he might be thinking. In his eyes you only found love and appreciation, pure happiness oozing from his features. When the waitress came back, she set a basket of bread with butter on the table and took your orders. 

The night went smoothly, chatter filling the empty spaces while you enjoyed your meals. “Pedro, I know this is technically our first date, but I gotta say, I think I consider our video chat for my album as the first date. It was the first time I felt like I might actually have a shot with you. You put so much effort into that night and it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. I didn't know I could fall for you any harder than I was, but you proved me wrong. And even though we didn't say it was a date, and I didn't have much experience before you, it felt more like a date than anything I had ever felt before. You're a real romantic, P.” 

He smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. “That felt like the first date to me too. I knew for sure that I loved you that night.” Your cheeks heated, and you leaned your head on his shoulder. 

It was only when the bill arrived that you broke apart. Though you offered to pay, at least for your meal, Pedro wouldn't stand for that. After all, he told you, this date was his idea. So instead, you thanked him and left the restaurant the same way you entered, arms linked.

As Pedro pulled up outside of your home, you let out a sigh. It was already after 9 PM. You had spent nearly eight hours together and yet you dreaded the moment you'd be saying goodbye. It was almost that time already, yet it felt like only five minutes had passed.

Though the walk from Pedro’s car to your front door was rather short, you both managed to prolong it, walking as slow as possible. Clearly he wasn't ready for it to end either. Two love sick fools, just wanting to spend every moment together.

Teetering on the edge of goodbyes, you awkwardly stood by your door. There were no nerves at a first kiss, fortunately. There had been plenty of kisses shared today, and yesterday, and the day prior. In fact, if it weren't for breathing, eating, and other bodily functions, you'd be fine having your lips glued to his indefinitely.

So with that in mind, and the burning desire to spend more time together, as he said goodbye, placing a kiss to your lips and beginning to walk away, you grabbed his arm. “Wait,” you plead.

Pedro turned, looking at you as if you had something to say, or you had forgotten a sweater in the car. But instead, with your heart pounding in your ears, you quietly asked, “would you like to come in? I’m not quite ready to say goodbye.”

The question could be taken with so many potential implications, or none at all. All you knew for sure was that you wanted to spend more time with him. What happened next could be decided in the moment.

His eyes flashed surprise for a moment. He looked at you, trying to read your face for any details in your question, then stared at your front door before turning back to you and finally answering.

“I would love to,” he smiled.

And so the two of you walked through the threshold of your front door, buzzing with new possibilities just inside. But no matter how the rest of the evening takes place, you were in love, and for once, you were loved back.

The end! Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for the bonus tracks, and once again I'd love to hear what you think! Reblogs are appreciated as well :)

Taglist: (Want in? Let me know!)

@pedrotonin @starcrossed02 @lightupsketchersperson @cartoon-garbage04 @tyferbebe @maryfanson @gwendibleywrites @faithfullyyours2000 @hc-geralt-23 @jenniferpendragon @winchestergypsy90 @red-red-rogue @theendwhereibegin @lottieellz101 @oliversaurus @kyga01 @milly-louise @titabel @taz-97 @stefanibear003 @marantha @fandomoniumflurry @ilovemybrown-eyedbabygirl @leiadjarin @hmneighbors @emmalostinwonderland

[superlarva]

"You've got a mustache."

Hey guys! Sorry, my art style is like the least consistent thing on this planet... I just like trying new things out :)

Anyways, continuing on our Rex parenting journey we have Chapter 4 - Pancakes and Apologies.

Prologue: 00 Previous chapter: 03 Next chapter: 05

Summary: Rex gets some news on Echo, pancakes are made, tantrums are thrown.

CW: Implied/referenced child abuse, talk about injuries from landmines (nothing too in depth)

Chapter 4 – Pancakes and Apologies

Rex sunk down into his couch with a sigh, leaning his head against the armrest. Fives had been tucked in and the hallway light was left on. One kid taken care of, one to go.

Rex pulled out his phone and opened a text from Cody: I have some more info. Call me when you’re ready.

The phone only rang once before it was picked up.

“Cody, is he okay?” Rex tried to keep his voice down so he would not wake the boy sleeping in the next room.

“He’s…” Cody trailed off and Rex could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“What? He’s what?” Don’t say dead. Please, don’t say dead.

“He just got out of surgery. They had to amputate both legs and an arm,” Cody was trying to keep if voice calm and leveled, but the words came out a little choked. “I’m so sorry.”

Rex stared across the living room and into the kitchen, he’d know the boy’s injuries would be bad if he had landed himself in the ICU, but the loss of three limbs? That was too much.

Cody continued, “Echo’s okay for now. He hasn’t woken up yet, so there could still be some complications, but they are optimistic about how the surgery went.”

“Both legs and an arm?” Rex asked, still processing his brother’s statement.

“Yes,” Rex heard Cody take a deep breath on the other side of the line, “He stepped on a landmine.”

“Wh- How?”

“I don’t know. No one told the hospital how it happened either.”

Rex was silent, but his mind screamed.

Screamed in anger.

In sadness.

In pain.

In guilt.

It was his fault. His.

“Rex? You still there?” Cody’s voice cut through the phone.

“Yeah,” Rex said a little absently. “Yeah, I’m still here.”

“Alright,” Cody said, tone laced with worry. “You should get some rest. I’ll text you any developments, but don’t stay up for them.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?”

“I- I’m not sure.”

“Try, okay?”

“I will.”

“I love you, Rex’ika.”

“Love you too, Codes,” Rex dropped the phone from his ear as he disconnected the call.

He rolled onto his side and curled up on the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest and letting the world melt around him as tears spilled down his cheeks.

Rex woke, panicked from a dream he couldn’t remember and drenched in a cold sweat. From what he could tell it was early morning, the living room was washed in a dim warm light. He was not sure when he had fallen asleep, but he could not have gotten more than four hours.

He reached for his phone on the coffee table and found it, bringing the screen close to his bleary eyes. He had some texts from Cody from around 3 am:

Just found out Kix is Echo’s doctor!

He came into the waiting room to tell me that Echo seems to be responding well to the surgeries.

He’s sleeping now, but he woke up for a bit while I was in there and asked for Fives.

Kix said he thinks you guys should be able to visit today.

Rex felt a surge of relief, Echo was going to be okay. He was going to be alright. Not only that, but Rex had known Kix since he’d been in a group home with him and he knew the boy was in capable hands.

Rex swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting up to type out a reply, thanking his brother profusely.

“M-mister police officer, sir?”

A small voice cut through Rex’s thoughts, and he jerked his head up. Fives stood stiffly on the other side of the coffee table. Rex was taken aback, when had the boy slipped into the room? At least the kid looked like he had slept well, “Yes? And Rex is fine.”

“Would you like me to make you breakfast?”

Rex was initially going to deny the request and insist that he make breakfast for Fives instead, but realized he could not assume Fives was only offering because it was something required of him previously. Perhaps the boy really enjoyed cooking. Rex wouldn’t know so instead he put down his phone and smiled, “Why don’t we make ourselves some breakfast together?”

Fives’s eyes widened a bit before he nodded consent.

Rex stood and stretched, “What should we have? I’ve got eggs, pancakes, oatmeal, cereal, or bread for toast.”

Fives seemed to debate something before looking up at Rex, “What are pancakes?”

“Pancakes?” Rex parroted, a little shocked.

Fives blushed and turned away, muttering a quiet apology.

“No, it’s okay, it’s good to ask questions,” Rex tried to amend quickly. He hurried over to his pantry and grabbed his box of pancake mix, showing the box to the boy, “This is what they look like. They’re really good and you get to put maple syrup on them.”

Fives whipped his head around to Rex at the mention of maple syrup, an excited grin plastered onto his face, “Maple syrup is from Canada.”

“Uh, yeah?” Rex said taken aback by the random fact.

Fives turned back to the pancake box, “Echo had a book about flags. Canada’s is a maple leaf because of all the maple trees there and maple syrup comes from the maple trees.”

“Do you and Echo like to read a lot?” Rex asked.

“Echo does,” Fives said, shoulder’s tensing. “He tried to teach me, but I’m no good.”

Rex didn’t like the boy’s defeated tone, “You know, I didn’t learn how to read until I was a little older than you.”

“Really?” Fives asked. “Because Echo learned when we were little.”

Rex wondered what “little” meant to the boy because in his eyes the twins were still very much just little boys. “Different people learn different things at different times, it’s not a contest.” Rex shrugged, taking the pancake mix from Fives, “Do pancakes sound yummy? They’re one of my favorites.”

Fives nodded, then shrugged, “But I don’t know how to make them.”

“That’s okay,” Rex said grinning. “I can teach you.”

Fives had been a surprisingly competent chef for a seven-year-old boy. He knew how to measure ingredients and pour things without spilling, and, once Rex had helped him up onto the counter, had proved that he could work a stovetop. Rex made sure the boy was aware he was not to be climbing on things or using the stove without permission first.

Rex watched as Fives took his first bite of pancake. The boy chewed slowly and then grinned up at Rex.

“Good?” Rex asked, taking his first bite as well.

Fives nodded enthusiastically and began shoving the rest of the plate into his mouth as fast as he could. He was finished before Rex had swallowed his third bite.

Rex pushed the glass of milk he’d poured the boy closer to him, “milk first, and then you can have more.”

Fives eyed the glass suspiciously before carefully taking it in both hands and downing it, seemingly without stopping for breath. When he put the glass down, he had a little milk mustache. Rex couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“What?” Fives asked, looking down at his plate, searching for whatever was so funny.

“You-” Rex broke out into another chuckle, “You’ve got a mustache.”

“No, I don’t,” Fives said, folding his arms.

“Yes, you do. Go look in the mirror.”

Fives gave Rex a confused look before heading off to the bathroom.

Rex shook his head and finished up his breakfast, smiling to himself.

Fives emerged from the bathroom a minute later with a clean, smiling face.

“It was from the milk,” the boy explained, as if Rex didn’t already know.

Rex nodded as Fives joined him in the kitchen, “Do you want some more pancakes?”

Fives shook his head as he sat back down in his chair, then he looked up a Rex, “Could we bring them for Echo?”

Rex shook his head, giving himself a few seconds to figure out the best way to explain to Fives, “Right now Echo’s in the ICU. Do you know what the ICU is?”

“Like the hospital?”

“Yeah, it’s a part of the hospital where they put the people who need a little extra help to get better. It stands for intensive care unit.”

“Is he going to die?” Fives had clearly picked up on the fact that someone already in the hospital needing extra help was bad. His voice was so small.

“We think he got through the worst part. He woke up last night and asked for you, which is a really good sign, but we can’t bring him anything from outside the hospital because he had to have some really big surgeries and we don’t want him to get infected.”

“Oh,” Fives’s eyes darted back and forth before they made their way back to Rex’s. “Can- can we still-? Are we allowed to see him?”

Rex nodded, “We can head on over after we get dressed and brush our teeth.”

Fives jumped up out of his chair in excitement and made a beeline for Rex’s bedroom. Rex marveled in the boy’s ability to switch his emotions so quickly, and his inability to hide any of them.

As Fives got dressed, Rex washed all the dishes as quickly as he could so he wouldn’t have to keep the boy waiting for long. Not surprisingly, Fives finished getting ready before Rex put the last dish on the drying rack. The boy bounded into the kitchen, bouncing on his toes and grinning.

Rex couldn’t help but match his grin, “Alright, get your shoes and coat on while I get dressed.”

Fives nodded and hopped over to the entry way where his tiny set of shoes sat next to Rex’s boots.

Rex threw on his clothes and swished some mouthwash around in his mouth (brushing took too long) before joining Fives in the entry way. The boy was practically exploding with energy and Rex had to tell him multiple times that his shoes were on the wrong feet before he stopped jumping up and down and sat so Rex could fix them.

As soon as they got onto the road Fives asked how long it would take to get to Echo, and not wanting the entire 45 minute car ride to consist of 45 “are we there yet?”s, Rex made Fives his navigator. He knew the way to Kamino General well enough that he would tell Fives to remind him to turn right when they got to the next intersection or get off the highway when he saw a green sign with the number 79 on it. It kept the boy surprisingly occupied as he seemed to take his role very seriously.

As they neared the hospital and sat waiting in city traffic, Rex glanced at Fives in the mirror, “Fives, there’s something I need to tell you about Echo before we see him.”

Fives twisted forward to look at Rex from his position analyzing the city outside his window.

“He got really hurt and he- his-” Rex started to explain, struggling to find the right words.

“His legs were gone,” Fives interrupted, eyes wide.

Rex stared at the boy in his mirror, “You saw?”

Fives nodded, “Yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Rex didn’t know what else to say.

Fives shrugged, “Green light.”

“Huh?” Rex gaped before he realized what Fives was referring to as the car behind him honked, “Shi-oot!”

Rex slammed on the gas and turned into the hospital’s visitor parking lot, “Sorry about that.”

“S’okay,” Fives mumbled. Then his head shot up with excitement, “Are we here?”

“Yep,” Rex said, pulling into a spot.

Before Rex came to a complete stop, Fives unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door, ready to leap out. Rex stomped on the breaks and lunged back to grab the boy’s wrist, lest he fall out of the car, “Fives!”

The boy yelped as Rex dragged him back away from the door.

“No!” Rex yanked the boy towards his face, “No. You do not get out of the car until it’s stopped moving! Do you understand?”

“I’m s-sorry,” Fives stared at Rex, face going pale.

“Do you understand?”

Fives tried to yank his arm away, but Rex had him in an iron grip.

“Do. You. Understand?”

Fives’s tiny fist came up from where it was clenched at his side and struck Rex on the cheek. Rex was so surprised he almost let go of the boy as Fives began screaming “sorry” repeatedly, flailed his captive wrist around, trying to bash Rex’s hand down into the console, and used his free hand to hit Rex’s arm with as much force as he was capable of.

Rex caught Fives’s other arm to prevent any further damage to either of them and held him still while he struggled. Even though Fives’s eyes were screwed shut, Rex tried to soften his expression from the angry one he was sure it held a few moments earlier to one as neutral as possible.

Eventually Fives’s struggles grew weaker, and his apologies died down to a faint whisper. Rex realized the boy was crying, tears leaking out the corners of his shut lids.

“Fives?” Rex said softly, loosening his grip on the boy so if he wanted to remove his arms he could.

Fives opened his eyes and tears gushed down his cheeks, “’m ssssorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m not mad, see?” Rex held up his hands.

Fives stared up at Rex with big watery eyes before slowly reaching out one of his own hands and placing it against Rex’s opposing palm.

Rex curled down his fingers so his hand enveloped Fives’s, “Are you okay?”

In response Fives pulled his and Rex’s hand towards his chest.

“Hug?” Rex asked, remembering last night.

“Please?”

“Alright, come here,” Rex said, hoisting the boy up over the console and into his lap.

Fives held Rex’s hand to his chest as Rex held him to his and they sat just breathing in silence together until Fives shifted to look up at Rex, “Are- are you very mad at me?”

Rex squeezed Fives a little tighter and smiled sadly, “I’m not very mad at you.”

They sat together for a few more moments and this time it was Rex who broke the silence, “Can I explain why I got upset?”

Rex felt Fives nod against his chest.

“Cars can be very dangerous if we aren’t careful in them or around them,” He felt Fives nod in understanding and continued, “One of the rules when you’re in the car is that you always keep your seatbelt on and you never open the door unless we are parked in a driveway or in a parking lot, does that make sense?”

Again, Rex felt Fives nod against him.

He continued, “When you opened the door, I was scared that you might get hurt, so I got upset. But I was more upset that you might get hurt than I was upset at you.” Rex rubbed Fives’s arm, “I’m sorry for yelling at you and for grabbing you.”

“I’m sorry, too. For- for breaking the rules.”

“It’s alright. You were excited, I get it. But next time we don’t jump out of moving cars.”

Fives nodded, sniffling.

Rex grabbed a tissue and handed it to the boy, “Ready to go see Echo?”

Fives smiled, blowing into the tissue, “Ready.”

@marierg @stressed-cherry @ffdemon @renton6echo @bambambunny @tearfulsolace @rndmpeep @brokenphoenix99 @xylionet @tazmbc1

[threepandas]

Bad End: Screen Demons

Giggles echoed through the empty halls. Unhinged and static-y. Everything smelled of copper and viscera. Stale air and fear. The final moments of these poor souls, had not been kind ones. Somewhere, not far from where I was trapped, I could hear dripping. Unsteady. I hoped... I prayed... it was water.

I had already smashed every screen in this room. Ripped out every reflective surface. Security cameras, shards of glass, bottles. Every single thing the average person forgets, when warned against "reflection" based threats. There were more then you'd think.

Even your own eyes could be a problem, depend on how powerful they were. You may have to fight blind. There were specialists. I, however, was no such individual. I was a CONSULTANT. Company wanted to both keep compliance and cut costs. I'd been requesting a team for over a year. Getting denied. "We'll look into it." And "gotta check the budget".

All while they go on another yacht vacation.

Well, now? NOW the inevitable happened. I had been stretched too thin. Couldn't check all the sites in a timely enough manner. Someone, somewhere, got DISGRUNTLED. Started listening to a little voice they shouldn't have. One that PROMISED them things. Love, power, revenge. Just do this oooone little thing.

THEY'RE not like those OTHER Demons! Promise!

Ha!

I got here too late. Far, far too late. Everyone was already dead. Whole satellite facility overrun. Didn't even REALIZE until I found the first body. And by then? I was too far from the door.

They sealed me in.

The only, ONLY, reason I survived those first few hours? Was because of my safety suit. It got SHREDDED. But? They have my patronage for LIFE. I counted no less then fifteen blows that SHOULD have killed me. Claws, fangs, curses, the WORKS. I used every single off hand trick my professors ever mentioned. Plan to buy them all flowers... assuming I live.

Fell back to a defensible position. Like you're supposed too. Set up a camp. Armed myself. Took stock of supplies. Risked my life, nearly lost a LIMB, to get to the emergency communications system. The warded one.

Fucking IDIOTS had kept it in a SAFE. Yeah, it's expensive. Really expensive. But that wasn't were it goes! For a REASON. This! SPECIFICALLY! Is the reason! This happening RIGHT HERE! But did I get it? Fuck YEAH I got it. Will have the scars to PROVE that for the rest of my life.

And? It worked like a CHAMP. I could kiss it. Make sweet, sweet, sloppy love to it. Inanimate object be damned. We would have a spring wedding, honeymoon in the fall, go fuckin apple picking. It would be BEAUTIFUL. Is that the blood loss talking? MAYBE! There are A LOT of wards to set up! I'm fucking terrified!

But Cental Supernatural Suppression is ON THE FUCKING LINE. And the C.S.S. does NOT fuck around. I've never called their emergency line before. Never wanted to be in a situation where I HAD too. But the calming voice on the other end? Helps. Walks me through ward set up I NEVER would have been able to do on my own.

There is a rescue team being sourced to get me out and back up to put this thing back where it belongs.

And... and if I cry? When they tell me I'm going to be okay? That's between me and the blood stained walls.

All the while, that THING laughs and coos. It can feel my fear. My desperation. And? The most fucked up thing? Is that it looks like a fucking "waifu". Some vampire e-girl I think, from a show. Whoever had unleashed this thing had... they had been lonely. Wanted connection. And I want to say ugly, UGLY things because I am scared.

But that is how THEY fucking win.

So I won't. I will not judge. I will not sneer. Won't let my fear turn to anger. Lash out at the dead. Someone who was hurting. Who made a terrible, fatal, mistake. They just... just wanted CONNECTION. Someone to listen. And this THING preyed on that. Fed on it.

"Muuu~, don't be like thaaat~! I was just giving them what they WANTED! They SAID they wanted to be Together Forever~! Now~. We~. Are~!" Coos a cutesy voice from speakers throughout the building. My room is the only room without them. "You're being so MEAN. I just want to LOVE yooou~! Don't you want to LOVE me? You've lasted so LONG! So COOL~☆ I should give you a biiiiig kiss! He he~"

Kiss. Right. Says the Demon pretending to be a vampire girl.

She never STOPS. It's been hours. And still she's trying to convince me to leave my bunker of wards. Compliments. Threats. Mimicry. For the last six? She pretended there was another survivor. You know... one she was torturing. Classic "I'll STOP if you come get them. Don't you want to STOP me? Save them?" Shtick.

Ha! As though life sign detectors aren't the FIRST thing we're told to make, once a safe zone is established. There's no one in this building but me. I have a week's work of rations from smashing vending machines in the break room. Would have had more, but my flare died faster then anticipated thanks to her constant direct attacks.

"Aaaaw, are you ignoring me? You're making Kimi-tan SAD~! You big MEANIE! Why you got to be like that? Some~Thing~ I~ diiiiiiid~?" She continues, before breaking off into cackles. The sound discordant and rapidly changing pitch. Distant speakers whining and crackling with the strain of it. "It's not like they didn't deserve it. They ALWAYS deserve it~! They summoned ME!!"

Yeah. After you fed off them. Called to them. Built up their loneliness and pain, until it actually seemed reasonable. Try your lies on someone who didn't SPECIFICALLY go to school for this, you hellfire shit.

"Well, that's not nice."

I choke on the scream I know won't save me. Scramble back. Away, away, AWAY! There, in the doorway. Stands a glitching manifest of the Demon herself. Pale, wrong, and impossible. She's-! She was-! IS a reflection demon! The sort of power MANIFESTATION costs?? Oh god. What have I walked INTO?!

"I wonder, Dar~ling~," she muses, eyes unblinking as she stares me down. "How long you can survive me? I bet it's REAL long. Bet you'd be FUN to break. You know~? If you're cute enough? I might just KEEP you! Like a little pet. Bet I could make you a demon, easy!"

A hand comes up, single finger out, to lazily trace the air between us. Holy light violently rejecting her. BURNING her. Yet it clearly doesn't bother her, even as the tip of her finger sizzles and cooks. Instead, she lazily traces shapes in the light. Watching me. Contemplating. Deciding if it's worth it.

"Thoooough? I DO like you like this. You're like a little mouse in a cage. All terrified and alone. It's cute. I never did get why the others got so obsessed over hunting you guys." Pulling back her finger, she smiles.

It splits her face farther then it should.

"I think I get it now."