#only for it to be cut off by the “well pool's over” jingle

[demibats]

how to survive a horror movie - the first to go. . .

we aren't gonna talk about the fact that it took me an entire year to revisit this fic and post the first chapter ok? but without further ado, WE ARE SO BACK. give the masterlist a visit for context if you'd like <3 -demi xx chapter warnings: weed mention, brief description of homic*de and violence. minors do not interact!

word count: 3.4k

July 1991.

You’re practically being boiled alive in the tin can castle known as Munson Manor. The Indiana heat isn’t the awful part, but the humidity has you and everyone else in Hawkins choking on the air. The measly little air conditioner situated in one of the living room windows is working overtime to cool off the small trailer to no avail. You and Eddie lay on the floor, staring up at his ceiling, opposite of one another. He turned his head to look over at you, but your eyes are closed, trying to think of anything but the heat. You can feel his heavy stare on you, but you keep your eyes closed, knowing that the blood would rush to both of your cheeks if you caught him staring. 

“It’s hotter than Satan’s ass crack outside, can’t we go swimming or somethin’?” Eddie complains next to you, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

You take this as an appropriate cue to open your eyes and turn to him, watching him writhe in the uncomfortable temperature. It makes you chuckle a little, examining the way his ‘Slayer’ muscle tank sticks to his torso from sweat. 

“I recommended that two hours ago and you whined at that too,” you challenge, resting your hands on your stomach, folded neatly there. Eddie shifts, taking his hands away from his eyes, those chocolate buttons fixating onto your gaze.

“The people of Hawkins don’t deserve to see what I’ve got underneath the denim and leather, sweetheart, but I’m bakin’ like a pie and I’ve already undressed to my comfort level.” He sounds too much like some kind of massage therapist as he says that last part, earning another breathy giggle from you. 

Your gaze lingers too long on his cut-off jeans, muscle tank, and bunched up crew socks that he ends up snapping his fingers in front of you, “Hellooooooo? Do I need to adjust the antennas on this thing?” He teases, gesturing to the top of your head as if it’s his old television. 

Waving him off, you push yourself onto your elbows, then off the cool carpet you’d been laying atop of for the last few hours, trying to will the heat away with Eddie at your side. He scrambles to his feet as well, long limbs making him look less like an agile ballerina and more like a newborn giraffe. All leg, no coordination. 

“I’ll give Robs and Steve a call, see if either of them can get a hold of Jonathan and Nance. You can be in charge of recruiting Argyle,” as you give him his set of instructions, he pushes his bottom lip out in a faux pout, “Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes, they don’t work on me anymore, Munson.”

He mumbles something along the lines of ‘they used to’ before heading toward the front door, the jingling of his keychain making you turn your head toward him, his landline nestled between your ear and shoulder, “Make sure he brings sunscreen this time and not just pizza nachos!”

“I’ll make sure he brings both!” Eddie quips before the door is closed between the two of you.

. . . 

Hawkins Community Pool is always packed during the summer. It’s the one reliable spot to cool off, unless you prefer the hose from your backyard. The poolside is lined with women in bikinis, magazine in hand and sunglasses shading their eyes from the harsh light of the midday sun. Kids splash around in the pool, being scolded by lifeguards being underpaid to make sure none of the little shitheads drown. It's the picture perfect scenery for a small midwest town summer. 

Sitting at the edge of the pool, your legs barely in the water, you sway your feet and the crystalline liquid ripples around you. Jonathan and Argyle are two knuckles deep in pizza nachos, a delicacy only the ladder’s cannabis-coated mind could craft. Underneath your dark shades, you lift your gaze over to watch Eddie in the pool with Robin on his shoulders, Nancy on Steve’s as they poorly attempt a game of ‘Chicken’, before one of the lifeguards beckons them to stop. 

After getting reprimanded by the pool police, Eddie hangs his head in pretend shame as he slides next to you at the pool’s edge , the ends of his curls wet and dripping onto his shoulders. “I bet you could’ve knocked Nance over. Robin’s too soft to head into a brutal ‘Chicken’ battle and win.” He says this because he knows it to be true, although you aren’t so sure.

“I’m surprised Robin was being so nervous about it.” You respond coyly, pretending like neither of you know about Robin’s enormous crush on Nancy. 

Disregarding the conversation about Robin and Nance, Eddie looks around the pool at the moms helping their kids towel-dry off and the meatheads and their girlfriends either arguing or borderline fucking poolside. It makes his skin crawl a bit to see such blatant public displays of affection. 

However, you think otherwise. It might be nice to have someone dote on you the way some of the boys of Hawkins do to their girlfriends. Maybe not the kind of boy like Tommy Hagan or Billy Hargrove, but someone like— 

“Hey! Come play Marco Polo with us!” Steve shouts, Robin and Nancy wading around him like sharks circling their prey. 

Eddie immediately slides back into the water, but he’s facing you, droplets sliding down his tattooed skin, glistening in the sunlight, “Come on, it’s not every day you get to see how oblivious Steve is to echolocation.” He chides, bringing a ring-adorned hand up to rest on top of your knee. His gesture sends a shiver up your spine, but you nod, more excited than you should be about the prospect of playing Marco Polo. But truthfully, you know why you're vibrating with joy.

The first two games are way too easy. Robin is Marco the first round and finds Eddie first, bumbling around the water like a scared duck. Once Eddie is Marco, he finds Steve and nearly drowns him, causing the lifeguard to give Eddie a final warning. When Steve is Marco, he can’t find a single one of you to save his life. 

“You suck at this, Steve!” Robin shouts from her spot. Nancy even tries splashing water at Steve to make him find her easier, but to no avail. Eddie has half a mind to try to drown him again. You wade around, trying to stay away from the other three stooges, especially since they’re actively trying to get Steve to catch them. It’s amusing, watching the four of them seem so carefree. 

Marco Polo ends on a high note, Steve finally finding Nancy (by accident). The five of you exit the pool to reapply sunscreen and try to pick at the crumbs of the pizza nachos, but the two megastoners have demolished more than half of them. The heat and water games have you exhausted, skin dry and pruning from the chlorine water. You slip your plastic flip flops on, your towel still wrapped around your torso. 

“Credit where credit is due, it was a genius idea to go to the pool today,” Eddie compliments, drying his frizzing curls with an old Power Rangers towel, “Wanna ditch these crazies and get a slushee?”

. . .

Eddie convinces Nancy to load the whole gaggle of twenty-somethings into her station wagon while you and Eddie leave from Hawkins Community Pool early. She agrees with a roll of her eyes before she’s back in the pool with Robin and Argyle as she tries to explain how to play mermaids to the long-haired boy. 

Your thighs stick together in the heat of his van, the chlorine-water creating a layer of discomfort against your skin. You try not to squirm in the seat, flesh itching from the pool drying out your pores. After shoving miscellaneous items into the already packed and trashed back of his van, Eddie most elegantly thrashes into the driver’s seat, his typical dopey grin seated perfectly on his pink lips. He’s fumbling for a tape to slide into his player, realizing how disorganized his music collection is, he laughs at himself, “Maybe I’ll have Robin organize these by alphabetical order or somethin’, Jesus.”

“Do that and she may try to sneak some Madonna,” You quip, thinking about Eddie’s disgruntled disagreements with Robin about her taste in music. 

Turning around, his arm reaching around the back of the passenger seat, he cranes his neck and torso to look back as he backs out of his parking spot. There’s something about this gesture, something so simple and plain, that makes your cheeks burn. He doesn’t see this, but he notices how you straighten your back up into your seat as you turn to look out the window, “You’re good on this side,” you offer.

“I know, sweetheart, I’ve got us covered.”

Eddie’s not the best driver, but he’s confident and has always kept you safe when you’re riding shotgun. He’s even let you pick the music that plays, despite his limited options, leaning toward 80’s thrash metal more than anything else, but it’s grown on you. 

The drive to 7/11 is about fifteen minutes, give or take. The sun is fading behind the tree line, the bright orange orb glowing beneath, creating a silhouette of twisted tree limbs. It’s as haunting as it is beautiful. Eddie drums along the steering wheel with the beat to ‘Sweet Leaf’, his hair still dripping onto his muscle tank. 

You adjust the flimsy cover over your bathing suit, trying to find a more comfortable spot in your seat. Eddie turns into the parking lot to the 7/11, pulling up right in front of the doors. You’re quick to unbuckle your seatbelt, but Eddie is quicker, hopping out of his driver’s seat to run around the hood of his van, opening your door for you, “M’lady,” he purrs, offering his tattooed hand out to you. 

You take it with a gentle courtesy, “M’lord,” you respond as you jump onto the pavement, your flip flops clapping against your heels as you do so. 

“I’ve always pictured myself as the court jester. Yknow, fuckin’ around and makin’ a fool outta myself just because I can.” He opens the door to the mini mart for you as well, earning a hushed ‘thank you’ from you. 

You laugh at his comment, reflecting on his words, “Don’t you do that anyway?”

“I’m taking that as a compliment, so thank you.” Eddie’s tone is a bit sassy , assuming you meant your comment to be an insult, but it is in fact a compliment. 

The 7/11 is desolate, with the exception of one customer talking to the sole cashier who looks bored out of her mind. She’s twirling her red curls around her fingers, popping bubblegum between her lips as the middle-aged man in a baseball cap tries to flirt with her to no avail. Meandering through the maze of aisles, Eddie snags a bag of chips off the shelf before skipping up to the slushee machine, “What flavor of tooth-rotting sugar can I interest you in today?” He jests, eyes fixated on the sloshing colored ice in the machine.

Aftering pondering over the two options you have, cherry and blue raspberry, you decide to mix the two flavors, Eddie following suit. Walking through the sweet treats aisle, eyes scamming over the packaging to see if anything in particular looks good, the two of you head to the register, seeing that the man flirting with the cashier had left. Offering a smile to the ginger behind the counter, who’s name appears to be ‘Barb’ from her nametag, Eddie chats her up a bit, asking how her shift is going and commenting on the weather finally cooling down. She responds blandly, while ringing up the slushees. You reach for your wallet but Eddie’s already handing over bills from his own wallet. Always one step ahead. 

The bell above the door dings as you exit, Eddie holding it open for you as you step outside, a skip in your step, “I think her and Nancy used to be friends,” Eddie chides as the door closes, “She was in school with us.”

You nod, agreeing and acknowledging, “Yeah, I never got the full story out of Nance, but they had a falling out.”

The conversation ends there as the two of you climb back into Eddie’s van, treats finally acquired, mission accomplished. Blue raspberry and cherry slushee in hand, you take leisurely sips as Eddie drives, unsure of his decided destination. The Munson trailer had become like a second home to you, your tiny closet of an apartment being the unfortunate first. Even though having your own space is nice and preferable to any alternative, it’s stuffy and during the summer tends to smell like a gym locker room if air isn’t properly circulating. 

In the end, Eddie drives the both of you back to his trailer. Once his van comes to a shuddering halt and the metalhead removes the key from the ignition, the two of you climb out of the vehicle, goodies in hand, and head into the trailer. Wayne’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, you assumed he still must be at the shop, despite the slowly setting sun off in the distance. Unlocking the front door, Eddie gives it the typical shove the break the seal of the door against the frame. In the summer it’s indefinitely worse due to the heat and humidity. 

Kicking his damp converse off, his curls beginning to frizz up upon drying, he places the plastic bag on the small, cluttered dining room table, “Movie night?” he asks, gesturing to the tv, sitting low to the ground atop a beat-up entertainment center, a few stacks of VHS tapes piled up next to it. 

“Have I ever declined a movie night invitation?” You quip at him as you saunter backward toward the trailer’s bathroom, ready to change out of your still damp swimsuit. Backpack slung over your shoulder, turning on your heels, you can hear Eddie chuckling and making a snide comment under his breath. 

Once you’ve peeled yourself out of the fabric, you exit the bathroom adorning a clean and dry t-shirt and pair of jean shorts settling snugly around your waist. Eddie has already poured the chips from the corner store into a bowl, a smaller bowl of gummy worms sitting next to it on the couch. Eddie sits on his knees in front of the entertainment center, looking through movies that the two of you have watched numerous times before. Two tapes are set aside, as he picks through the rest, “The Evil Dead, Hellraiser… those are the two I’m feelin’. Penny for your thoughts, Dear Watson?” he looks over his shoulder behind you with a lopsided grin on his face. 

“Hellraiser, undoubtedly.” You chirp in a faux English accent back to him. 

. . . 

Before the end of the movie, both you and Eddie are passed out on the floor, the snacks only half-eaten and forgotten before your inevitable slumber. You wake with a start at the sound of the landline ringing, nearly jumping out of your skin the moment you’re awake, eyes wide open. Eddie, still sleeping peacefully, isn’t bothered by the phone ringing. You harshly nudge him awake, both hands shaking his shoulder. 

“Eddie, the phone.” You say with a yawn, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. 

Curls matted to the side of his face, he’s barely awake as he clambers off of the floor, limbs adjusting to consciousness. Sauntering too casually to the phone, he lifts it off the hook and up to his ear with a yawn, “Munson residence.” He states through the yawn. His demeanor shifts all too quickly, spine straightening at the drop of a hat, dragging the palm of his hand over his face roughly. He speaks in a calm manner, giving you pause. 

“Wayne, slow down… Yeah, I’m fine… she’s here, yes… We went swimming, left earlier than the others, grabbed some snacks… What?” He answers his uncle, who you gathered was on the other end once Eddie spoke his uncle’s name. 

Eddie shoots you a worried look over his shoulder. You hadn’t seen Eddie this pale since the summer he was set to graduate, worried half to death that he wouldn’t be walking across the stage with the rest of the class of 1986. But this worry… was more akin to fear than anything else. Climbing up off the floor, you tiptoe over to him and stand beside him, still unable to hear Wayne on the other side of the call. 

“When did this happen?” Eddie asked, his tone borderline frantic. There’s another pause.

At first, you think there’s been an accident at the auto shop Wayne (and Eddie) works at, that he or someone has been injured and he has to wait for the ambulance or police to arrive. An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of your stomach as you wait for the brunette man to speak again. 

“Jesus Christ… No, she’s standing right next to me… Yes sir… I’ll see you when you get home… Okay… Yeah, I know, I know… Alright,” he mutters the last part under his breath as he hangs his head, as well as the phone back on the hook. 

“Shit…” he blows out a breath of air, cheeks puffed up as he exhales.

“What, what’s going on?” you ask meekly, anxiety spiked through the roof already. 

Eddie lifts his head up, expression damn near impossible to read, but that fear is still there, even more prominent than before.Extending a tattooed arm out, he brings you in for a tight embrace. Hesitantly, you wrap your arms around his torso, holding his figure just as tight against you. As you separate, Eddie’s sluggish as he walks over to the couch, plopping down. 

“I uh, I think you should sit down for this.” He pats the spot next to him, chewing the skin on his bottom lip. 

Even as you sit down next to him, you can't shake the uneasy feeling that’s raging in your chest. He won’t meet your gaze, even with you staring daggers at him, trying to will the words out of him with just your eyes, though he doesn’t budge just yet. The metalhead leans forward, elbows balancing on his knees as he holds his head in his hands. “Wayne just called me from the shop… Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins were murdered.”

The anxiety dropped into the pit of your stomach like a large stone dropping into a calm pond. Bile burns at the base of your throat, but you quickly swallow the thick, intangible lump stuck there. A hand over your stomach, you take a deep breath, then another, trying to remain calm. Neither you or Eddie were particularly fond or even close to Tommy Hagan. He was a bit of an uncouth airhead during the years in high school together, and Carol was about as much of a girl’s girl as Tommy Hagan himself, always following him around like a lost puppy, but that didn’t mean that anyone wished any harm to either of them. 

After an unnerving silence between the two of you, Eddie hesitantly reaches over to take your hand into his. He strokes his thumb over your knuckles, noticing the subtle way your hand shakes. “He didn’t… say much. Carol’s mom found Tommy in the backyard, face down in the pool… Carol was… Listen, Wayne’s gonna be home soon, okay? Him and I can take you home-” Before he’s able to finish his line of thinking, you’re cutting him off.

“Can I stay with you?” you mumble, lifting your chin up to meet Eddie’s sorrowful gaze. He softens immediately, nodding. 

“You don’t even have to ask, m’lady. This castle is just as much yours as it is mine.” Hand over his heart, he gives a small bow, trying to incorporate his signature humor to such a grim time. 

Even with Eddie keeping you company through the night, both of you back to back in his bed. His pillow smells like his laundry detergent and stale weed and the dip next to you in the mattress gives you a sense of peace. Shifting in the bed for what seems like the fifteenth time in the past hour, you can’t get comfortable. Between the news of the double murder of your former classmates and the unruly heat, there is no finding comfort. 

A tattooed arm snakes around your waist, the warm fan of breath over your shoulder, “Quit fidgeting,” Eddie’s sleep-riddled, raspy voice says next to you. Part of you wonders if he realizes what he's doing, or if he’s not awake enough to, but you don’t argue. Though, you find your eyes drifting shut as you keen against Eddie’s touch, sleep slowly pulling you under, even with the macabre thoughts of the evening still plaguing your subconscious. 

tag list: @yaspillz feedback is always appreciated, and let me know if you're interested in being apart of the taglist <3

[quietly-sleeping]

It hurt, the way the woman was telling them to dance. 

His feet hurt like he was young again, fresh off the streets and unused to the demanding rhythm they danced to. They bleed onto the floor, the woman didn’t bother to tell them to stop. He kept dancing. 

Shen Yuan could see the tears of pain streaking down the flushed face of Du Yun, his jaw gritted as he stumbled and fell. Every inch of Shen Yuan ached and throbbed in time to the beat of the music that the woman played, but he couldn’t stop. 

Du Yun wasn’t moving. He had crawled out of the way of his sibling's feet and legs and stopped close to the wall, his long hair draped limply over his face. Shen Yuan wanted to stop, to crawl over to his older brother and check on him, but he couldn’t, his feet betrayed him as they moved. 

Xing Yawen’s eyes were closed, and her face twisted as she bit her lip bloody. Sweat dripped from her chin as her body moved in time with the rest of them. Her eyes blinked open for a moment, staring directly into Shen Yuan’s. He knew that she was going to be the next to drop. 

She reminded him of a plucked flower, sprawled out and heaving, choking on every breath. The woman simply scoffed and dragged her out of the way with painted nails. He was so tired, he wanted to sprawl out on the floor. It wouldn’t be cold, warmed with the twisting energy in the air and the blood from his family. Jiang He stumbled, slipping slightly in a pool of it, before continuing. 

They couldn’t stop, one by one, Gu Ming, Bai Jiang, Jiang He, and soon it was just Huang Ya and Shen Yuan. The energy had begun to twist, no longer just funneling into the woman, Shen Yuan could feel small bits of it seep into his own body, trailing along his veins and swirling around his thumping heart. 

Huang Ya sobbed, a heaving gasp of breath as she clasped hands with him again, he was so dizzy. The energy made it harder to breathe, and he could see Huang Ya struggle as well. Tears were spilling down Huang Ya’s cheeks, her light brown eyes begging. Shen Yuan couldn’t think through the haze of the music, all he could do was notice the way her hair stuck to her neck, the way her hand tightened on his.

He was going to fall, he knew, he was going to join his siblings on the ground. Huang Ya shuddered, her eyes rolling as her grip slackened. Her hair fell from its tie, spilling onto the ground like ink, and then it was just him. 

He felt like a puppet on strings, balanced between the edge of consciousness as his body continued without him. The woman laughed, high and loud, and the energy flowed stronger in his body, he could feel it now, seeping into his muscles and joints, flowing around the cuts that littered his body. 

He was so tired, and yet, the dizziness faded, leaving only the slowly abating exhaustion. His feet tore on the ground, stepping over his siblings as he danced on, he could feel the skin slowly knitting together, healing faster than a mortal should be capable of. 

Awareness of what the energy was came slowly, he could only focus on the feeling of the music slowing down, the thumping rhythm coming to a halt. The woman clapped as his body stumbled, control coming back to him as she grinned. The jingle of her hair pieces ominous as she stood, stepping easily over the bodies of his siblings as she approached. 

“What a good sapling they’ve raised here.” Shen Yuan blinked slowly, everything was blurry, but the sight of her smile burned into his mind, “This master can work with this.” 

[masterofrecords]

The Body of God

I've been sick for a while, and at some point my brain woke me up at 2 am and dictated me the following thing. Where did it come from? What's it about? I wish I knew. Anyway, I guess that's a new year's resolution to write more weird shit when I feel like it.

-----

I don’t have much memory of how we ended up in that roadside tavern. At the time, it was a routine stop – a chance to ask for directions, have a drink, and maybe sleep in the warmth for once. We weren’t there to rob – that was one thing Xanti was strict about.

You don’t shit where you eat.

As a temporary break, it was uneventful. The food was mediocre, the nearest town not far, but not too close, either, and the tavern was half-empty.

Then a man entered. He was young, with a defined, handsome face accented by the tinge of olive-gold in his skin. His most striking feature though, was an elaborate, heavy-looking headdress – an ornate crescent of gold stretching from one temple to the other, adorned with bells that jingled softly with his every step.

Even if it was just gilded and not solid gold, it was undeniably expensive, particularly compared to the young man’s simple clothes. He wore no other jewelry, had no weapons or companions, and only asked for a glass of water, but the innkeeper treated him with respectful haste.

Xanti shot us a meaningful look, and we set about finishing our drinks.

The innkeeper, who’d until then been pretty quiet about what we obviously were, spoke up.

“Stop thinking about it. He’s Body of God.”

Xanti didn’t listen, and didn’t ask for clarification. Sects and priests were dime a dozen around here – many with money and jewels to spare – but for some reason the innkeeper’s words caused a pit in my stomach.

Soon after the young man had left, we followed. He was on foot, regal and slow, and we were on horseback – he didn’t stand a chance of running away, not that he tried to.

He just stood there, regarding Yago’s blade warily.

“Give us the gold,” Xanti demanded, and the young man sighed.

“I have nothing I can give you,” he said, calm, resigned.

“The crown,” Xanti repeated, and the man repeated as well.

“I cannot.”

“Is it really worth dying for?” Yago sneered, pressing the blade further, drawing blood from the delicate throat, and once more the man replied.

“I cannot.”

I felt goosebumps at the top of my back.

“Ya looking down on us?” Yago hissed, but I was quite certain it wasn’t disdain on the young man’s face.

It was pity.

Yago slashed before I could finish saying “stop”.

Blood colored the light brown robes a murky color. The bells on the headdress jingled melodically even as the young man choked and shuddered, trying to inhale through the blood filling up his throat. He took half a step back and then fell, the thump of his body against the ground dull and heavy. The hazel eyes stopped moving a moment after he did, and Yago kicked him, then stepped into the growing pool of blood to take off the golden headdress.

He touched it and paused.

“What is it?” Xanti asked, impatient. There was no one else on the road, but there was no telling when someone else would come along. The day was clear and the road straight – this was a risk that I wasn’t sure was worth it.

“It won’t come off,” Yago explained. “It’s like it’s… fused into his head.”

“Oh, cut the bullshi –” Xanti started, but Yago pulled on one end of the headdress to illustrate, and the dead man’s head rose along with it.

Xanti frowned and a murmur spread across our ranks. I don’t think I was the only one to have reservations, and even Yago quickly stepped away from the body, tapping his shoulders to ward against the evil eye. He wiped his boots and his sword of the blood, but said nothing more.

“Gah! Shut up, cowards!”

Xanti pulled out a knife and knelt over the man’s body. I wanted to leave or at least look away, but found I couldn’t even as he put the edge of the knife above the dead man’s ear and started peeling the golden headdress off, as if butchering a deer for a hunting trophy.

Blood seeped from the fresh cuts, dying the ground and Xanti’s hands red.

And then the corpse moved.

Its hand rose to stop the hand holding the knife, and Xanti bristled, freezing up from surprise if not from fear. Soon enough though, he adjusted his hold of the knife and went to stab the young man again, quick and sure-footed.

But the dead man dove under the strike, suddenly agile, and grabbed Xanti by the throat. He held Xanti up as if he were a child or a doll, easily blocking Xanti’s desperate attacks with one hand. Xanti kicked out, panic clear on his face, before his eyes bulged up and he let out a pitiful, high-pitched groan.

The next moment, the dead man’s hand closed, crushing and tearing out Xanti’s throat.

We stood and watched.

Yago fell to his knees the moment the bloodied corpse turned to him.

“Please,” he stammered out, “It’s all his fault, I didn’t want to do it –”

His pleading fell on deaf ears. A god’s pride, I suppose, is as fragile as its body is everlasting.

At least Yago’s death was perhaps quicker, if just as unnatural and gruesome, heart ripped out and thrown over his mutilated chest.

We stood and we witnessed.

No one tried to run. Maybe we were too petrified, but I think we also knew it to be pointless. When the man turned to us, there was no human recognition in his eyes; no previous pity or understandable fury. A mask painted with blood and illuminated with the gold of the headdress. His eyes met mine for a brief moment, and it felt as if breath was punched out of me.

But perhaps his god was a merciful one, because that was where the carnage stopped.

The young man’s eyes darted down to the bodies at his feet, and he hurriedly stepped away, brows scrunching up and lips pressing together in a human display of disgust. He regarded us warily, and without thinking, we all fell to our knees.

The sound of bells announced his departure. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even stop to wash the blood off his tainted skin and clothes. It was only after the delicate chime had died in the distance that the prayers and thanks started, relief and terror tangling together in a sudden burst of devotion to the unknown deity.

We buried Xanti and Yago there, on the roadside. There were no tombstones, and there were barely any words exchanged. There was also a quiet understanding that we wouldn’t be staying together much longer, but there was only one road, and our supplies were shared, so we continued on until we reached a town.

There, we split everything. There were no arguments – everyone was just eager to leave it all behind.

I don’t know where the rest went. Some moved forward, some turned back. With haunted faces, they were running, and I couldn’t blame them.

But my eyes saw a cathedral, majestic golden domes shining in the sun, and my feet carried me there.

The sound of the bells took me by surprise, even though I had expected it. They were there – the Bodies of God – many of them, sharing the same grace even as their faces were different.

I stood, unsure how to worship this God or if I had the right to, when a woman approached me.

Dark skin and yet darker hair, full and split evenly between front and back to allow space for the headpiece, the same solid crescent of gold, the same bells.

“Greetings, stranger,” she said and I bowed as well as I could. The hint of an amused smile on her face quickly gave way to neutral politeness. “You seem lost.”

“You… are a Body of God,” was all I could say, the memory of blood spilled over the dirt too fresh.

She tilted her head with a chime of the bells. “The Body of God. It’s what we all are.”

I didn’t quite understand the difference. She changed the subject, “Why are you here?”

I didn’t know that, either. I said I felt drawn there, and her eyes widened, regarding me with some new emotion I couldn’t read.

Once more I felt goosebumps across my spine, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know more or to run, when she asked, “Would you like to understand?”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. Whatever had killed on that quiet road was best left alone.

I nodded and leaned closer.

She put her hand to the side of my head. For a moment there was just the warmth of a human body, and then suddenly it felt like there was a wire harshly squeezing my head, splitting the skin and sawing through bone, gnawing straight into my brain in a wave of unbearable ecstasy.

I was screaming, I’m quite certain, and the presence dug even deeper. We were in pain, but we’ve never wanted something to stop less. Our voice was hoarse and beautiful from it.

It was the sound of the bells that woke me up.

The young man from before stood in front of me. He was holding the woman by the wrist, and I tried to reach out to stop him, but found my hands shaking, unwilling to obey my will.

“He’s not fit,” the young man said.

The woman tried to reply, but he repeated, colder, “He’s not fit.”

The finality of it made me move.

It perhaps would have been proper to say goodbye, but I just walked past them, out of the cathedral and out of the city. I could feel the blood running from the top of my head, soaking up my hair and collar. Where a belled headdress would have been, was a throbbing ring of pain.

I looked back only once. The young man’s face held the same expression I’d seen before when he was about to be killed, that of a man and not divinity.

If it was mercy or rejection, I still don’t know.

[messers-moony]

So Perfect 2 | J.P

Paring: Young!James Potter X Fem!Lupin!Reader

Summary: James falls in love with a bookstore called, Lupin’s Library, and can’t believe what they’re going through. 

Preparing for a date seemed easy enough, except when it’s with a twenty-five-year-old man that already has a child. Granted, the twenty-five-year-old man was handsome, very handsome; maybe that’s what made this so hard. Every dress that she tried on didn’t seem to fit or didn’t seem to look right. 

Y/n was looking at her appearance in the mirror when a light knock was heard on her door, “Come in!”

Remus almost dropped the tea he was holding for her, “You look spiffing.”

“Spiffing?” Y/n crossed her arms with a stupid smile, “That’s all you could come up with?”

“Dashing, beautiful, gorgeous?” Remus shrugged, “I'm not good at this whole thing. ‘S why I’m into blokes, remember?”

Y/n hummed, reaching for the tea he was holding for her, “Thanks, Remmy.”

“No problem.” He replied, taking a seat on her twin bed, “So, are you excited?”

“Nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah, I mean, he’s already got a child, Rem!” Y/n said exasperated, “If this goes well, then he’ll expect me to be Harry’s stepmother, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

Remus placed two hands on his shorter sister's shoulders, “You’re going to be fine. No one is more prepared for that than you are.”

“I’m regretting this.”

“If you don’t go on this date, then I’ll never call Sirius.” 

“That’s not fair!”

“It is.” Remus replied, “How about this-”

“Oh no, you only do this when you know you’ll win.” She murmured. 

Remus smirked, “If you go on this date and have fun, I’ll ask Sirius out. If you don’t go on this date at all, I’ll block his number.”

“But you and Sirius are perfect for each other.” Y/n whined, “And so are you and James.” Remus countered. 

Y/n pouted, and Remus smiled, “Now go have fun on this date. James is waiting outside.”

“Are you shitting me?!” 

Remus laughed, “Nope!”

Y/n scrambled to grab her things, and Remus watched amusedly, “You’re the worst, Rem!” She yelled as she began to leave the bookstore. 

“Love you too, sis!”

The door closed behind her, and she was releasing breaths of air. James turned to see her out of breath and a flush on her cheeks. It made him smile. She looked absolutely breathtaking too. Y/n’s hair was styled, and her dress looked dashing on her. James offered her his hand, and Y/n took it with a gentle smile. 

“Sorry for making you wait.” Y/n apologized, “Rem was no help.”

James chuckled, “It’s fine.”

James opened the car door for her, and she got in. Instantly she felt out of place. Y/n hadn’t been in a car since high school and ever since then had taken public transportation or walked. She and Remus didn’t have money for a vehicle, so they made do with what they had. The seats were black leather, and the car didn’t have a spec of dirt on it. 

He got into the driver's side of the car smoothly and took notice of Y/n’s awestruck expression, “I take it you like my car?”

“I’m sorry.” Her expression turned sheepish, “It’s been a minute since I’ve been in a car.”

James quirked an eyebrow, “Remus and I walk or ride buses to get by.”

“Well, I’m glad I could be with you for your first experience back.” They both laughed. 

It was so easy with James. Conversation flowed like water, and the air was light like clouds. His hand went from the shift to intertwine his fingers with hers. Y/n’s face flushed, and James smiled genuinely. James couldn’t remember a time when a girl made his heart race and butterflies fill his stomach like this before. 

When they arrived, Y/n was starstruck. It was fancier than she thought. Her heart pounded, and insecurity filled her body. James made his way to her side of the car and opening the door for her again. He helped her out of the car and felt her hand tremble just the slightest bit. 

“You look beautiful.” James assured, “No need to be worried.”

Y/n swallowed thickly, “Hey,” James turned her face to his, “If I thought you were underdressed, I would’ve told you. You’re gorgeous, and I think you’ll be the prettiest girl in the room.”

“Thank you.”

He gave her another one of those beautiful smiles before walking up to the hostess, “Name?”

“Should be under Potter.”

The hostess smiled, “Right this way.”

James motioned for Y/n to go first, so she followed the hostess to the table. Y/n sat down, and James sat across from her as the woman set down two menus. Maybe it was a force of habit, but she couldn’t help but let her eyes travel to everything around her. 

He smiled, slightly amused by her way of checking everything around her. It wasn’t the fanciest place that he could’ve taken her - there was much better - but he didn’t want to overwhelm her. It wasn’t pitying that drew him toward her, though. There was something about her that made him feel like a teenager again. 

The place was made of what appeared to be a dark wooden material. The lights were a dim yellow, and the tables were polished beautifully. The booths were comfy and with red cushioning. The atmosphere was cooling and dry. 

Y/n had opened her menu and began to survey it, “Pick whatever you want.” 

“Are you sure?” Y/n asked, “I really don’t mind-“

“This is a date.” James reminded as he held her hands from across the table, “Let me treat you so well that you a second date.”

Y/n blushed, “You’ve already done that.” 

“I have?”

“Shut up.”

James chuckled, kissing her knuckles, “Whatever you want, love.”

Half of the food on the menu Y/n hadn’t even heard of. Granted, she and Remus never really ate out much as kids. Usually, their mother - Hope - would cook them dinner as their father - Lyall - got home from work. Dinner was generally around seven-thirty or eight o’clock. 

The dinner went by gracefully, with lots of banter and getting to know each other. It wasn’t until the end of the date where James had paid despite Y/n’s efforts, and they got into the car where he had asked the dreadful question. They both sat in the parking spot when James had turned to her. 

“How do you feel about children?” James asked and quickly added, “I know that you’re good with them because of the reading on Saturdays but, I mean, about having children?”

Y/n wrung her hands, “I never really thought about it.”

“Why?”

“I have two jobs and a sick brother to take care of.”

Y/n replied, “Kids don’t really fit in. I’d also have to have a significant other to have children. Which I don’t have.”

James nodded, “Okay, but if you were to have a significant other.”

“I mean, I’d like to.” Y/n shrugged, “My life is just hectic right now. Bringing a child into this life wouldn’t be fair.”

Okay, so this isn’t going anywhere, James thought; I need to be blunt, “How would you feel about being Harry’s stepmother?”

She swallowed, “James….”

“I know that’s a hard thing to answer right now. Especially with us just getting started.” James added, “But if you aren’t interested, then this isn’t worth starting.”

“No, I know and understand.” Y/n said, fidgeting with her hands in her lap, “I’m sure it’s hard to find someone, you know, already having a kid and all.”

James nodded. 

“I’d love to be Harry’s stepmother.” Y/n replied as James’ face lit up, “But I still have the bookstore, the bar, and Remus to take care of as well. It’ll be stressful.” 

“I’m not asking you to be a stay-at-home mother.” James chuckled, “I’m just asking that at the end of the day, you come home to us.”

“And hopefully,” James smiled sheepishly, “Sirius can knock Remus off your list.”

Y/n chuckled, “Hopefully. Remus is a handful.”

“He seems nice.” 

She snorted, “Until you officially meet him.”

“Well then,” James smiled, taking her hand in his as he began moving the car, “Looks like we’ll be having double dates.”

Y/n squeezed his hand as he began to drive. The car drove effortlessly over the unpaved roads. Light music played in the background. The sky was a beautiful blue littered with sparkling white specks. The moon was crescent and barely a sliver. James had gotten to a stoplight when he spoke up again. 

“My house or yours?”

“Whichever.” 

James smiled and turned the wheel to the left, “Okay.”

It didn’t take long to realize that they were going to his house. His neighborhood was much different than hers. Granted, she lived on top of a bookshop, but it was still different. James lived in the suburbs. The houses were breathtaking, and the streets looked clean. Asphalt roads were freshly paved, and sidewalks looked new. The homes were family-sized, but they looked ginormous compared to her and Remus’ studio apartment only suited for one. 

James pulled into the driveway, and Y/n was flabbergasted. It was a two-story house, mostly white concrete, and the accents were a dark brown color. The grass was freshly cut, and the vegetation was trimmed. The backyard appeared to have a pool and a patio area, but Y/n could barely tell over the solid fence. 

His keys jingled as he placed the key into the slot and the door opened with ease. Gently, he motioned her to go first. The floors were dark oak wood, seemingly similar to the dark paint on the accents of the house. Everything was so clean, exactly like the car, not a spec of dust laid on the surfaces. 

A movie was playing on the television in the room on the right. The kitchen was on the left, and the sitting table was in the room beside it. James shut the door behind him, locking it. He took off his coat and shoes, placing them at the front door. He smiled. 

“I take it you like the house?”

“It’s beautiful.”

James smiled, walking to the kitchen, and Y/n took off her shoes before following him. He sighed when he opened the fridge, and Y/n had taken a seat at the barstool in front of the island. James picked up an empty bottle of wine that was still residing in the fridge. 

“You keep empty bottles of wine in the fridge?” Y/n questioned as James rubbed his face with his hands. 

“No. Bad habit of Sirius’.”

Y/n quirked an eyebrow, “He lives here?”

“He acts as he does.” James muttered as he recycled the empty bottle, “But no, Sirius lives a couple of doors down. But I feel like he should be paying rent here.”

Y/n laughed, “Regardless, I’ve known him since elementary school, so he’s like my brother. Harry calls him uncle and everything.”

“That’s adorable.” Y/n said, “Do you have any actual siblings?”

“Nope. Jus’ me.” He answered, motioning to himself, “Sirius has a younger brother named Regulus.”

“His parents obsessed with constellations or something?”

“Supposedly.”

“Where is Harry now?” 

“With Sirius.” James replied, taking out a full bottle of wine, “Told him I might get him tonight or might not.”

Y/n took the glass of wine he offered her with a smile, “Mind if I ask why the tv was left on?”

“My cat.”

“Cat?”

“Technically, not mine.” James explained, “It’s my ex-fiancées, but she left him here, so he’s mine now.”

“And your cat likes the tv?”

James nodded, “What's his name?”

“Moony.”

“Moony?”

“Yeah. Harry named him actually.”

Y/n smiled. They continued to talk, and the night kept going on by. It was well past midnight when James drove her back home to her shared apartment. The car ride was silent, primarily with music playing lightly in the background once again. He walked her to the door of the bookstore before bidding her goodnight. 

Gently James pressed his lips to her forehead, “Goodnight, get some sleep.”

“You too…” Y/n muttered, blushing as she walked into the bookstore. 

She hadn’t even made it up the steps when Remus began talking, “Had a good night, I presume?”

“You’re a dick, ya know?”

He smirked and closed his book with a thud, “Runs in the family.”

Y/n gasped playfully, “You ass!”

Remus chuckled as they both walked up the steps, “Seriously though, good night?”

“Yeah, really good night.”

[chasing-classics]

Our Little Secret Sessions- Nate Jacobs x Reader (2)

Pairing(s): Nate Jacobs x Reader

  Warning(s): SMUT, language, toxic relationships, older reader, NON-CON

  Summary: After landing a job as the high school’s new counselor you settle into your new home, unaware of what danger lurks just outside your front door. In Part Two, you meet another one of your students, only to be interrupted by the boy next door.

Part 1

 A couple of weeks had passed since your encounter with Nate, but the fear of what the teenage was capable of remained fresh in your mind. You could never forget the dominant, controlling look in his eyes when he had threatened you in your office. Since then, you had been unable to sleep properly and you found yourself constantly looking over your shoulder. On the bright side, you had not encountered him face-to-face since that day, but his presence could always be felt never too far away. He was like some sort of predator, a beast lurking in a dense jungle. Eyes sharp and ready to go in for the kill at any moment.

 ‘’Um miss?’’ a voice broke you out of your thoughts.

 You quickly snapped your head up, sitting straight up in your office chair as a young girl stood in the doorway. She was average height for her age, dark hair, glamorous makeup, and full lips. You had seen her walking down the hall a few times, an air of confidence always surrounding her. She reminded you of the girls you hated when you were in high school.

  ‘’I’m so sorry, please come in,’’ you extended your hand, gesturing to one of the empty chairs or the couch in front of your desk. She nodded, shutting the door behind her as she made herself comfortable.

 ‘’I’m sorry, I’m still getting used to everything here. I’m Miss y/l/n,’’ you held out your hand for her to shake. She looked down at it before slowly returning the gesture. Whether she just wasn’t used to people being polite to her or she just didn’t like you, you weren’t sure.

 ‘’Maddy,’’ she replied, her expression unreadable.

 ‘’Well how can I help you Maddy?’’ you offered a kind smile despite her semi-cold attitude.

 Her eyes flickered, searching for the right words to express her thoughts. Your brow furrowed as she visibly struggled.

 ‘’This is a safe place Maddy, whatever you tell me stays between us,’’ you encouraged.

 She bit down on her lip, hands twisting and fumbling in her lap as her leg bounced. Finally, she met your concerned gaze with a sigh.

 ‘’Do you think sexuality is a spectrum?’’ she blurted out.

  The question took you back, it taking everything in your for your mouth to stay shut.

  ‘’Well, in my opinion it certainly can be. There doesn’t necessarily have to be a one-size-fits-all or black and white approach to it. But I really think it depends on you and your preferences-‘’

 ‘’N-no. Not me,’’ she cut you off, still seemingly nervous. You arched a brow, trying to decipher what she was talking about.

 ‘’Is everything ok, Maddy?’’

  ‘’Look there’s this. . .guy who I’m seeing. And I found-‘’

 Knocking on your door made the two of you jump. A lump formed in your throat when the handle twisted and the door opened, revealing none other than Nate fucking Jacobs.

 You quickly cast a glance at Maddy who, for some reason or another, looked almost as petrified as you felt.

 ‘’Oh sorry Miss y/l/n, I didn’t know you were busy,’’ Nate practically hissed out the last word as his gaze fell upon Maddy.

  ‘’Mister Jacobs, I’m with Maddy right now. If you’d like we can schedule a meeting-‘’

 ‘’No! No, it’s ok, miss. I’ll be late for class anyway,’’ Maddy scrambled to collect her bag and rush out the door.

 ‘’I can write you a hallpass,’’ your words jumbled, practically pleading with the girl to stay so that you were not left alone with this sociopath. The smirk on Nate’s face made your blood run cold.

 Maddy murmured a quick ‘’bye’’ before the door shut closed behind Nate’s lanky figure. He scoffed, steadily turning his attention back to you as you shakily stood.

 ‘’You can’t just show up like that. I have a job to do and anyone could-‘’

 ‘’Take your pants off,’’ he abruptly interrupted you.

 A pitiful squeak, similar to that of a puny mouse cornered in a snake pit, escaped your lips as the air left your lungs.

 ‘’What?’’ you felt your heart began to beat faster as Nate took a step towards you after locking your door, sealing your fate.

 ‘’I said, take your pants off. And bend over your desk,’’ his deep voice shook you to your core.

 ‘’Nate, please,’’ you whispered, trying to sum up as much courage and dominance as you could as you stood straight and met his terrifying gaze.

 He didn’t respond as his hands descended on you. One locked itself onto the back of your neck and played with your hair as the other began to roughly grope your breasts through your flimsy shirt. His mouth pressed rough, hearted kissed onto the column of your neck as his breath fanned hot flames onto your soft skin. You felt paralyzed as his grip tightened, you having to bite your lips from crying out.

 You jumped when his large hand made its’ way underneath your shirt and the material of your bra. He easily captured a nipple between his index and middle finger and began to pinch and squeeze and tug on the sensitive bud, expertly rolling it however way he sought fit.

  ‘’L-leave,’’ you whispered. Half of you was praying and the other was making a rather pathetic attempt to reestablish authority over him.

 ‘’If I walk out that door, everyone will know how you slept with a student,’’ he threatened, biting at the soft juncture between your neck and shoulder, making you hiss in pain.

 ‘’I didn’t know!’’ you whimpered, cursing the way your body reacted to both his touch and his voice.

 Your nipples were overstimulated at this point, any rubbing against your bra or touch from Nate’s fingers had you mewling like a helpless kitten. Your knees locked together as you felt the heat expand downward from your arousal.

  ‘’The sooner you give in, the sooner I leave. The less chance you have of someone catching us,’’ he groaned, grinding his thickness into your lower abdomen so you felt what was awaiting you.

  You let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly as you nervously fumbled with your jeans. Nate all but growled when he saw the delicate lace material that hid your womanhood. His breathing labored and his cock twitched. Since he had last had you he had messed around with Maddy a few times, trying to placate his urges, trying to forget about his attractive new neighbor and school counselor. But something about you, the way you were allured him to you. He found himself craving you, imagining your cries and moans as he thrusted wildly into Maddy. He found himself becoming rougher at the thought of having you once again, all to himself. His little taboo. Today, he found he couldn’t wait any longer and found himself at your office door, ready to continue your secret little sessions.

 By the time your jeans had pooled around your ankles and your underwear shortly followed, your boots providing you with a little more height than usual, Nate grew tired of waiting. He shoved your paperwork, cleverly unhooking your phone in case anyone called, and shoved you down by your neck so that your body was painfully bent over the unforgiving surface.

 Your cheek pressed against the wood of the desk, your eyes searching for anything to focus on as you tried to block out the jingling of his belt and the sound of his zipper being pulled down. You felt the heat of his cock at your entrance as Nate folded himself onto you, his breath hitting your cheek and neck as his toned abs gently grazed your spine and ass.

 ‘’Be quiet,’’ he warned, one massive hand wrapping around your face to cover your mouth. You winced as he spit down onto your spread pussy, using his thumb as makeshift lubricate. He hummed in approval at the feel of your arousal and you didn’t need to face him to know he had a chesire cat grin on his pale face. You could feel him retreat his hips before he lunged forward and sheathed his massive dick into your tight canal. You screamed against his hand, although it was practically just muffled mewls given his tight grip as he began rotating his hips, stretching your tightness to welcome whatever he was about to give you.

 ‘’Shhhh, good girl, look at you taking it like a champ,’’ he mocked as he reluctantly pulled out, only to violently snap forward, your body lunging with his brutal movements.

 Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you were ashamed to admit they were in pleasure. The feeling of complete fulness outweighed the pain, but you made a pitiful attempt to reach behind you and shove him back. You yelped as his other hand locked your wrists and pinned them to the small of your back, your body helpless and completely on display as Nate continued his brutal pace. He felt every quiver, every squeeze that your sweet pussy gave him. He nearly came within the first few minutes of being inside of you, but he managed to hold off. The way you squealed under him, your smaller body rocking in tune with his thrusts, and the way your tight pink pussy latched onto him to the point he dragged your body back as he pulled out was nothing that he had ever had before. He pressed more of his weight into you, trying to keep his own grunts and moans quiet as he gripped your face and wrists.

 ‘’So good,’’ he kept repeating in your neck as he hammered into you. The wet noises and sound of his hips violently meeting your backside filled you with fear that someone would come in and catch you. Your squealing and cries slowly transformed into needy moans and whimpers, you faintly acknowledged your juices beginning to drip down your inner thighs and you felt your insides begin to coil.

 ‘’N-Nate,’’ you breathlessly cried against his palm, attempting to suck in as much air through your nose as you could. He bite down on your shoulder, tongue lapping at the faint angry marks, groaning as his pace did not let out. He was impossibly thick and girthy, filling you and hitting your cervix with every ram of his hips. Your hands twitched and knees buckled as his cock began throbbing along your velvet walls. You couldn’t help but squeeze him as your own climax began to form, causing him to hiss against your shoulder.

  ‘’Gonna fill you up, oh fuck,’’ you faintly deciphered him growling out as you were forced to take his thrusts.

 Your clit throbbed almost painfully, knuckles turning lighter as your fists clenched against your back. He abruptly released your wrists, opting to clutch the curve of your hip as he forced your body back to meet his awaiting thrusts, making you cry out every time he angrily entered you. As you cried out with each thrust, he groaned, feeling your release incredibly close. He angled his hips slightly higher and dove in, grinning as he heard your moans, your pussy locking onto his dick as your orgasm coated him. He slowed his pace just to watch the way he glistened from your juices, enjoying the sinful squelching noises you both produced as he shoved himself repeatedly into you, before regaining his violent momentum.

 His grip on you tightened impossibly as you lay limp underneath him, lost in the waves of your release. All you felt was your body being forced back and forth as Nate impaled you onto his angry member. You swore you saw actual stars bouncing around your vision before you were forced back down into reality as he removed his hand from your mouth (finally) and gripped your throat. Through his animalistic movements he angled your face back to meet his in a bruising, possessive kiss as he ensured every inch of him was buried to the hilt inside of you as he shuddered. You groaned as the warmth of his cum filled your abused pussy. He moved against you one last time before slowly pulling you out and stuffing himself back into his jeans and zipping it back up. You winced when you felt a finger trace your lower lips and shove some of his load back into your sore pussy.

 ‘’Get dressed,’’ his voice conveyed his relaxation and his gaze was surprising soft as he helped you stand up.

 You didn’t speak as you redressed, your face still flushed with a postcoital glow. He tucked some of your hair out of your face as his eyes searched yours, his thoughts unreadable. But just as his expression lingered on borderline affection, that cruel teenage-boy smirk reappeared as his hand thumbed the base of your neck in a warning grip.

 ‘’I’m going to need that hall pass.’’

[finelinevogue]

I am *respectfully* begging for a oneshot based off the song Champagne Problems by Taylor Swift🥺

okay let’s have a bit of fun with this mwhaha;

The moon was at full peak.

She was sat in the black canvas of a starry sky, shining down on the party below or at least so you thought she was. The flute glasses glowed under her brightness and bubbled with happiness. The pool was reflecting her image so beautifully. Everyone looked amazing in their gorgeous evening outfits of silk and lace, Gucci and Prada, chatting and laughing away as the night was close to striking midnight.

“Such a lovely party, Y/N.” Another guest thanked you, you not having the faintest idea of who they were.

You and Harry were hosting a dinner party in the back garden of his Malibu palace to celebrate his recent success over this past year. He’d had movie after movie, along with an album and a tour. He had done exceptionally well for himself, so he wanted to throw the most lavish party to celebrate with his friends and family that had helped him through it all. You had been in charge of organising food and a live band, Harry in charge of the guest list, Mitch in charge of decorations - bu really it had been Sarah - and Gemma in charge of the drinks; specifically champagne.

“I’m glad.” You smiled, as you poured yourself another glass of the bubbles. You felt the warmth of someones hand slide onto your exposed back, making you shiver with temptation and love.

“Have I told you just how beautiful you look this evening?” Harry spoke softly against your ear, kissing over the skin where his words had touched you.

He had been showing you off all night, always introducing you as ‘my beautiful girlfriend’ and keeping you close to him whenever he could. He would pull out his wallet and show people the picture he kept of you in there. It was one he’d taken of you laughing as you ran away from him on the beach. Even though the photo was black and white it was obvious how happy you were. He loved having you near and whenever someone said that they hadn’t seen you yet, he knew to go straight to the desserts table and find you shovelling yet another chocolate coated strawberry into your mouth not-so-gracefully.

“You have, but I won’t stop you if you want to do it again.” You replied, quite enjoying the flattering compliments. You’d dressed yourself in a silky evening gown that was in a deep red colour and Harry was having a hard time keeping his hands off of you. The front was v-cut, with the back completely open too, so it left your skin exposed for Harry to treat himself to. You turned around in his hold and pushed your body into his, making him hum in appreciation.

“I can’t stop thinking how much I want to kiss you.” He looked at your lips as he spoke, wanting to stain his own lips with the bold colour you’d painted on yours. You were so delicious and he wanted to devour every inch of you.

“Well what’s stopping you?” You reached a hand up to scrunch his curls under your fingers, the bracelets on your arm sliding down and jingling with another.

“Meet me upstairs in 5 minutes.” He replied, making you furrow your eyebrows in curiosity of what he was playing at.

“Should I ask why?”

“You shouldn’t, I don’t want to answer when my mum is standing just across the room.” He made you both chuckle, before leaning back from you to give you a quick once over. “Wow.” He breathed out, the biggest grin to his face. “5 minutes.”

And then he was gone.

You bit your lip as he rushed straight over to his mum and sister, who were both eagerly smiling at him. You couldn’t help but fall in love with him a little more at the sight. He was so innocent and full of love and happiness, you were so in awe of him and his beautiful qualities.

You did a quick scour of the room, making sure there were no unhappy faces, before heading in the direction of the bathroom to freshen up before visiting Harry. As you walked up the stairs you noticed a conversation between one of Harry’s cousins and one of his American friends, it sounded quite argumentative so you went to make sure everything was alright.

“You both okay?” You asked sweetly, your heels clicking on the floor as you approached them.

“God you’re just everywhere aren’t you?” The friend laughed, but you could tell she wasn’t laughing for a joke.

“I’m sorry?” You asked shocked at her tone, wondering what the problem was here.

“You’re so up in everyone else’s business always.”

“I don’t understand—”

“No of course you don’t. God, I understand why Harry finds you so annoying and clingy.”

“Kia—” The cousin gasped in shock of Kia’s words.

“No, you know i’m right Rachel just be quiet.” Kia shushed Rachel and brought her attention back to you.

“Harry thinks i’m clingy?” You asked, trying to understand what was really going on.

“That amongst lots of other things.”

“He would never. He loves me.” Your argued, slight tears in your eyes from letting her get to you like this. It was different than tabloids because you were actually hearing it from someone’s mouth, rather than an edited and faceless article. It stung so much more.

“And? Did you really think he would ever stick around for someone like you?” Kia laughed and then walked off, strutting her and her perfect body away from you and back to the main party area. You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, trying to understand what her words truly meant to you.

“Y/N…” Rachel tried to console you, but you didn’t want her. You wanted Harry and yet now you didn’t.

“Do you think all that too?” You asked quietly, scared to hear an answer. You got your answer though when she spoke nothing and tilted her head down in shame. You understood. “Okay, thank you.” You quietly said and tried your best to smile, but you knew it didn’t reach your eyes.

You started walking towards the stairs, thinking what this all meant. You always had a back thought that Harry was too good for you, but you just never let yourself be put in the position to think upon that thought. Now though. Now, you were thinking.

Of course you would be naive enough to think that your happily ever after would be with the one man who’s heart could be taken by every other woman on the planet. Even your university teacher had once talked about having a crush on him and he had only been 21 at the time. You never thought here, when he was 27, would you possibly be the one to hold his heart. You did, though, but it wouldn’t be forever - Kia was right, Rachel was right. Everyone knew, but you were just too blinded by his love for you right now to think that it will just wilt away in the future. You were a rose, beautiful and in it’s prime as it flourished on the love it was fed, but after time when even the smallest amounts of love are forgotten to be given the rose wilts and so dies. It’s forgotten about in turn and left to degrade itself into oblivion.

You walked the stairs slowly, completely numb to your core. How could all of 5 minutes turn your emotions 180° and permanently? Your brain ran over the thoughts and little moments that you should’ve picked up on before. Like, when Harry forgot your anniversary and blowing it off that he had been at some work-do but he’d really been at Karlie Kloss’ birthday party. Like, when Harry stopped sending you postcards when he was on tour. Like, when he did that heart-rate test and saw a picture of Camille, looking utterly stunning, on the Victoria Secret runway his heart beat was incredibly high. Is that what he wanted 30 years from now? A model? Someone who was in the same business as him and could understand. You tried to, you really did, but it was starting to feel like maybe you weren’t to be enough.

Making your way down the hallway this way, you couldn’t help but feel like it was for the last time. There was this gut feeling that whatever Harry wanted you for, was going to make sure you were both reminded why you couldn’t be together.

“Damn. You’re a vision.” Harry whistled and you then spotted him at the end of the hallway, the moon shining in through the window and lighting him up like the pure angel he was. You weren’t worthy of his heart. You could only chuckle, not having the passion to make a flirty comment back. Not anymore.

“Listen Harry—” “Okay I have to ask you—” You both talked at the same time, bringing only a nervous chuckle to your face.

“You first.” He offered.

“No, you.” You offered back and he took it.

“Okay, alright.” He breathed in heavily. “You’re so beautiful.” He started, making you blush a little but it was dim up here so you weren’t worried about him noticing. Hopefully he didn’t see the sadness in your eyes either.

“Thank you.” You replied humbly.

“And I want to be able to wake up and tell you that every single day—”

“Harry…” You cut him off, your heart having just dropped so low to the floor.

“Yes?”

“Is this…”

“If you let me continue, yes.” He laughed, thinking that you were happy for him to continue. He was about to, but you cut him off.

“Don’t.” You said, a shake in your voice that was very apparent.

“Don’t— what?” He asked confused, stepping closer to you and only for you to step back. He stopped when he noticed that he would not be able to make distance to you, furrowing his eyebrows and looking hurt. Really hurt. Pain that you and you alone were causing him.

“Don’t ask me the question I think you’re about to.” You held of your hand to both stop him coming closer and to stop him talking. “Just don’t.”

“Baby… what?” Harry asked confused, tears visible in his eyes now. He just wanted to be near you and understand.

“Harry… Don’t make me say it.” You warned him.

“Say what?”

“Harry…”

“Y/N, say what?”

“No!” You shouted, loud enough that people downstairs might’ve heard. “No, Harry. No. I won’t marry you.” You started to cry and let the tears fall freely. You deserved to feel like your heart had been ripped from your chest, the same way you deserved to cry forever. You deserved nothing but pain to repay the damage you’d caused Harry.

“Wha—” He started, but you were too selfish to stick around and watch him crumble. You shot off down the hallway and down the stairs, making your way to the front door. Luckily you didn’t have to go through the masses of people to face the disappointing faces. Luckily no one had to see your cries, except Kia. She was stood by the front door, holding out your coat already as if she were waiting for you.

“Kia what—”

“You thought this evening was for Harry? No. It was for you.” She shoved your coat to you, making you stumble back from the force.

“What?”

“This was your surprise engagement party, with the surprise being the fucking engagement. Everyone knew about it apart from you. He had this plan of asking you and then coming downstairs to everyone yelling surprise. Seems like you fucked that up though.” She sneered at you and your sobs fell from your throat harder than before, your makeup ruining the prettiness of your face as it ran from all the salty tears.

“But you…”

“I what? Said a bunch of bullshit? I was only saying things you’ve heard a million times before. I was making sure you were the right person for our Harry. Seems like you’re far from it.” She chuckled, shaking her head in disappointment at you.

“You’re cruel.”

“No, Y/N, you are. You just did the one thing that I would’ve never done; break Harry’s heart.” She looked at you in disgust before opening the door for you. You gave her one last look, hate in her eyes for you, before you walked outside with the door slamming forcefully behind you. Your heart being left besides Harry’s broken one.

[slasherholic]

Contains: gender neutral reader, torture, forced scarification, bondage, spanking, fear play, body horror, threats of violence, mentions of drugging.

Asa Emory x Favorite!Victim Reader | One More Chance | Chapter 2

part one here

He stops in front of the elevator. Green-grey mold climbs the peeling beige wallpaper on either side of it like creeping fingers. The tarnished doors sit locked away behind a rusting barred gate. You had tried to use this exact same elevator when you almost got away from—

When you disobeyed him, interjects the part of your brain that just spared you your limbs. You had tried to use this elevator when you disobeyed him.

But he had locked it up tight from the top floors, too.

Upon realizing that, you nearly went slinking back to your room. You remember thinking that if you went back, if you crawled back inside your trunk and shut the lid, if you curled up very tight and very small, if you were good for him, when he found you, he might forgive you. There would still be a punishment for jimmying the lock; but if you showed him that you were sorry, ready to obey, ready to let him keep you without a fuss, the punishment might be bearable.

Then you had discovered a vent with a screw loose. Loose enough for you to peel back the grate.

The moment your slow descent to the lobby through the vents began, you knew forgiveness was out of the question. If he caught you before you made it out of this hotel, you would be tortured for it.

There is not a single doubt in your groggy, muddled, drugged-up mind that you are still about to be tortured for it.

He lowers your body to the grimy floor and unhooks his keychain from his belt. The keys jangle as he flips the ring once around his finger and catches it again. 

A shrill cry leaves your throat when his boot comes down on your temple.

He presses the rubber firmly into your cheek, smushing your face against the cold floor, covering your eyes. He’s not going to let you see this part. 

You hear him flipping back and forth between the keys, in no particular hurry to find the correct one.

One,

two,

three locks click open.

The pressure on your temple lifts mercifully away. You watch his boots as he slides the grated rusty door barring the elevator open. When he picks you up again, he slings you over his shoulder, his hand coming down to hold your naked thigh.

There are fifteen amber buttons on the chrome panel inside the elevator. You know your room is on the eighth floor.

Dread knots your stomach when you see the counter above the doors pass floor number eight.

He’s not taking you back to your room. 

The elevator stops on floor fourteen. He steps out, and into a part of the hotel you have never seen before. He starts down the decayed hall.

You pass one of his dolls. You don’t shut your eyes in time before you see her.

The first thing you see is the woman’s guts.

Shimmering in a slippery wet blue-purple pile on her abdomen like a tangle of worms, leaking blood down her ribs from stress-worn ruptures in the meat. The stench of her insides hits you like a kick to the face. You realize you must be smelling the chemicals of her stress and fear, cortisol, adrenaline, the pungent amalgamation of everything her panicking brain released when he did this to her.

It must have been recent; nobody could survive this for long.

She whimpers weakly at the sound of his approach. Where her eyes are meant to be, there are only bloody, glistening hollows. 

Reaching out, he grazes her IV line with his fingers, letting his hand brush her face tenderly as he walks past.

The woman’s whimpers rise into a steep pained cry that twists her features and dribbles quickly back to whimpering when she seems to realize that he has continued on walking, and isn’t going to linger to touch her more.

He takes you to the end of the hall. You hear the jingling of his key ring, the squeal of a turning handle.

The room inside is utterly unlike the rest of the hotel. Clean, tidy, well-furnished, well-lit. The cream colored wallpaper is spotless and adorned with charts boasting detailed portraits of various species of beetle and moth. All the furniture looks new.

He carries you to a long leather ottoman and starts to push it with his leg away from its resting place next to a bookshelf. In the middle of the room, he deposits you belly-down across it. Your arms fall limply to both sides. He steps out of view.

A radio crackles and sputters to life. Some melody plays faintly over it.

This is some sort of study.

You stare blankly at a locked glass case on the opposite end of the room as he moves somewhere behind you where you can’t see him. Sat upon the shelves are rows upon rows of insects preserved in jars of orange fluid.

Except some of them are very clearly not insects.

You shut your eyes, not caring to see what’s in those jars. Behind you, he opens a cabinet door, and starts to push a trolley cart with a squeaky wheel. You open your eyes when he gets too close.

There are two trays atop the cart. One white, one silver. You watch him lift a thin tool out of the silver tray, turning it over in the light, and your heart falls into your stomach.

It’s a scalpel. He’s holding a scalpel.

You launch right back into your desperate pleading frenzy.

Wait, wait, no no no, I’ll be good, I’ll be good—

The words come out as pitiful, slurred garbling. The drug has paralyzed your tongue.

His gloved hand shoots out. He seizes the underside of your jaw, cruelly. The pleading catches in your throat.

“No more of that.”

The order is stern, yet his voice remains unnervingly steady. It is the first you’ve ever heard him raise it above a whisper.

Fresh tears prick the corners of your eyes. You obey him without thought and fall silent.

From a desk in the corner, he pulls up a three-legged stool, and sits down next to you, knees level with your face. The simple proximity to him has your heart beating out of your chest. He wipes your back down with something cold and then his fingers alight to trace your shoulders gingerly. He rap-tap-taps the scalpel he’s about to use on you against the leg of the stool. 

Steadying you with a hand pressed flat on your back, he starts to work.

The bite of the scalpel is unforgiving. Your tears come fast. Before long you’re shrieking, sobbing, struggling to breathe. He doesn’t tell you to stop, doesn’t tell you to be quiet. His incisions are swift and skillful. You can feel the little flicks of his wrist as the blade sinks in and out of your back.

You see him wiping thin bloody slivers into the white tray on the rolling table, pieces of you. The sensation of the warm blood streaming down your back and shoulders turns you clammy and cold. He wipes the runny red up with a cloth from the trolley before it gets on his ottoman.

When it is over, your mind is soup.

You gape like a fish as you suck in shuddery breaths and stare blankly at his gloved hands as he sets the dripping scalpel down in its tray again, passing it through the light once more, watching it shimmer with your blood.

Your body flinches reflexively as he stands suddenly from the stool. Straddling you over the ottoman, he rearranges your legs to make room for him. His shins graze the back of your thighs as he sits. Pressing his palm flat against the small of your back, he traces your skin gingerly, examining his work. You whimper and cry. He pats your cheek.

Getting up, he goes to his desk. When he comes back you hear the click of a camera, the whirr of a picture printing. With two fingers, he slides a polaroid photo onto the ottoman, and tells you to look.

You tremble and cry. You don’t want to.

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

You obey him and look.

You start choking on your own sobs.

Butterfly wings. He’s given you butterfly wings. Wings with intricate, skillful patterns. Their graceful swooping tails reach all the way to your lower back. Bright red pools in the raw pink divots where he removed layers upon layers of your skin.

His hand closes firmly around your wrist. He cleans your fingers with a wipe. Rotating your hand behind you, he makes you feel the slippery cuts.

You whine at the sting, trembling in his strong grip. The wounds are just as deep as they look.

“It’s going to scar,” he states, matter-of-factly.

He leaves the polaroid sitting on the table next to your face as he begins to dress the wound. The cleaning hurts almost as much as the cutting, and though he’s being gentle now you think it would be more bearable if he was being cruel. His light brushes leave you trembling like a leaf.

On goes the adhesive bandaging. You watch him through shimmery tears as he gets up, goes to stand at the glass case, undoes the lock, and squats to reach the bottom shelf. He removes an empty jar and a bottle of preserving fluid.

Going back to the trolley, setting the jar down, he screws off the lid. The preserving fluid sloshes as he pours it inside. Reaching into the white tray, he carefully sets the thin pieces of what he sliced off of you into the preserving jar, one by one. You watch them flutter down and settle at the bottom. He screws the lid back on and writes something in cursive in black marker on the label. Going back to the case, he carefully moves aside a beetle specimen, and places his new collection piece on the top shelf.

He checks his watch. Peeling off his gloves, which are wet with your blood, he deposits them in a small trash can in the corner and removes a new pair from his back pocket.

He doesn’t put them on. When he walks past the ottoman he trails the gloves lightly across the nape of your neck. Your body winces and shudders. You don’t hear him shut the door as he leaves the room.

His confidence in his drug is accurate; by the time he comes back, the only movement you’re able to accomplish is a useless twitching of your fingers and toes.

You aren’t facing the right way so you can’t see the chains he’s holding in his hand but you can hear them and the sound makes a pang of dread explode inside of you. They clank and rattle as he drops them beside the ottoman. He greets you with another soft caress of your nape. His gloves are wet again, with someone else’s blood.

He peels off the dirtied second pair and doesn't bother putting on another.

He crosses your arms behind your bandaged back as you sob into the leather. Snap. The pair of thick shackles close around your wrists. The cuffs are tight and uncompromising. He measures the circumference of your neck with a measuring tape, wrapping it taut around your throat, holding it to the base of your skull with two fingers.

You make fragile broken whines as he fits a stiff steel collar around your neck. You hear the click of a padlock. His warm knuckles come down to stroke your cheek. 

His hands go under your body and he lifts you, sinking down on the ottoman in your place, splaying you across his lap. He grips the chain shackling your wrists behind your back, securing your arms tightly. In his shadow, you see him pull back his hand.

Whack.

A shattered sound rips out of you at the impact. You think for an instant that he has taken his knife out of his pocket and stabbed your backside.

With the next smack, you realize that it's his palm, and that he’s spanking you.

One more and you know he’s about to ruin your ass.

Ten seconds on and your sharp yelps are rising into screams. Thirty seconds and your cries are animal. Your cheeks are burning, blood rushing to the spanked area. His palm comes down again and again. 

You feel him switch hands. His fingers curl around the front of your throat, gripping you above your collar, hot from the friction of his slaps and your own swelling skin. He rests his palm on your bruised bottom, groping the stinging flesh.

“Count,” he orders. “Out loud.”

Whack.

You obey his order through tears, blurting out the numbers between strangled sobs.

Whack. Wham. Whack.

The slaps are brutal. He’s putting all his strength behind it. Your lips are trembling as you count your punishment. You realize you can feel his clothed erection pressing against your side and that makes you sob harder. 

At five, he stops. His hands leave your body, and you hear him fidgeting with his mask. The unlaced black fabric concaves in on itself as it falls to the floor, resting next to his boot.

You can’t look him in the face. You wouldn’t even if you could. You don’t want to see him. 

Gripping your jaw, lifting your chin, he presses his nose and mouth to your ear.

“Shh… Shh shh shh...” He shushes your whimpering quiet.

Brushing your cheek with his knuckles, he informs you that five is the number of days he’s going to feed you with nothing but the tube he’s about to shove down your throat.

[too-gay-for-marvel]

just this once pt.4

a/n: shes LORGE

Word Count: 5,031

Warnings: smut implications, canon typical violence, mentions of blood, non-graphic assassination

Pairing: Natasha x Reader

(pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 pt.6.1 pt.6.2 pt.6.3 pt.7 pt.8)

“You gonna cum for me, Talia?”

“Need another mission?” Nick asked, shaking Natasha out of a memory. Her eyes darted around for a split second and noted that the meeting was over.

She had missed the last half of the briefing.

“No,” Natasha shook her head, immediately getting up and attempting to rush out past Nick.

“Well that’s a shame,” Nick continued, moving to the doorway and completely blocking Natasha’s retreat. “I needed a legendary assassin to accompany a local fish.”

“Not a fish,” Natasha replied, far too quick for her to stop herself.

“Funny, that’s the exact same thing she said,” Nick said with a smile before crossing his arms over his chest.

Natasha knew she had lost; she hadn’t really had any hope that she would win anyway. If Nick wanted her to do something, she was going to end up doing it, and that was that. She motioned her head for him to walk with her, and his smile grew. Asshole.

“I need you to take out a target,” Nick said as if there had never been any lull in the conversation.

“Who?” Natasha asked. They reached the elevator and she pressed the button to go up to the gym. Nick pressed the button for his office.

“Jake Porter.” He handed a manila folder to Natasha. It was heavy.

“Says he’s SHIELD?” Natasha asked as she quickly flipped through page after page.

“He is,” Nick nodded, looking down at Natasha. “He’s also the snitch from your last mission.”

Natasha nodded, trying to ignore some vital parts of that mission. She had managed to avoid you for a few months again, but she should have known better than to think it would have lasted forever. It seemed almost as if the world was conspiring against her.

“If it’s a hit, why is Y/N going?” Natasha asked, slamming the manila folder closed as aggressively as possible. It ended up just folding back over at an embarrassingly slow pace.

“He’s hiding in an underwater safe house.”

Of course he is.

“When do we leave?” Natasha asked as the elevator doors opened to Nick’s floor.

“In two hours,” Nick said as he walked forward, not even caring enough to look back.

Natasha sighed once the elevator doors slid shut again. A knot formed in her throat and stuck, forcing her to focus on each individual breath. Something was trying to claw it’s way out of her chest; she could only keep it at bay for so long. There would be hell to pay if it ever came forward.

“Is that not cannibalism?”

“No, it’s lunch.”

The voices pushed past the elevator doors before they were fully open, and Natasha couldn’t help the small smile that graced her lips. Both you and Yelena were sitting at the bar, trays of sushi and cups of tea in front of you. Your mouth was full and you weren’t even looking at Yelena, yet she continued to raise her brow at you in disbelief.

“You’re a fish, that’s fish. It’s cannibalism,” Yelena continued, but you shook your head and picked up another piece.

“Not a fish,” Natasha replied for you. The corner of your mouth tilted up and there was a slight shift in your gills, but Yelena just rolled her eyes.

“You two are disgusting,” Yelena mumbled to herself. “Shouldn’t you be planning a honeymoon or something?”

The room went cold. Your head tilted down until you were hunched over your sushi, picking the pieces apart with your chopsticks. There was a tenseness to your jaw that had to have been painful, but it didn’t ease up. Yelena shifted in her seat and looked down at the ground.

“It’s on hold,” Natasha shrugged, desperately wanting to get off the topic.

“Oh right,” Yelena nodded, already back to her usual demeanour. “You’ve got cold feet.”

“I don’t- I don’t have cold feet,” Natasha took a slight step back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Life is just busy.”

“Busy as in you don’t want to-”

“Did you down here for a reason?” You asked, throwing Natasha and Yelena off of their argument. You were still meticulously picking the sushi apart, rice grain by rice grain.

“We’ve got a mission,” Natasha said curtly. “We leave in two hours.”

“Okay,” you said as you stood up from the bar, towering over Natasha for only a moment before walking off. “See you then.”

“Why do they always leave me to clean up their mess,” Yelena groaned, and Natasha turned to see the mess of your sushi.

Instead of answering, Natasha just gave Yelena a wink and walked away. She has a mission to get ready for.

———

“Can you please turn the fucking heater on?” You shouted from the back for what had to have been the 12th time in the past 10 minutes. The pilot ignored you.

“If you’re cold, put on a jacket,” Natasha repeated. Your sigh could have been heard all the way back in New York.

But when she glanced up, she felt a knot form in her throat. Your thermal suit was clearly not doing anything for you as you pulled what looked to be a third jacket over your shaking shoulders. Blood was showing under your cheeks, and your gills were pulled in tight.

“There’s a space heater in the safe house,” Natasha said softly. You finally looked up and met her eyes.

As soon as your eyes narrowed in on her, she felt time stop. A heat started in her cheeks and spread to her neck and chest. It was as if you were looking into her, so deep that you could find the parts of her she didn’t even know about. Something about that look, something that dug into her core and left her feeling empty as soon as you looked away.

“I’ll freeze to death before then,” you mumbled before tearing your gaze away; you tore a hole through Natasha’s heart in the process.

For the rest of the flight, the only noise was the sound of your chattering teeth. It echoed through the quinjet and Natasha felt the beginning pangs of a migraine popping up in her head. If you didn’t stop soon, she was going to be driven into a homicidal rage.

“Hovering in five,” the pilot finally yelled out, and Natasha stood up quickly with the hopes that the faster she moved, the faster she could get away from the incessant staccato clacking of your teeth.

You stood up after a moment, standing far enough away from Natasha that she couldn’t feel your warmth. But you were still close enough for her to notice the shakiness spreading down your limbs. The way your harpoon jingled on your belt as your body was wracked with the occasional spasm. And yet you put on a brave face and braced for the mission.

“My mask has an hour of oxygen,” Natasha said, already pulling said mask onto her face. “Think we can finish by then?”

“Sh-shouldn’t t-take that long,” you stuttered, teeth shivering between words. “Short d-dive.”

“Opening the cargo door,” the pilot yelled, and just as he said, the cargo door opened and you both stared out into the dark, icy water.

“Age before beauty,” Natasha teased as she gestured out at the water.

“Very f-funny,” you chattered again, but followed her direction and stepped off the cargo door and into the freezing water below.

Natasha was quick to follow suit, wanting to get the dreadful part over as quickly as possible. The very instant her feet touched the water, a painful shock travelled across her skin, sinking deep into her bones. Her fingers reacted slowly when she tried to clench her fist.

“Let’s go,” you said through your comms, and Natasha managed to see you just in time before you disappeared into the inky darkness.

It was like Natasha was swimming through jello. No matter how much she willed her limbs to move, her body to keep going, it seemed she slowed down with each stroke. The water around her started to close in, each breath drawing the pressure closer. Her lungs were on fire and her heart was pounding too hard and the darkness was closing in and she needed out.

There was the whisper of a touch on her arm before she felt herself being yanked upward, finally soaring through the water like she had wanted. In a heartbeat the water released her, the pressure disappearing far faster than it had appeared. She yanked her mask off and inhaled deeply, ignoring the way her lungs screamed at her to stop.

“Trying to get yourself killed?” You asked, and Natasha finally took notice of your hand wrapped around her bicep.

“It was too dark,” Natasha replied, her tongue feeling heavy and slow.

“You didn’t answer the comms,” you continued, “I thought you had gotten lost.”

There was venom to your words. Natasha looked up and managed to calm her shaking enough to see the fire in your eyes, the clenching of your jaw, the freshly picked spots on your bottom lip. Your hand was gripped tight enough that if Natasha had any circulation left in her arm, it would’ve been cut off.

And she didn’t care.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Natasha said, finally yanking her arm out of your grasp. “You stay here for the getaway.”

You nodded and jumped back into the moon pool, already nothing more than a memory. Natasha wasn’t sure if she liked that or not. She shook her head and took off down the corridor, already on the hunt for her target.

It was easy. Far too easy. He was in his room, door unlocked, music far too loud for him to hear anyone come in. A single shot to the back of the head, and the mission was over. Now all she really needed to do was head back to the moon pool and then you could both get to the safe house and warm up.

Except for the small, itty bitty insignificant fact that the base was set to self destruct once Porter’s vitals stopped.

As soon as the sirens started to echo through the base, Natasha was sprinting down the halls. She didn’t know how much time was left, didn’t care, she just needed the both of you to get as far away as possible before you were stuck in the rubble. Natasha turned the last corner and saw you standing on the edge of the moon pool.

“A little faster, please?” You yelled, grabbing Natasha’s arm and pulling her into the water, giving her barely enough time to pull her oxygen mask back on.

You didn’t let go of her arm as you started cutting through the water. She could feel the blood pulling back from her limbs and pooling back in her core, and she felt like dead weight. Your momentum slowed as you pulled her up and wrapped your arm around her waist.

But then the muffled sirens stopped, and you both turned around just in time to see a flash. Natasha’s body wouldn’t react, just felt like lead as you pulled her closer, curling up around her until she was completely covered in you. The distorted explosion reached Natasha’s ears just as she felt the shock wave propel you both further away.

The spinning seemed to last forever, and Natasha felt like even her brain was spinning along with the rest of her body. She didn’t know when it stopped, couldn’t tell when you were still. It was impossible to tell what was up, down, where the surface was, how deep she was, how close she was to death.

Until you pulled away slightly and looked at her.

Natasha went to take a breath and immediately felt freezing water shoot down her throat. She cut the breath off as quickly as possible, but it was too late. The water was deep in her lungs, freezing each individual cell from the inside out. She didn’t have an oxygen mask anymore.

There was a split second where your eyes met hers, and they almost seemed to turn black before she felt your free hand close her nose. She was about to push you away when she felt your lips on hers, cold and chapped. You pulled her closer and teased her lips open, and she didn’t fight it. If she was about to die, then at least she would die happy.

And then you exhaled, and her lungs inflated and felt just a little lighter, and the darkness inched away.

You pulled your mouth away and started swimming again, presumably heading up though Natasha couldn’t tell anymore. Every few seconds you would exhale more oxygen into her lungs, keeping her alive as you dragged both of your freezing bodies back to safety.

As soon as you broke the surface, Natasha gasped and filled her lungs with fresh air before coughing the water back out. She was freezing, her limbs felt like lead, and her body was aching from the inside out. And yet you continued to pull her along, swimming to shore until you could pull her up with you.

The rocks on the shore poked into her suit, leaving bruises that would grow very quickly once she got back to the safe house. You laid on the shore too, back down, small pebbles sticking to your gills. From the way they twitched, it was clearly uncomfortable, if not painful.

You both stayed there, laying in the freezing tide, rocks and pebbles sticking into your skin to the point where you would both be recovering for weeks. Natasha’s eyes wanted to close; sleep seemed to wonderful and it would have been so easy. You could both just sleep and not hurt anymore.

But death was not in the cards, and Natasha wasn’t going to let a little cold win.

She rolled onto her stomach slowly, as fast as her body would allow, before pushing herself up to her knees and then her feet. It was painful; her body felt heavy and little pinpricks were on every inch of her skin. But she wasn’t going to think about it. Instead, she grabbed your arm and yanked you up, ignoring the gasps and hisses that you let out.

“Two miles left,” Natasha mumbled; her lips felt frozen shut.

The walk was slow; neither of you had the energy nor the warmth to make decent time. You both stumbled, tripping over your own feet, or the rocks, or the uneven terrain. But eventually you made it, right as the sun was at its highest point in the sky and Natasha almost felt the ghost of warmth in her cheeks.

“Sit down,” Natasha demanded as she threw the door open. She didn’t bother looking back before moving to grab the space heater and put it directly in front of the couch.

Your eyes were dead; they didn’t shine the way they were supposed to. Your hands kept a death grip on the blankets pulled tight over your shoulders. The shakiness in your body had disappeared, now completely still. It felt like a hole was punched through Natasha’s chest, grabbing her heart and ripping it out.

She sat on the sofa opposite you and just watched you. Hoping that you would move, that you would blink, that you would start shivering again. She didn’t know how long it normally took you to warm back up, didn’t know how long it would take for you to get back to normal. But she did know the word you had used for this condition before; you were torpid.

It felt like hours later, but Natasha’s eyes shot back to your face once she heard a wheezy gasp come from you. Your eyes looked glassy, but you blinked once, slowly, before a shiver wracked your body. Just one. But that was enough for Natasha to feel the vice grip around her throat release.

The ringing of the safe house phone made you both jump.

“Romanoff,” Natasha answered, her eyes travelling back to you.

“You’re safe?” Maria asked through the phone.

“Y/N’s torpid, but we’re secure,” Natasha said curtly. Her pulse was starting to increase.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Maria asked again.

No. No, Natasha wasn’t sure.

“I’m good,” Natasha replied anyway, “just ready to get out of here.”

“About that…”

“Don’t say it,” Natasha mumbled. She leaned against the wall and let her head fall back.

“A storm is rolling in and we won’t get to you in time,” Maria continued anyway. “You’re stuck there for a few days.”

Natasha looked over to you again, noting the rise and fall of your shoulders as you slowly, painfully pulled another blanket over your body, this time covering your head. The flush hadn’t come back to your cheeks yet, but you were moving. She could work with that.

“Will we keep power?” Natasha asked, although she already knew the answer.

“Questionable,” Maria answered anyway, “but the generator is in the back room.”

“How much can she manage?”

“She can handle one room. Use her wisely.”

One room. Not enjoyable, but manageable.

“Keep the phone plugged in?” Natasha asked.

“Preferably,” Maria answered, the sound of a smile coming through the phone. “I’d like to talk to you every now and then.”

“Then it’ll be ready,” Natasha replied with her own small smile. She missed Maria. She missed her a lot.

“I’ll try to call after the storm hits, test out the line,” Maria continued.

“I’ll be waiting for your call, then,” Natasha continued.

“You two are disgusting,” you called from the sofa, and Natasha was brought back to the current situation.

Right.

“Go check on the fish,” Maria sighed, “and keep yourselves warm.”

“Yes ma’am,” Natasha teased.

She stood up and hung up the phone before turning to check on you. You were shivering steadily, and your eyes were looking around. There was the faintest blush to your cheeks and forehead and your lips were looking slightly less chapped.

“W-what’s the w-word, bird?” You asked, looking up to meet her eyes.

“We’re stuck for a few days,” Natasha sighed as she sat on the sofa opposite you. Unlike you, she could heat up quickly. Now the cold was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“So basically,” you started, “they’re leaving me to die.”

“No one is leaving you to die,” Natasha huffed, rolling her eyes.

“Yes they are.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Natasha shook her head. “You have every blanket in the house wrapped around you, how are you not warming up?”

“Because I can’t warm up like that and you know it,” you groaned before falling back against the mountain of blankets.

“I’m not putting up with this right now,” Natasha said, all concern from earlier gone. “Give me a blanket, I’m going to get some sleep.”

“Take the one off the top,” you pouted, “it’s not helping much anyway.”

Natasha walked over and grabbed the blanket you had mentioned, pretending not to notice the ice and pebbles still currently sticking to your gills. You looked absolutely miserable, and she felt a pang in her chest at the sight of your shivering frame.

But she couldn’t bring herself to say anything, instead just turning around and heading off to the one bedroom. She was going to get some sleep if it was the last thing she did.

Or so she thought.

Natasha woke up to darkness and a cold starting to seep through the blanket and her thermals. She planted her feet on the freezing floor and took a deep breath, not really prepared for the fact that the power was out, and she was going to need to watch you at all times to make sure you genuinely didn’t die.

She grabbed her blanket and the two pillows off the bed and made her way to the living room. There was a flickering glow on the walls, and she walked in to see you sitting in front of the space heater and a fire. The generator was more quiet than she had expected, but it still released a constant thrum throughout the safe house.

“When did-” Natasha cut herself off, her eyes having locked onto the bloody gauze and minuscule shrapnel pieces littering the floor.

“About three hours ago,” you replied, either ignoring her hesitation or not caring. “You were out for about seven.”

“Did Maria call?” Natasha asked, trying to walk around you without seeming obvious.

“Yeah,” you nodded. Natasha could see your eyes focused on your abdomen, shaky hands moving deftly. “Said the storm would last for about two day from the time she called.” You looked up with a raised brow. “And that she loves you.”

Natasha finally got a good look at what you had been doing while she was asleep. A jagged piece of metal was sticking out of the left side of your abdomen. There were numerous blood spots on the remainder of your suit, and some bloody tweezers and towels were on the floor in front of you.

“What happened?” Natasha asked, eyes still zeroed in on your side.

“From the blast,” you shrugged before looking back down to continue picking shrapnel out of your skin.

The blast? Natasha hadn’t gotten any kind of injury from the situation, aside from a headache and maybe some oxygen deprivation, but she didn’t recall anything hitting her. Why had it hit-

Oh.

Oh of course.

She was torn. She wanted to help, was desperate to fix you up so you wouldn’t hurt or bleed. But it would have been crossing a line; you never wanted anyone’s help. On top of that, anyone’s hands on your skin made you uncomfortable.

But you were doing such a bad job.

“Give it to me,” Natasha said. She held her hand out as she sat down beside you, already using her other hand to start taking the blankets off of your shoulders.

You huffed and started grumbling to yourself, but handed the tweezers over anyway. She finally made it down to your skin and found the true culprit of the metal sticking out of your side; an entry wound on your back, near your left shoulder.

“You pushed it forward so you could reach it, didn’t you?” Natasha asked as she got to work on the piece, picking smaller pieces out as she found them.

“Does it matter?” You asked. Natasha didn’t answer, instead just pushing the piece out of your skin and ignoring the hiss of pain you sent her way.

“Hand me the first aid kit,” Natasha demanded. You grumbled again but did as you were told.

It was quick work patching you back up; your low blood pressure was very beneficial in the moment, and she wasn’t worried about you bleeding out before you could get back to the tower. You wouldn’t be comfortable, but at least you would be safe.

Once she was sure you weren’t going to ooze through the gauze, Natasha gathered the bloody articles and got up to throw them away. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see you pulling the blankets back over your shoulders, wincing every now and then when you twisted the wrong way.

When Natasha got back and sat down on the sofa, she just watched you. Watched your slowed breathing, the occasional shiver, the inaudible groan when you shifted. You looked miserable, but at least you were breathing and talking.

“I’m bored.”

Maybe she didn’t like that you were talking.

“Then you’re going to have a rough few days,” Natasha answered.

“But I’m bored,” you whined. “Help me not be bored.”

“You’re an adult, find something to do,” Natasha shot back. She got up and walked over to the bookshelf, leafing through things that she knew she wasn’t going to read, but was hoping it would give you the idea to find something.

“If I get too bored then I’ll die,” you sighed. “Do you want me to die?”

Natasha turned her head slowly and raised her brow at you.

“How dare you,” you whispered.

She turned her head back to the bookshelf so you wouldn’t see the smile desperately trying to show on her face. Your sounds of indignation continued to reach her ears, so she hurriedly picked the next book her fingers touched and walked back to the couch.

You both sat in silence for a while, and Natasha actually managed to get some reading done. She had no idea what the story was actually about, but that didn’t matter. All that really mattered was that she was killing time, and if she killed enough time then it would be time for her to go back home and forget any of this had ever happened.

“Nat, I’m bored,” you said again after more silence.

“I already told you to find something to do,” Natasha replied without looking up from her book. “I’m not going to find something for you.”

“Fine,” you grumbled as you pushed yourself up from the floor. “I’ll do it myself.”

Natasha sighed but let you go. She didn’t look up, but she was still hyper aware of where you were in the safe house. Aware of each step you took, of each cabinet you opened. Just knowing where you were gave her a sense of comfort.

“Wanna play a game?” You shouted from the other side of the safe house.

It was going to be a long few days.

———

“Connect four,” Natasha said as she slid her red chip into place. Again.

“Connect four my ass, you fucking cheater,” you said as you tried to find out just where Natasha had cheated.

“How do you cheat at connect four?” Natasha asked, a smile threatening to show through her facade.

“I don’t know, but you did,” you said, pointing your finger at her. In turn, Natasha just chuckled and took another sip of her vodka.

Two empty bottles were on the kitchen counter.

“I demand a rematch,” you said again, giving her a deathly stare.

“You’ve been saying that for the past 37 matches,” Natasha said simply.

“Fine, then we’ll play another game,” you said quickly. “We’ve got… Clue, Monopoly, Parcheesi.”

“We’ve played all of those, Y/N,” Natasha pointed out.

“Doesn’t matter, we’ll play them again and again until I win and you stop cheat-”

The sound of the generator shutting down made the both of you fall silent. Almost instantly, Natasha noticed the cold soak into your bones and your body start shaking. Your teeth clattered and you instinctively pulled the blankets tighter.

“That’s not good,” Natasha whispered. Her voice seemed to echo in the now-silent house.

“It’s cold, Talia,” you shivered. You sounded like a scared little kid.

It broke Natasha’s heart.

She didn’t know if it was the butterflies or the alcohol, but she ignored the feeling in her stomach and moved over until she was sitting directly next to you. Her hand lifted the blankets up so she could get under them, and then found her arms wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you against her.

Your body was tense against her, but it relaxed quickly once you were settled. There was a peace about you that Natasha hadn’t felt in months, since before that mission so long ago. And your body relaxed against hers gave Natasha more peace than she could ever hope to get with anyone else.

“You’re ridiculously warm,” you mumbled from under the blankets.

“It’s a gift,” Natasha teased. You chuckled, but then sat up and switched the positions, pulling Natasha into your lap.

“You’re warmer this way,” you mumbled as you laid your head against her neck. Your breath tickled her skin.

Sitting in your lap was a dangerous place to be.

“We can’t do this,” Natasha said softly.

“We’re still on a mission,” you said, your lips moving against her skin. “It doesn’t count if it’s on a mission.”

“You know that’s not true,” Natasha said. You lifted your head and looked at her.

She could see the flush in your cheeks, going down your neck and tinting your gills. There was a darkness to your eyes, reminiscent of the inky water you two had escaped from. And just like that water, they pulled Natasha in. Pulled her in and held her captive as they engulfed her completely until there was nothing else but her and the water.

“It can be,” you whispered, moving in slowly.

“Don’t kiss me,” Natasha said so softly, her voice more like the ghost of a whisper.

“Say it like you mean it,” you said, now only a fraction of an inch away.

“I can’t,” Natasha whispered around the knot in her throat.

She could feel your breath on her lips, could feel the way your fingers were digging into her thigh and hip. The fire left a warm glow on your face, illuminating the scars, the shaved hair that was starting to grow back in, the sparkle of the inviting water in your eyes.

And Natasha wanted to dive in.

Until the rumble of a quinjet landing nearby shocked her out of her trance. She pushed herself off of your lap, rushing to the door as quickly as possible and throwing it open to see Maria standing on the cargo door.

“Need a lift?” Maria asked over the roar of the quinjet.

“And a medic,” you said, suddenly appearing behind Natasha. You had ditched the blankets and were standing tall, although Natasha could see the slight shake in your hands.

“Lucky for you, we’ve got both,” Maria said with a smile, ushering for the both of you to hop in.

Natasha got in first and looked back to help you in, but you ignored her outstretched hand and crawled in on your own, face scrunched in pain as your wounds pulled. You didn’t look at her when you passed, instead heading straight to the medic and letting him get a look at your injuries.

You ignored Natasha the entire trip home.

Natasha swore everyone on the jet could hear her heart explode the same way the underwater base had.

[aggravatetheaxe]

BO SINCLAIR X READER - Coming In From the Rain

Safe for work, a fluffy scenario I just had in my head. Cut for length. I thought this could easily go the way of Porphyria's Lover but I decided not to do that to y'all.

Soundtrack: Rain; Nobody Lives Without Love; Braille

Words: 1,161

Masterlist

***

The sky was a steely gray outside the kitchen window, clouds roiling. A sheet of rain traveled through the trees, about to hit Ambrose, and you couldn't help but relax at the sight of it.

You loved rain. The sound, the smell, the way it was always pleasantly warm this far south. You put down the sandwich you'd been in the process of making and cranked one of the windows open, letting the scent of damp soil fill the kitchen. You leaned against the counter, closing your eyes and letting every one of your muscles relax in response.

A jingling from the back door drew your attention, a noise you knew well at this point. You smiled and turned in time to see Jonesy come in, shaking herself off. She must have been exploring a ways out. She loved the outdoors, but she was a bit of a rain diva.

"Hey, baby girl." You held your hand out as she pranced to your side. "Eugh, you stinky."

You relaxed even further as she nudged her head under your hand. You smiled and scratched her between the eyes, then offered a piece of cheese from your sandwich. Her eyes lit up, and she grabbed it and brought it into the adjacent living room.

Just a light layer of garlic aioli—Bo still called it mayo—and your sandwich was done. Plate in one hand, sweet tea in the other, you joined Jonesy in the living room, settling down on the old sofa.

When you were finished your lunch, you sprawled out, closing your eyes and simply listening to the rain and the faint sound of the radio in the other room. You heard Jonesy yawn, then felt the sofa shift as she jumped up to curl into a ball between your knees. As your thoughts drifted, you pet her flank with your foot.

Bo was out today. You'd warned him it was going to rain. You knew he fucking hated the rain. He hadn't listened, though, insisted he needed some "peace and quiet" down at the garage—which usually just meant he was in an ass mood and needed alone time. At least he was learning to remove himself from situations that would make him lose his temper.

Thinking about him made you smile. He was vicious, a killer, and yet you woke up next to him every morning feeling energized. Like you were finally somebody. How fucked up was that? You knew it made you a terrible person, but you hardly cared.

Maybe you were broken. Maybe you didn't mind. Lord knew he was, too.

Jonesy's breath evened out against you, her head heavy against your knee. Your thoughts meandered—snatches like smoke, and then nothing at all as you drifted off, too.

You weren't sure how long you'd been sleeping when the sound of heavy boots on the front steps woke you. You sat up blearily, blinking to clear your eyes as the door swung open.

A blast of warm ozone and fresh air woke you up more fully. Bo stomped into the house, shaking off his boots. He was wearing a roomy fleece jacket over his Dickies, looking ridiculous. That was more of a Vincent look ... it must have been the only coat he could find.

When he noticed you, his shoulders sunk, and he blew out a puff of air. He looked like a grumpy little boy forced to come in from playing, standing there soaked to the bone. "S'rainin' out."

You couldn't help but smirk. "I can see that."

He loosed another frustrated breath, shrugging out of his fleece. "I need a towel."

That was his "polite" way of saying Make yourself useful and get me a towel. You slid off the couch, much to Jonesy's chagrin, and retrieved one from the laundry room.

He took it from you, rubbing it furiously over his hair. Momentarily, he paused, eyeing Jonesy. "Why the hell'd you let her get on the couch? She's all wet."

"I like snuggling with her." You looked back. "Jonesy, off."

Jonesy slid off the couch slowly and curled up on the rug, then sighed heavily, as if you had inconvenienced her greatly.

You turned back to Bo. "I told you it was gonna rain."

"Yeah, yeah." He wrinkled his nose at you, passing by and throwing the towel on the pool table. "You were right, I was wrong, I get it." With a sigh, he eased into a chair and began to unlace his boots.

You approached, gently brushing his hands away with your foot before kneeling to untie them for him.

His face twisted in frustration. "I can do it myself. I'm not a little kid."

"Okay." You sat back on your haunches. "Sorry."

After a moment, his brow smoothed, and he sat back with a sigh. "It's ... fine. Go ahead. If you wanna."

You reached forward again, undoing his laces and sliding his boots off, then standing to go set them near the heating vent. "It's gonna rain the rest of the day. You should stick around, take the afternoon off."

Bo paused for an extended moment. "Yeah."

"You wanna watch a movie or something?"

Another long pause. "I guess." This time, he sounded more skeptical. But his next request was tired, almost vulnerable: "Gimme a beer?"

You wandered over to the VHS collection near the TV, scanning the titles. You settled on an old tape of some Dukes of Hazard—stupid, but you knew it was a comfort show for him. You popped it in, then went to the fridge to get his beer.

By the time you came back, he was already sprawled on the couch just like you had been. You cracked the can of Bud open and handed it to him.

He took a sip, then wordlessly, expectantly gestured for you. You couldn't hide your smile as you crawled between his legs, laying yourself against his chest. He still smelled like the outdoors, as well as sweat and his deodorant, and you didn't mind the dampness of his shirt.

Other hand at the small of your back, he simply relaxed like that for a while, until eventually his eyes glazed over and he set the beer can aside. Every inch of him was pressed against you, but the last thing on either of your minds was sex.

He'd been all about it when you'd first gotten together—every night, whenever he could get his hands on you, trying to claim you as his. But you'd learned eventually that that was just as much a performance as anything else. He was extraordinary, but he was still human: overall, Bo was tired, and angry, and sometimes just needed a damn nap.

Eventually, his breathing evened out under you. You glanced up to see that he had drifted off. Affection swelled in your chest as you reached for him, running your fingers through his still-damp curls.

Monster. Asshole. Human. Breakable.

Broken.

[townofcrosshollow]

COAGULA - CHAPTER 2

Genre: Post apocalyptic, queer horror

Content warnings: Body horror, PTSD, violence, sexual content

Word count: 1,333

CLICK HERE TO START AT THE BEGINNING

Sloane gathered her meager posessions and told her landlord to fuck off. It was time to enter the city market for hopefully the last time to stock up on supplies with this stranger.

In the harsh light of the desert sun, she finally got a good look at them. Their skin was pale beneath the layers of black fabric that pooled over their bony body. They had these long, well maintained fingernails painted a bright white with black lines down the center, and those lines continued down the fingers as tattoos before meeting at a crescent moon on the back of their hand. Their cracked lips were curled into an almost imperceptible smile- not a sinister one, although it was hard to tell with black cloth draped over their eyes. Layered over the loose mask was a beaded cord with dangling threads along its length, wrapped through holes punched in old world coins. There was a slight jingle while they walked. Like change in a pocket.

Walking down a rickety staircase from the precariously perched building with the stranger in tow, Sloane set off towards the market. The stranger followed her as she weaved between scrap metal buildings and groups of people, climbing up sets of concrete steps and jumping down from platforms. They didn't struggle to keep up despite their unweildy robes. The bullet wound in her side probably didn't help. She could have lost this person in a heartbeat before, but now she was only barely maintaining a pace ahead of them.

As the two ventured through the city, the person shrouded in dark clothing proffered a question. "What is your name?"

"Couldn't figure that one out?" Sloane slowed down a bit, allowing the stranger to overtake her so they could speak more easily. "It's Sloane, no last name. You?"

"I am called Whisper." The stranger paused for a moment, and the rustling of coins clicking together rose over the din of the streets. "I also have no last name, I suppose."

"That a nickname? Or did your mama really name you Whisper?"

"Yes." Whisper did not clarify further, and Sloane did not bother to ask.

The market in here was often crowded, perhaps because it was the only place within half a day's travel to get food and water. Sunlight beat down on the exhausted people, only shielded from it by clouds of dust kicked up in their wake and tattered cloth stretched between tall poles. It shaded the outdoor stalls where folks stood but did little to protect crates full of sub-par looking produce and salted meat from the intense heat. They were all arranged on raised platforms that descended into the center like a bullseye, and Sloane made her way around the outside of the uppermost ring to one store in particular.

The vendor here was a little better protected than the average, his counter formed from a window cut into one of the wooden buildings on this level. An awning in red and white striped cloth stretched out beyond it to shield him when the sun rose. Inside, it was hard to see the stock through the relative darkness, but Sloane knew what it was- all sorts of supplies, everything from fabric to food to weaponry.

Tom was leaning out over the wood counter, giving her a nonchalant stare and barely glancing at the person she had in tow. "About time you showed back up, beautiful. Missed me?"

She rolled her eyes. Every week, this song and dance. It was sarcastic, of course- with her dark skin cracked and mottled with scars and her body stocky and functional, Sloane wasn't winning any beauty contests. Not that she particularly minded. And he was well aware that he wasn't her type, so to speak. "Don't be a smartass. You know I'm not here because of your personality."

The man put on an exaggerated frown. "You only want me for my body?"

Flipping him off, Sloane gestured with her head to her confused companion. "I've got a charge who's in need of some supplies for a pretty long trip. Hoping you can convince us not to shop elsewhere."

"Hello, stranger," Tom called over to Whisper with a salute and a nod. "I am at your service. Your wish is my command. Depending on the wish, of course."

"Do you take shiny objects as payment?" Whisper asked, their head cocked to one side.

Before Tom had a chance to respond, Sloane cut in, shooting him a knowing look. "Yeah, he does."

Tom knew well enough to trust Sloane not to screw him over. "I take whatever's worth money. Whatever I can resell, of course." That didn't stop him from raising an eyebrow at his customer, unsure what exactly her payment was meant to be.

"It'll take a couple days worth of rations to get down to the next reliable market," leaning against the wooden counter to sneak a better look behind the shopkeep. Sure enough, it was still there- gleaming bright in the sun and left in a place of honour on a high shelf, a mahogany and gunmetal sniper rifle. The adjustable bipod, the incredible scope, the suppressor that wasn't shoddily put together out of scrap metal. It was untarnished, like it had been manufactured yesterday and placed up there to be admired. She knew how much Tom was asking for it, because Lord knows she'd asked about it more times than she could count. "How much for the rifle," she muttered again.

He didn't even bother to answer, instead countering it with a fair question. "How much is that charge of yours paying you?"

"They are paying what I charge," she responded. Not inaccurate, but certainly not truthful.

Whisper, hearing this, walked up a little closer to join the conversation. Standing at that counter right across from him they were altogether too close to the shopkeeper for comfort, prompting him to take a step or two back. They reached beneath their robes again to demonstrate the riches they were sitting on- that flickering cracked screen prompted a wide eyed expression from Tom as the stranger muttered, "I am paying her with these. I can do the same for you. They are of no use to me."

Sloane raised her eyebrows at Tom, proposing a sort of 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' arrangement. Get her that rifle, and she'd ensure he got paid adequately. After a moment he piped up, waving the woman back into his shop. "C'mon, show me what you're looking to get and we'll discuss the price once I've got it all together for you." It was a transceparent farce, although Whisper didn't seem to notice. They had started fiddling with a pendant hanging around their neck, ignoring Tom and Sloane completely.

As soon as she stepped through the door back into the shop and out of earshot of the client, Tom grabbed her arm and pulled her close. He hissed in her ear, "What are you doing, taking a job for just a couple? They don't even know what those things are worth. Let's just take 'em all."

There was a long pause, long enough to get awkward and step back and eye each other up. Sloane finally responded. "That's a little fucked up."

"If we don't take them, somebody else is going to."

"Yeah, that's fucked up, man." She eyed the rifle again, stepping a bit closer. "You don't just steal shit from people. Even if they're... weird."

"How is it any different from what you were going to do? Charge them double or triple or who knows how much extra? Is it fairer because you're lying to their face?"

Sloane pursed her lips. She reached up and plucked the rifle from the shelf, hefting it over her shoulder with a defiant glare. "I'll get you one. For this." Turning to walk out, she muttered, "You ain't doing a very good job convincing me not to shop elsewhere."

[starlessea]

𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Chapter 2. Manic Pixie Dream Bitch

A/N Make sure you read the prologue and other chapters first! Things are starting to pick up - I hope you stick around for the ride.

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 5374

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury, Domestic abuse mentions

The evening was cool, and a breeze hung in the air.

The midday Georgia heat had all but melted away, leaving behind tepid winds that rustled leaves on the trees — and the canvas tents. They fluttered around you as you walked, like the beating of butterfly wings, or ripples atop the ocean.

It was peaceful. It felt safe.

All eyes were on you as you followed Daryl to the firepit, taking a seat on a low log beside him — but not too close.

The night was still too young to turn in yet, so the man had begrudgingly led you out of his tent when the silence became stifling. For some reason, conversation didn't come as naturally to the two of you as it once had.

There was tension there. You could feel it.

But you didn't have the slightest clue why. The last time you had seen Dixon, it was in the midst of a tremendous thunderstorm. The two of you had laughed, and ran through the rain until your clothes were soaked through, and your skin was cold.

It was one of the best nights of your life.

Yet, here you were — sitting beside the man in stagnant silence as he kicked at coal embers with his boot, and pretended not to feel your stare seeping into the back of his head.

Across from you were the people you had briefly met earlier — the two officers by the names of Shane and Rick, or helicopter boy — the asian man named Glenn, and Carol who was sitting beside her husband. Their individual conversations were low, barely audible against the crackling fire, but one-by-one they seemed to filter off, until there was nothing but silence once again.

Shane stood up.

He stoked the fire a little with a branch, careful not to let the flames rise too high. "So, tell me," the man spoke, his voice wide and assertive,"how's a sweet young thing like yourself figure out how to fly a Sikorsky Hawk?"

His presence was big.

It made you shuffle in your seat as his eyes dragged down you, resting on your arm — which was bound by a sling. "Well, minus the landing part," he murmured below his breath.

You didn't like the way he smirked when he said that, like it had been amusing to him — funny to him that you'd almost died. Daryl let out a sound beside you, a low rumbling noise from the back of his throat that only you could hear. But you didn't bite to his words.

After all, men like that could only bark.

"I was in the military," you answered, meeting his eyes and not breaking the stare.

Your throat was still sore, but your words rang out clear, atop the thrum of the evening air, and flickering flames. Shane stuffed his hands in his pockets, and rocked back on the balls of his feet — as though he was putting on some type of show.

"Air force, then?" he questioned, but it was starting to feel more like an interrogation.

You caught the whites of Carol's eyes across from you, as they darted between the officer and yourself, and to her husband, then back to the other officer. She seemed as skittish as a person could possibly be — just watching, waiting, for something to happen.

You cleared your throat and forced a smile. "Training to be," you clarified.

For some reason, the exchange didn't feel like a conversation. The mood was too tense, too untrusting. It reminded you of the few minutes you'd spent alone with Dixon, back at his tent.

Something felt wrong.

Shane stalked around the firepit, his police boots crunching against the leafy bed, and kicking up dirt where he walked. He stopped directly in front of you, looming a shadow down onto you and Daryl — and making the other man scoff as he looked up.

"So not actually a pilot yet?" Shane smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Your smile faltered, he was asking too many questions.

The other officer, Rick, took off his sheriff's hat and tracked his partner's movements with his eyes, as though anticipating something that hadn't happened yet. It made you feel a nervousness you were ashamed of.

You never did play well with men like Shane.

"And tell me this," he said, lowly, as he crouched down to your level, "why aren't you at Fort Benning?" He looked back over his shoulder, at Rick who was sitting stiff as a board, before cocking his head back to you."Or were you part of the group that showered Atlanta with napalm?"

The word hung heavy in the air — even though he had practically whispered it.

Your mind flickered back to the day it rained fire down upon the city, to the sounds of screams, and the charred remains you'd stumbled across on the occasions you wandered too close to the centre.

You shook your head immediately, feeling the pain shoot up your shoulder. "I had no part in that," you hissed — much more viciously than you anticipated.

As soon as the words left your mouth, you curled in on yourself. You didn't miss the way the man recoiled slightly from your face, and you'd even caught a fleeting glimpse of your reflection in the blacks of his irises.

You wore a look of pure disgust.

"I was discharged," you whispered, after taking a few moments to collect yourself. "Couple months before all this." You glanced to your right, to where the former mechanic was sitting — trying to pretend like he wasn't watching you. "Got sent to Georgia afterwards, which is where I met Daryl," you explained, noticing his eyes narrow at your words. "Briefly."

He looked away. He didn't seem to like that choice, either.

Shane stood back up, stretching out his knees, and then his neck. He rolled his head back in a circle, before glancing to and from you and Daryl with a smirk.

"Makes sense," he murmured, before turning on his heels to walk away, "dropouts tend to stick together, no?"

And for the second time today, Dixon went wild.

The tension finally snapped, like an elastic band having been stretched to its limit, and Daryl shot up to his feet, lunging for the man.

But you reached out for him at the same time, trying to grab his hand so that the night didn't end in the way you were almost certain it was going to end.

After all, you'd only seen Daryl go off once before — back in the old world — which had left an aftertaste of bloodstains over your bar, and maroon-tinted bruised knuckles that needed tending to well after your closing time.

But now he seemed even worse — more tightly wound than a coil beneath your boot, always ready to jump up and spring.

He was playing the part of a man far more angry than you had ever known him to be.

Although you still couldn't figure out why.

The ticking of the wall clock was stark against the silence. Joe's Bar had been cleared out more than an hour back, but the two of you remained — like ghosts haunting whiskey bottles and looming around the jukebox until it played a song you liked.

Dixon hissed as you tipped alcohol over his knuckles, watching as it seeped into the cuts and spread over his bruises like a clear film. They weren't that bad, really — only a purplish hue to them.

After all, you'd seen the other guy.

But you'd never seen Dixon get so riled up before. He'd always been a cocktail of shy glances and dumb wonder around you. That was until tonight at least, when a drunken customer slapped your ass at the bar, and the mechanic beat him bloody.

He'd probably seen how rattled it had made you, and how you looked ready to either snap or break.

"Ya don' have to do this," the man rasped, purposefully avoiding your eyes. "Save the vodka."

Your hand stilled over his knuckles, as you breathed in the strong, sharp scent which made your lungs burn. You laughed, pointing back over your shoulder at the shelves atop of shelves — stacked with an array of bottles, all different shapes and sizes.

"We've got plenty to spare, don't you worry," you hummed, before tipping more Smirnoff onto a cotton pad. "And you didn't have to do that, either," you chided, narrowing your eyes at a particular cut — which had already begun to crust over. "I could've handled him."

The mechanic scowled, glancing back over his shoulder to the place where it had all gone down — as though watching the scene play out once more in his mind.

He shook his head. "Ya could'a lost yer job."

"I'm used to that by now," you bit back, not once looking up from his bruise-splayed knuckles. "But Dixon," you cautioned, "don't go doing that again."

A car drove by outside, its headlights streaming in through the window and illuminating the dark husk of the bar — the pool tables that had been otherwise cloaked in shadows, and the expression of the man sitting opposite you, studying your every word.

"Joe might bar you next time," you whispered, screwing the lid back onto the bottle.

But Dixon only laughed.

"Barred from a bar?" he scoffed, stretching out his fingers to inspect your work, "he ain't gonna do tha'."

The stool squeaked as the man stood up, dusting off his jeans and retrieving his jacket. It was long past midnight, and you knew you'd be catching a ride back with him as he sped down the streets, reminding you to hold on tighter.

"What makes you so sure?" you teased, untying your apron and leaving it at the end of the counter.

Daryl held the door open, and fished around in his pockets for something that jingled — pulling it out to show you.

It was a set of car keys, with a tacky coke-bottle charm hanging from them.

"Still got his truck sittin' in the shop," he smirked.

The scuffle between Shane and Daryl was interrupted before blows could even be exchanged. Rick grabbed a hold of his partner, whilst you pulled the former mechanic back down to his firepit seat, trading places with him until you were face-to-face with the other asshole — a few inches shorter but a whole lot more pissed.

Daryl tried to stand back up again, but you flashed those eyes at him — the ones that made him immediately second guess the action.

"Sit down," you seethed, punching out each word as you spoke them.

And surprisingly, Dixon did as you said.

You weren't angry at him, exactly, but you didn't want him fighting your battles for you anymore — especially not whilst he had a chip on his shoulder more noticeable than the sling on yours.

Then you turned back to Shane, looking up at him as he stood with his chest almost flush to you, completely ignoring Rick's pleas behind him. He knew exactly what he was doing. That comment wasn't off-handed — he made sure you could hear it.

"I don't like you," you said lowly, not backing down from the glare he shot your way.

You didn't want things to turn out like this. There was nothing more you hated than making a scene.

Well, there was one thing, you thought.

You couldn't fucking stand men who abused their power.

"Don't have to like me, princess," Shane retorted, reaching out a hand in your direction. "I'm just here to keep you alive."

You smacked his palm away — as though it were a fly buzzing much too close — before he could make contact with your skin. And you saw red.

Daryl would have punched a man for less, if you'd so much as given him the right look. But this time, you shot a warning glance at him, telling him to stay put.

"Don't fucking touch me," you whispered, but your words held more weight than if you'd screamed them — and Shane retracted his hand. "I can take care of myself."

Except, he made a point of letting his eyes drag over your injuries, lingering on the makeshift sling, before settling on your stomach — as though he could see your stitches underneath the material of Daryl's shirt.

"Clearly," he remarked, before turning on his heels once again.

Nobody stopped him this time — not even Rick — as he stalked around the fire, and into the night. You caught a glimpse of his metal dog tags as he did, glinting off the light of the flame and jumping around his neck with every step he took. You thought it was ironic for him to even wear them.

Or maybe not.

After all, he seemed the same as every other military man you'd encountered — a goddamn animal.

"Make sure you take care of your manic pixie dream bitch," he yelled, probably directed at Dixon. "Wouldn't want anymore helicopters fallin' from the damn sky."

And so Shane disappeared into his tent — into the shadows you couldn't quite make out — and Daryl stood up straight after, heading in the opposite direction. The remaining group was uneasy, tentative almost, as they watched your head whip back and forth between them and the mechanic as he left.

Dixon stalked away into the brush, despite the shouts and warnings not to stray too far from the campsite.

And you followed him.

With each step further from the flickering flames of the bonfires, it became harder to navigate the night. Your injuries had slowed you down, and you flinched every time a twig snapped, or leaves rustled near your ear. You didn't even have a weapon anymore — since it had burnt up with the rest of your gear in the crash.

But it didn't take you long to track down Dixon. After all, his smoke trail gave him away.

He was sitting on a grassy bank, over facing the quarry waters. There was a full moon out, and you could now see it peering above the tops of the trees — ghostly white against the stark, black sky. And cigarette smoke swirled around it, leading back down to the shadowy figure on the ground, legs tucked up to his chest as he breathed deeply.

You approached, wincing as your shoulder caught on a low-hanging branch.

"Yer gonna bust ya stitches messin' 'round like tha'," Dixon spoke, not even turning around to confirm it was you. But still, he outstretched a hand, helping you sit down beside him.

The moonlight was beautiful. It drizzled over the treetops in the distance, and the spindly branches that reached up to the sky. It even reflected off Daryl's skin as you glanced at him in the corner of your eye — watching as the smoke poured out from his lips and settled in the air.

You tucked yourself into his side just a little, missing the heavy feeling of your jacket which smelt like him — and was almost just as warm. Part of you expected him to shrug you off, or make some remark in-keeping with how withdrawn he'd been throughout the day.

But, he didn't.

He let you sit beside him, as he blocked you from the breeze — as though you weren't the one person who would be used to it.

"Got a spare?" you asked, eyeing his packet of cigarettes.

Dixon hesitated for a second, before placing them down in the space between you. "Thought ya didn't smoke," he replied.

You shook your head and laughed. "I don't."

In truth, you'd only recently taken up the habit — smoking much too scarcely to even call it a habit, really. It had all started when you'd stumbled across a rundown convenience store, and looted a packet of cigarettes without thinking — just because they were the brand that Dixon smoked.

The first time you lit one, you'd cried. They smelt like him.

They'd smelt like your only friend, and reminded you of just how lonely the end of the world was. So, you started to smoke — only when you missed him — and you continued because, even though he was now sitting beside you, for some reason you still felt empty.

Neither of you said anything after that, but you could hear his thoughts — those questions he wanted to ask but didn't. After all, he'd voiced them once before, back before the world ended. Except, it was you who wasn't willing to answer.

"What'd ya do tha' got yer ass sent here?" Dixon asked, one day whilst you were hanging around at the auto-shop, watching him scrub down that Honda bike. "Y'know, locked away in rural Georgia."

You laughed at his words, taking a swig from the ice cold cola you'd skimmed from Dean's fridge.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I was training to be a helicopter pilot," you admitted into the air, answering that question truthfully for the first time.

But he'd already guessed — after the day you'd both had.

"Why didn't it work out?" Daryl mumbled, the cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke the words.

You watched as the smoke formed white clouds against the black night, before finally reaching for the packet yourself.

"Fear of heights," you told the man, letting out a breathy chuckle that blew out the lighter's flame.

It was a lie, but the truth was much more bleak.

Though, perhaps that was what nights like this were for. Out here, there was no one else to hear you speak your thoughts, or even see the two silhouettes sitting in the dark. Maybe you could even start trusting the man called Daryl Dixon, since he'd done nothing but pick you up and set you back onto your feet ever since you fell from the sky — and even some time before that.

"No matter how long I would fly for, I always had to land at some point," you explained, though it didn't really sound like much of an explanation. "But the people on the ground made me wish that I never had."

Daryl met your eyes, and in that moment you swore you saw a glimpse of that former mechanic — the one who was street smart but still clueless to people.

"That was until I met a man at a garage who promised to show me the world on his bike," you smiled, before letting the smoke trail from your lips, "but we ended up watching the stars instead."

Dixon didn't smile back.

And somehow, the smoke on your lips tasted more familiar — felt more like Daryl — than the man sitting beside you.

"Ya can take the tent tonight," he mumbled, snuffing his cigarette butt out on the grass.

You pulled a face, but he didn't retrieve it like he normally would — he probably thought there was nothing left in the world worth preserving anymore.

"And what about you?" you asked, making an expression he couldn't even see. "You should rest up before tomorrow."

But the man shook his head in the dark, pushing back on his knuckles to stand up — and offering you his hand once more.

"I ain't none of yer concern," he dismissed, whilst his palm was still warm in yours, "'m gonna sleep out under the stars."

The stars were bright overhead, with no light pollution, or mysterious blinking flickers that could have been mistaken for planes of satellites. But somehow, you didn't fully believe his story.

You laughed, but it wasn't the warm kind. It was the kind that felt foreign on your tongue, because it was a far cry from the fits of giggles the man normally had you in.

"Well, enjoy the view," you replied, shortly.

But you failed to notice the way Dixon watched you the entirety of the way back to camp — as though he already was.

Once Daryl had walked you there, and left you at the tent doorway, he did indeed roll out an old blanket over the grass, to lay back underneath the stars — just as promised.

He was far enough away that he didn't feel like you were right beside him, but still close enough to make out your silhouette against the lamp-lit canvas walls of his tent. That way, he didn't have to worry about walkers — but he didn't have to worry about you, either.

The night was quiet. The full, bright moon beamed down on him like a streetlight and the stars blinked in the sky like peering sets of eyes — staring back at him whilst he looked up. Daryl sighed, and crumpled his packet of cigarettes in his fist, crushing any left inside.

He needed to stop smoking them, because now they'd become tainted by you — and had become another thing that inescapably reminded him of you.

The lingering scent of them on his fingertips alone made him remember just how intoxicating you were. It made Daryl feel like he'd gotten a high from the scent of unbottled moonshine, or from that smile of pure starlight which could make a man go blind.

Though, he'd only had the pleasure of seeing it once today. The rest of the time you'd been pissed, confused, hurt.

He'd probably caused a lot of that — he wasn't that oblivious.

But you were the type who could break his heart without even knowing, and then offer to mend it like it had been someone else who'd done the damage.

He didn't understand how you could act so nonchalant, so blasé, as though you hadn't nearly died, and as though you hadn't just come back from the dead — where Daryl had thought you'd been this entire time.

He laughed, and it almost sounded as cold as the one you'd directed at him earlier.

Merle always called him naive, but Daryl often overcompensated for the fact with blind curses and bruised knuckles from butting heads those who suspected him of being as much.

But it had been the truth.

He was naive — especially when it came to you.

But, Daryl was also angry and hurt. And he didn't know how to fix that without bruising his knuckles — or his ego.

He bit his lip, wetting away the dryness with his tongue, whilst trying not to focus on how dry his throat felt, too. Then, Daryl rested his arm over his eyes.

He didn't feel like watching the stars anymore.

When you awoke, light had filtered into the tent through the mesh netting, speckling over your face like glittering gold as you blinked.

But when you awoke, the man was gone — leaving only another shirt behind in his place.

It almost made you cry, because of how familiar it felt. It smelled like Joe's Bar, of Marlboro cigarettes, of Georgia, and of home.

But you couldn't cry; you hadn't done since the day everything fell apart. So instead, you pulled on your big-girl shirt — the one belonging to the man twice the size of you — and grit your teeth as you threaded your bruised arm through the sleeve, and caught your stitches on the buttons.

You spent the whole morning trying not to notice the glaringly obvious absence in the camp — the men who'd left in search of Merle Dixon. But at the same time, you grimaced at the sight of the ones who hadn't left, the ones like Shane, and Carol's husband — who leered at the women as they washed his fucking underwear.

"Carol, why don't you ask Ed to come and help us," Andrea remarked, glancing towards the man resting languidly by his jeep, "make himself useful instead of just standing there smoking cigarettes."

Beside you, Jacqui laughed a high-pitched laugh, as she wrung out another damp t-shirt in her fists. You had only been formally introduced to her this morning, but her smile was infectious — and for a minute, it made you forget about the anxiety deep in the pits of your stomach.

Carol was quiet, but eventually chirped up once she mustered enough confidence.

"If I knew how to get him to do that, I would have done it years ago," she muttered, and shyly rolled her eyes.

Andrea boomed out a laugh, whilst the others chimed in at the appearance of Carol's unexpected humour. You tried not to let the chuckle wrack up your body, since every slight movement sent shockwaves to your injuries. But at this moment, you didn't really mind.

Carol had a pretty smile, and an even nicer laugh.

Except, her husband didn't seem to think so.

He stalked over with the same bravado Shane had mastered the night before — probably taking inspiration from the other man who wore boots three times his size. You could make out the sneer on his face before he even got within a few steps of you all. It was just that deep.

The man flicked his cigarette in your direction, and it barely missed the toe of your boot.

"What's so funny, hmm?" he jeered, but his tone was anything but light. You didn't have to hear them twice to recognise those words as a threat. "Gotta be somethin' if it's got you ladies so distracted."

Each of the women stayed silent as a grave — as though in some secret pact Ed was unaware of. He sauntered around, weaving in between Jacqui and Andrea, until the latter eventually snapped.

"Is it really any of your business?" she remarked, frustration clear in her voice. "After all, we're the ones doing your laundry."

She thrust the damp clothes she was holding at the man's chest, before letting them fall to the floor. The moment you heard them hit the ground, your hands were already shaking with adrenaline. You knew that look — the one Ed wore — and nothing good ever came from it.

He stepped up to Andrea, his pride damper than the shirt at his feet. "Know your place, little bitch," he hissed, shoving her back with his shoulder.

And chaos broke out.

Jacqui's screams sounded very much like her high-pitched laughs had done, and Lori called for Shane like a broken record that only knew a single name. You wanted to get everyone to calm down. You wanted to diffuse the situation like how you'd been trained to do.

But all you saw was red.

Carol interjected, lacing herself around her husband's arm as she begged for him to stop. "Ed, please don't-"

The man backhanded his wife, sending her to the ground with a single strike.

And that was your queue.

You rushed over, feeling your feet sink into the pebbles deeply with each step. You had a dozen stitches in your stomach, but you would rather pop every damn one open than let him get away with that.

"You dare lay your hands on her?" you roared, approaching the man — the monster — from behind as he loomed over Carol like a shadow of cowardice.

Ed reacted out of instinct, flailing his arm backwards and hitting you across the jaw with his elbow as you tried to pull him away. Immediately, your mouth pooled with the taste of copper, and you spit it out onto the pebbled stones beneath your feet.

You looked over at Andrea, who was dumbstruck as she watched blood drizzle from your lip, before you wiped it away by the sleeve of Daryl's shirt — with your one good arm.

"Get Carol out of here," you said, so quiet that it might as well have been a whisper.

You looked at the man, sizing him up as he stared you down.

"She isn't gonna want to see this."

The evening sunset was a vibrant salmon, tinged with deeper, darker hues the further you got from the sun. Those parts of the sky were the same maroon colour as your jaw — you'd caught glimpses of it in Andrea's compact mirror.

You'd spent the latter part of the day avoiding Shane's lectures, and the women who meant well but fussed over you far too much. So, you retreated back to Dixon's tent — icing the ripe bruise on your chin with a pack from Dale's RV cooler.

The scent of Marlboro cigarettes lingered around you — faint but still present in the fibers of the blankets beneath you, and in your shirt which was now bloodstained. You tried to ignore the pull of it, not wanting to smoke.

The tent puckered as someone fumbled with it, and soon the entrance flap was unzipped — revealing Carol, who timidly ducked inside.

"We meet again," you greeted her, thinking back to how she'd tended to your wounds in this very spot, not even a full day before. "I was going to apologise for beating your husband into the ground, but I couldn't bring myself to say that I'm sorry."

You grimaced as the words left your mouth. They sounded a lot more sharp than you'd intended.

But she still smiled warmly at you, a smile that you didn't think you deserved, and shook her head. The woman sat down on her knees opposite you, coaxing the ice-pack away from your skin for a second to inspect the damage.

"I don't blame you," she said, as gentle as her touch. She smelt like citrus, and summer days as her palm ghosted over your face. "I came to thank you, actually. For being the first to stand up for me."

Your gaze dropped down to where her sleeves had risen up, revealing the yellowish bruises dotted over her arms — in the shape of fingerprints.

"Well, someone had to," you noted, sadly.

She caught the way your eyes lingered, and quickly adjusted her shirt, pulling it back down to her wrists.

"Was it really that obvious?" she chuckled, nervously.

But you felt like she already knew the answer.

Her stance was practiced, even sitting down. She wasn't at all relaxed, hovering on her knees like a small rabbit, ready to dart to safety at a moment's notice. You felt like you were looking into a mirror — one that only reflected the past.

You nodded. "When you know the signs, it is," you admitted, sitting back against Dixon's pillow. "I had my suspicions before."

She hummed in return, acting much more casually around you than she had done a mere moment before. "What gave it away?" she asked — curious more than anything.

Light streamed in through the little plastic windows on the tent, falling in a stream between you — warm against your lap.

"Your hair, for one thing," you confessed, gesturing with your free hand. "You shave it yourself? To stop him grabbing it during fights?"

She remained silent at the accusation, but her eyes gave her entirely away.

You nodded. "They always tend to stoop that low."

And Carol bit her lip in response, not pointing out how you'd done the same with your braids — keeping them tight to your scalp, not even a strand out of place.

She excused herself then, making some remark about how she best ought to go check on her husband, before letting you catch a glimpse of the brave scowl which made its way onto her face as she said it. The sun hung high in the sky as she ducked back out, almost as bright as that full moon had been the night before.

"Hey, Carol," you said, loud enough for her to still hear it, "if he gives you trouble again, don't hesitate to come find me."

The woman nodded once more, and waved you off.

"Just you wait until my good arm heals," you called after her. "My right hook's even better than my left."

Then, you winked — watching as she debated letting out the laugh she had stifled — as you recalled the actual reason that got you hauled off to Georgia in the first place.

Dishonourable discharge, my ass.

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A/N Things are picking up here! How are we feeling? We all doing good? I promise this series won’t be really angsty, so stick with me, my dears :)

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[errorpeachy]

hello Peachy～!💖

i know its too early for Christmas but i would like to request a scenario/oneshot for Killua where he and fem Reader avoiding the mistletoes at all costs like literally everywhere corner because they're inseparable together and secretly liked each other but don't want to admitted it until at last Gon had enough of it and use his fishing pool to tangled/trapped them together and then... y'know what happens right?😘

This idea was so cute and fun to write! Thanks! ~🍑💞

Pairing: Killua x Fem! Reader

Genre: Fluff

TW: Specific gender mentions

˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕝𝕖𝕥𝕠𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕖𝕗

『••✎••』

“Be careful, don’t drop it.” You said, handing Killua another glass ornament as he hung it up on the tree. He rolled his eyes, smiling playfully at you. “You act like I don’t know how to be careful.” He teased. You raised a brow, giving an equally as teasing smile. “Considering you only started celebrating Christmas when you and Gon met, you technically don’t. It’s only your second year putting up a Christmas tree, too.” You said, laughing at his embarrassment as he threw a stocking at you. “Shaddup! Idiot!” He shouted, grabbing another ornament to hang as you doubled over in laughter.

Gon rushed in, holding a handful of mistletoe as he hung it in the doorway. You eyed him, and he just gave you a playful wink, fixing it before rushing out just as quick as he came. Feeling your face heat up, you turned back to the tree as you finished putting everything on. Smiling to yourself, you plugged in the lights before high-fiving your friend. “It looks really nice!” You said excitedly. He nodded, a grin on his lips as he turned to head towards the kitchen. “I should go see how Alluka is doing with those cookies.” He muttered. You nodded, catching up with him as you two made your way towards the living room exit.

Pausing, you looked up to see the mistletoe Gon had previously hung up. “Er- you go first...” You muttered, watching as the realization hit him like a truck and made his face turn pink. He nodded slowly, walking out before you and heading into the kitchen. You watched his Snow White hair disappear past the wall before letting out a sigh. “I bet Gon did this on purpose.” You muttered.

Oh well. It seems you’ll just have to avoid your blueberry-eyed friend.

『••✎••』

Humming the jingle bells song, you walked through the hallway with arms full of wrapped gifts for your friends. Passing by the kitchen, you heard Gon whisper-yelling about something before watching you pass by. Raising an eyebrow, you shrugged before walking into the living room and kneeling to put the presents under the tree.

“Gon, shut up!” Killua whispered, tugging him away from the kitchen doorway where he was watching you. He glared at his friend, huffing as he grabbed his shoulders. “Stop being so cautious, Killua! Just go for it!” He whined, shaking him back and forth as his best friend rolled his eyes. “I don’t even think she likes me, so no, I won’t go for it.” He said, pulling Gon’s hands away from him. Pausing, Gon looked over to where his old fishing pole sat before grabbing it and heading towards the doorway. Killua, confused, followed him.

You blinked as you felt something tug your shirt. “Alluka, you can’t see the presents yet, it’s not even Christmas m- huh?” You said, stopping your train of thought as you realized that it wasn’t your friend’s little sister tugging at your shirt, but a... fishing hook?

You yelped as you were yanked backwards, slamming into someone as the wire of the fishing rod wrapped around the two of you. Surprisingly enough, you didn’t fall. Groaning, you rubbed your head. “Gon, what the hell was that for?...” You asked, pausing as you looked up to see your best friend, his face bright red. Slowly tilting your head upwards, you noticed that you two were pulled under the mistletoe together. Turning to Gon, your wide-eyed face made him grin even harder than he already was.

“Great! Now kiss!” He said, causing your face to practically burst into flames. You struggled, but to no avail. How strong was this damn wire anyways? Sighing, you looked over at Killua. “We don’t have to do thi-“ You tried to say, but you were cut off by the feeling of his lips on yours. Letting your eyes flutter closed, you kissed him back and locked your pinky with his through the strict confinements of the fishing wire.

Finally, you two broke apart after hearing Gon’s excited laugh. Tilting your head, you gave him a confused stare. He just grinned. “I’ve been waiting for this for six years! It’s about time!”

“GON!” You both yelled.

“What? I’m just being honest!”

[sokkascroptop]

traitor. (sokka x f!reader) pt 16

part 1 | part 15 | part 17

TW: blood & death. PLEASE heed these warnings

A/N: lmao you guys thought that last chapter was angsty?  

Everything had gone back to normal the next morning; it was like nothing had changed. Y/N didn’t know how to feel about it. On one hand she was grateful that they were able to go about their days like they always had, on the other hand she wished that they had achieved something more. If only Y/N could have opened her damn mouth. At which point she had to remind herself that there’s a very large possibility that Sokka liked Suki which sent her head spiraling into a completely different and unwanted direction that she avoided thinking about at all costs. What did it mean for her to like two people that might like each other? Honestly, Y/N had never realized her life was so complicated. In fact, Y/N had almost convinced herself their midnight confessions were a dream until a week later when they were flying on Appa and Sokka leaned close to her. 

“Do you think we’ll camp by a river we can skip rocks at?”

Y/N cocked one eyebrow. Sokka already knew the answer. He didn’t need her to tell him they always camped near water. “I hope so,” she replied.

The wind was howling in their ears enough that Y/N didn’t think anyone would hear but Toph scoffed from her place near the edge of the saddle. “When do you guys go out and skip rocks?”

At the sound of Toph’s voice, Aang and Katara turned to look at them. 

“Uhhh…” Sokka scratched the back of his neck nervously. 

“Sometimes when we’re not sparring we do fun things!” Y/N said defensively.

“What other fun things do you get up to?” Toph’s voice was innocent, but her face was mischievous. She knew exactly what she was asking. Y/N could hear Aang snicker from Appa’s head. 

Y/N noticed Sokka scooted farther away from her in the saddle, keeping a very appropriate distance between the two of them, his cheeks were a fiery red. She didn’t give Toph the satisfaction of an answer. Mostly because she didn’t even know what to say back. Hahah, Toph, I wish!! Y/N groaned internally at the thought. 

Y/N caught Katara’s eye from the front of the saddle. The girl narrowed her eyes at Y/N. Y/N blinked and looked towards the clouds, when she looked back Katara was still staring at her. She flicked her eyes between Sokka and Y/N in wordless conversation. You two? 

Y/N furrowed her brow, glancing at Sokka and then returning to Katara. Y/N shook her head violently. No way! 

Katara raised a solitary eyebrow and smiled. Her thoughts were clear, I don’t believe it. 

If the embarrassment of a one-sided crush wasn’t enough, now if Katara got a hold of Sokka, Y/N would get to hear him adamantly deny liking her. Y/N slid down in the saddle until her head rested on the edge. Oh endless sleep, take me now! She begged the spirits. None of them ever got back to her. 

“You guys, it’s your turn to go to town to get food.” Y/N turned around from where she was setting up her sleeping bag to look at Katara.

“Who’s ‘you guys’?” She asked.

“You and Sokka.” Aang floated a moonpeach towards Momo who snatched it out of the air and tore into it. 

Y/N groaned and flopped down on her blankets. She looked towards the sky. There was probably a few hours before sunset. “But it’ll be dark by the time we get back,” She pouted. 

“Then I guess we just won’t eat tonight,” Toph snarked. She was laying back on the bare dirt with one leg crossed over the other. Y/N kicked out her leg at Toph’s ankle making her legs fall to the ground. Toph waved a finger and a rock shot up from under Y/N’s sleeping bag, knocking her in the head. 

Y/N sucked in a sharp inhale. “Toph, I don’t care if you’re twelve and blind, I’ll still punch you in the face.”

“Do it.” Toph dared. 

A bag of coins was dropped next to Y/N on the ground before she could get up and threaten Toph properly. Katara stood above her with her hands on her hips. “Maybe the next time you mouth off,” Y/N said as she looked at Katara with a sweet grin.

She grabbed her sword and the money and at the last minute leaned over and flicked Toph on the forehead. She ran away quickly only to be tripped by a stone that wasn’t there a second before hand. 

Y/N sprawled on the ground. She lifted her head just enough to yell, “Aang, it’s not FUNNY!” 

She rolled to her feet and shot a glare back at the others who were trying to contain their laughter and went off to find Sokka who was collecting firewood. She caught him just as he was heading out of the small strip of woods they were near. 

Her eyes immediately bounced down to look at his bare arms and his bulging bicep. Y/N looked away quickly and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Hey, we’re on shopping duty.” She lifted the pouch of coins and jingled it.

“Oh. Okay, here take some.” Sokka unceremoniously dumped half of the logs he was carrying into her arms, ignoring her protests. “We’ll drop that off at camp first and then leave.”

Y/N hummed. “I don’t think I wanna go back. I pissed Toph off and I think she’s got a rock for me to stub my toe on ready and waiting.” Y/N pointed at her already scraped knee. 

Sokka chuckled. “We have to get Appa anyways, come on. I’ll protect you.” He wiggled his eyebrows. 

Y/N’s heart fluttered in her chest. Of course, she knew Sokka was just joking. “My hero,” she said sarcastically. 

---

Y/N hefted the basket in her arms and peered over the top to read the list in her hands. “Do we have everything?”

Sokka looked into her basket and then into his. “I think so. Let’s go back, it’s getting dark.” He was right; the sky was red with fading light. If they wanted to make it back to Appa before the sun set completely, they’d have to hurry. 

Y/N knew the moment they left the streets of that town something was bound to go wrong. That niggling intuition of hers, the one that made her ears ring and the hair on her neck to stand up, was at full attention. They’d reached the woods. Trees lined a small trail and up a good sized hill was Appa waiting for them in a cave. 

Y/N heard a stick snap behind her, but when she whipped her head around there was nothing there.

“What’s up?” Sokka turned his head to join her, giving her a confused glance as he swung his head around. 

“Uh, nothing. I think.” Y/N shook her head and faced forward again. She quickened her pace a touch and Sokka easily caught up with her. Y/N kept her ears pricked for the slightest of sounds around them. She worked to drown out the regular noises like the cicada-bats and the occasional badger-frog and listen for the more unusual sounds; the breaking of twigs under feet, swords being pulled from their sheaths, bowstrings being pulled back…

Then she heard it, the unmistakable sound of a heavy boot on packed dirt. Y/N turned to face them and threw her basket to the side. Damn, the dumplings and the fruit, she’d pay Katara back personally if she and Sokka didn’t die. 

“Sokka, we have a slight problem,” Y/N warned. In front of her was a short man. She could see the sword at his waist but his face was hidden by a broad brimmed hat. Only then did she realize she had seen the same man in the market. She recognized the hat from the stand where they got the fish and the stand where they had bought vegetables for Aang. 

Sokka’s back bumped into hers. “We got a slight problem from this direction too, Princess.” 

Y/N didn’t even spare a glance over Sokka’s shoulder. “Two on two wouldn’t have been so bad if you’d remembered to bring your sword,” Y/N chastised quietly. 

Sokka grumbled something intelligible and Y/N drew her sword. “Who are you? What do you want?” She shouted at the man in front of her. Slowly, Sokka began to shift around to her right side. She saw why, the man in front of them was circling the two of them. He only stopped once he reached his companion. 

“I think it’s obvious what we’re here for,” the first one said. 

Y/N sneered. “Not really. You saw us at the market, we spent almost all of our money on food. If you wanted to rob us you should have done it then.”

“They were following us?” Sokka elbowed her in the side.

“Shut up,” Y/N growled. 

“We’re here for the girl who betrayed her nation.”

---

Y/N stopped breathing. They’d found her. They’d caught her. Even with traveling to a new place everyday and the fancy clothes and the cut hair, someone still recognized her. Y/N could feel herself starting to spiral. She knew this would happen, she told them this would happen...

It was taking too long for her to say something, so Sokka stepped in. “We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The second man chuckled at them. 

“She does.” The first man had drawn his sword and pointed it at Y/N who snapped her jaw shut. “You think with that new haircut that I wouldn’t recognize you? I’d know those pretty eyes of yours anywhere.”

Y/N’s breathing quickened and a shudder rolled through her body. Who was behind the shadow of that hat? Who knew her face so well? But that wasn’t the only thought running through her mind. She was racing to think of a solution to the problem at hand. It was one on two. She had to get Sokka out of there. He wouldn’t do anything but keep her distracted. She was far too invested in his life for him to stick around. 

Y/N shoved Sokka away from her. “Go! Run and get Appa. Get the others!”

Sokka didn’t stop to question her and Y/N was oh so grateful. 

---

She went for the second man who had yet to pull a weapon. She understood why he hadn’t pulled a weapon when she got within ten feet of him and a knife sliced through the slide of her skirt, ripping the material. Lovely, she thought. A knife thrower like Mai.

The knives were thrown so hard they were almost invisible and she used all her concentration to block them and knock them down. When she got close enough, he pulled a dagger to fight her off with but he was fat and much too slow to be fighting sword against dagger. Her blade pushed cleanly through his abdomen. He fell heavily to the ground, a pool of blood pushing out from underneath him. 

Y/N smacked a hand over her mouth and willed herself not to throw up even as bile built up in the back of her throat. 

“Nicely done,” the other man said. 

Y/N gasped and let out a shuddering breath. Why was he just standing there, watching her kill his friend? 

He lifted off his hat and threw it to the side and the breath was knocked out of her all over again. “Kaito.”

---

Kaito flipped the blade over in his hand as he walked closer to her. Y/N walked backwards until she could no more. “You’re sticking to the shorter attacks like I suggested. That’s good.”

“W–why did you let me kill him!” she screamed. It had been easy. Kaito didn’t even try to help.

Kaito shrugged and looked at his dead companion. “I wanted the reward money for myself. He won’t mind.”

Kaito’s first blow nearly knocked her to her knees and she realized stupidly that this was the real deal. This wasn’t a sparring match on the ship a month ago where Kaito went easy on her; this was the two of them fighting for their lives. This was the match he had patiently explained to her, what seemed like a lifetime ago. She had to win. She could not let the others come back to her dead body in the woods. She wouldn’t make Sokka have to see that. Not after what he told her a week ago. She was not going to let his biggest fear come true. 

---

Blow by blow they were evenly matched. Y/N fighting for her life, Kaito for his honor. He talked while they fought, anything to distract her or throw her off so he could get a stab in. “We’ve been following you for a while. Heard about a little Fire Nation girl who blew up a factory. I knew that’d be you.”

“That was The Painted Lady,” Y/N grumbled as she blocked a swift uppercut. Y/N’s energy was fading fast. She felt like she was being drained by the second. She was sweating, her heart was pounding, her vision blurred with adrenaline. 

She side-stepped and allowed his sword to slice the flesh of her left arm so she could stab at his bum leg. Kaito screamed and fell, clutching his knee. Y/N kicked his sword away in a cloud of dust. She held her sword out threateningly, already beginning to back up to make a run for it. “You aren’t going to keep following us.”

Kaito chuckled darkly. “I’m never going to stop hunting you down. No one will. I’m a soldier and I follow my orders. The penalty for treason is death, and that’s what a traitor like you deserves. You don’t have long anyways,” He smirked.

Y/N saw red. Those words echoed in her head over and over. Traitor. That was her label for choosing the side of the light, the side that believed in harmony and peace. Well then, let it be. 

Kaito slumped face first into the dirt, his head lolling at an unnatural angle. Y/N’s sword was tipped with fresh blood. 

Y/N bent to retrieve his sword from the ground when a stitch tore through her side. It felt like a pulled muscle but that was not a pulled muscle when she looked down; that was a knife in her side. So that’s what Kaito meant by ‘she didn’t have long’. 

---

Y/N let out a hysterical laugh as she pulled the knife out. Blood began to seep out quickly and she vaguely wondered if she should have done that. It didn’t hurt but–woah–that was a lot of blood. The knife slipped from her fingers to the ground. That guy must have had better aim than she thought. 

---

Y/N blinked and Sokka was shaking her shoulders. Where did he come from? His mouth was forming words that Y/N could not hear.

“What?” She asked loudly. That ringing in her ears was loud.

“I was yelling at you not to pull it out!” 

“Oh.”

Sokka grabbed her jaw with one hand, forcing her to look directly at him. “Focus! Are you okay?!” 

Y/N smiled. His eyes were such a pretty blue. Like the deep ocean or the eastern sky when the sun was setting or– “I am now.”

“Yeah, okay.” Sokka peeled her fingers away from her sword and sheathed it. He wrapped her arm around his shoulder and slipped his around her waist. Y/N didn’t know why, she didn’t feel like she needed help walking. 

---

That fuzzy-brained, painless period didn’t last long. 

“Sokka,” Y/N sobbed. She grabbed onto a tree and would have slid down to her knees if Sokka hadn’t been there to catch her. Her other hand clutched her side. “I can’t–I can’t go any further.” She gasped as a sharp pain shot through her side. Every time she breathed it was worse and she was hyperventilating. She squeezed her eyes shut and a few tears leaked out. When she opened her eyes, Sokka was kneeling beside her with a very uncharacteristic serious look on his face. Y/N could have laughed if she wasn’t in so much pain. 

“Just a little farther. We have to get back to Katara.” He shook his head. “Giving up is not an option.”

“Okay, okay.” Y/N scrubbed her face. As she looked to him her chin began to wobble with an impending rush of tears. “I’m scared,” she murmured. It was not something she would normally admit but this was anything but a normal moment. Kaito’s words from the ship echoed in her mind: she had never actually had to face her own death before and now she was. 

“Me too.” Sokka’s face was stoic, but she could hear the shaking of his voice. She held out her hand that wasn’t trying to stop blood from gushing out of her side and Sokka hauled her to her feet. 

---

Y/N was pretty sure in the last one hundred yards it took to get to Appa, Sokka and Y/N tripped over every single root in that part of the forest. It was pitch black, their way only lit by the faint lines of the moon through the tree branches. 

Y/N was relying more and more on Sokka’s strength to get her back to Appa; he was half-carrying her and they were both breathing heavily. 

Appa grunted when they reached him. Y/N didn’t know the context of said grunt. Was he mad that it took them so long? Was he worried because he could smell blood? She was thinking about asking Aang if he could tell what Appa meant by the certain noises he made when Sokka snapped her out of her thoughts. 

“Y/N!” He said sharply. She looked up at him from where she was standing. When did he climb up to the saddle? Y/N started climbing up after him and Sokka reached down to help her. Her arms felt like they weighed a thousand pounds and under any other circumstances her face might have flushed pink if Sokka had grabbed the back of her thigh like he just did to haul her in. She collapsed onto her back, staring at the stars. 

Y/N was pretty sure that Sokka was talking to her but his voice was distorted like she was underwater. Every blink of her eyes lasted longer until she didn’t have the energy to open them anymore. 

Her last thought before fading to black was “Who’s Yue?”

---

Y/N woke up sweating. She automatically began kicking the blankets off, anything to get the heat away from her; she felt like she was suffocating. The motion set off a familiar pain in her left side that left her gasping for air. Finally, after she threw the last fur off, she stubbornly pulled herself to a sitting position. She looked around her. She didn’t remember falling asleep in a tent. Wait, was this Sokka’s tent?!

Y/N pressed a hand against her side, the pressure made it feel better and worse, and crawled to the tent opening. She pulled back one of the flaps just as someone was barreling in.

“Sokka?

“Y/N?”

“I thought I heard you wake up!” he exclaimed, pulling her in for a tight hug. 

Y/N wrapped her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. Her head was throbbing worse than the first time she drank rice wine. “What happened?”

Sokka ignored the question and his arms tightened around her. “How do you feel?”

“I’m...okay.” Pieces of the night before were beginning to flood back. Kaito and knives. “I am so sorry for scaring you like that.” 

Y/N pulled back from their hug. Their faces were inches apart. She could feel the heat of Sokka’s breath on her cheek. Y/N’s eyes flicker to his lips and then back up to his eyes. Slowly, she backed away from him, but Sokka had other ideas. He grasped her face with both hands pressed his lips against hers. Y/N felt her stomach drop and she squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe she was dreaming. 

He pulled back sooner than Y/N would have liked, but left his hands on her cheeks, tracing over her cheekbone lightly with his thumb. There was a dazed expression on his face. 

He immediately jerked his hands away and clasped them in his lap when he noticed her widened eyes. “I’m so sorry. Spirits! I should have asked! I just couldn’t–last night, I couldn’t leave you! I got half way back to Appa and turned around! You almost died and I almost didn’t get to tell you I liked you.” Sokka ran a hand down his face. “Well, I guess I’m telling you now.”

Y/N sat there in stunned silence. Sokka liked her. Sokka liked her. Not anyone else. Y/N was starting to wonder if she was having some type of vivid hallucination from blood loss. She studied Sokka’s face which looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot. 

“I’ll just go get the others and tell them you’re awake–” Sokka had started to stand up to leave but Y/N grabbed his hand and pulled him back down. She wasted no time in wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in for another kiss. 

“I like you too, Sokka,” Y/N mumbled against his lips.

---

A/N: Did you really think we were going to get out of this with no ‘almost dying’ action?

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[astraphel]

Yu Yu Hakusho | Botan Trope: Trapped in an Elevator 350 Words | SFW

Flash Fiction ✰ Master List ✰ Main ✰ Daily GIFs

"Oh, of course, this would happen now!" Botan yelled as the elevator jerked to a final stop halfway between floors. You tried contacting building security through the intercom, but the panic was preventing any rescue. What everyone else thought was an earthquake was something much more. But only you and Botan knew that.

"I hope Yusuke got the message in time," you said out loud. You and Botan had been undercover at a local company, the CEO of which was suspected to be a demon. Thankfully, and unfortunately, you were right. He opted to endanger everyone in the building to get away, crowding the stairwells with people desperate to escape the skyscraper.

The watch on Botans wrist jingled, and Koenma's voice poured out and echoed off the close metal walls.

"Botan! What happened!"

"Koenma, sir, we cornered the target, but he set off explosives all over the building. Nothing structural, but enough to hurt people. We're trapped in an elevator about halfway down."

"Well, get on with it; there's no time to waste! If this fugitive gets away, there's no telling the devastation he'll bring!"

"Yes, Koenma, we'd love to do that, but-"

"-zzssst- I'm sending -shhhhhh-"

"Koenma, sir?" The audio faded to a quiet hum and then cut off entirely. "It sounds like he's sending someone to help, at least," she said as she sat down.

After some time passed, you heard a sound on top of the elevator.

"Stand clear," a familiar voice said. You and Botan both laid yourselves flat on the floor. A moment later, the tip of a blade poked through the ceiling, making the lights short out. You heard the sound of metal grinding and, a second later, felt a hand on your shoulder. You could see Hiei's Jagan eye in the dark.

He glanced down at your wounds and the small pool of blood you sat in, then picked you up carefully. Botan summoned her oar and nodded at him, and you clung to his neck as he jumped back up through the top floor and out of the building in two hops.

[heavenlyhaechan]

The Pursuit of Happiness

Pairing: Ten x Gn!Reader 

Genre: strangers to friends to lovers au, fluff, a teensy tiny itty bitty basically nonexistent bit of angst, 

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: very brief mentions of stress, 

Rating: PG 

Note: happy birthday ten!!! 

The day was bright and sunny, which inconveniently contradicted your mood. You wouldn’t have to be outside for long though you reminded yourself, just long enough to get a net of clementines from the co-op down the street. This small bit of happiness would have to be enough to hold you over until finals were finished and you could finally breathe again. 

The bell on the door jingled merrily, another offensive clash with your mood. You headed straight for the produce section, your eyes watching your feet as they moved you forward. You knew your way around this little shop so well you were sure you could find what you wanted with your eyes closed. 

When you saw the last net of clementines sitting on the old wood shelf, the blue of the net complimenting the bright orange fruit, your heart leaped. Well maybe not leaped, but certainly sat up a little straighter. Your hand reached for them, but just before your fingertips could brush the netted plastic it was being snatched away by a quicker shopper. 

Your heart sunk again as you looked up to meet the eyes of the clementine stealer. His dark bangs fell into his eyes and down his neck, and a mole stared at you from under his left eye. He looked a bit confused which only proceeded to aggravate the indignation now building in your chest. 

“Uhhh,” he began, eyes moving back and forth from you to the clementines in his hand. 

“I’ll pay you for them,” you interrupted him, hands rummaging in your pockets for your wallet. 

“No no it’s okay,” he shook his head emphatically. “You can just have them.” 

It was then that you were reminded of the way you’d left your residence, half asleep after a three-hour nap that had been proceeded by your third all-nighter this week. You were in the same clothes you’d been wearing yesterday, wrinkled no doubt, with circles that made you resemble a raccoon imprinted under your eyes. 

And yet if the sympathy of this stranger meant that you got your treasured clementines, then you couldn’t complain. 

“Okay,” you took them from him. “Thank you.” 

“Sure,” he nodded amicably. “Just know that you owe me.” 

——

“Wow, there’s a lot of people here,” you said to Yuta as you took your seats. Nearly every chair in the auditorium had already been taken and people were still filing in through the double doors that led to the lobby. 

“For good reason,” he told you as he leaned back in his seat. “They’re really good.” 

You had agreed to go with him to see his friend Sicheng and his dance company perform a while ago, so long that it had almost escaped your mind today. You supposed it was a good thing that Yuta never failed to give you countless reminders for everything in your life, from a project due to an event that you had promised to attend with him months ago. 

Just as you began to flip through the program in your lap the lights in the audience went down only to be replaced by a single spotlight. A man appeared from the side of the stage to announce the upcoming performance before disappearing backstage once more. 

The dark and silence that followed made you feel like the entire audience was holding their breath. Then the red velvet curtain parted and the show began. 

——

You clung to Yuta’s arm so as not to lose him in the crowd as you wove your way through the lobby to the door marked with a neon exit sign. He had agreed to meet Sicheng outside after the performance and so there you waited, hands stuffed in your pockets to ward off the winter chill. 

Soon enough a chattering group exited the building, their stage makeup looking comical under the light of the streetlamps. 

“Sicheng!” Yuta cried as his friend emerged from within their midst to greet him. You laughed to yourself at the modest and faintly embarrassed expression on his face as Yuta began to talk his ear off about the intricacies of the show you’d just watched. 

Leaning against the brick wall of the building you watched as people hugged each other goodbye, feeling oddly out of place. Then you were met with the sight of a familiar face with a familiar mole under the left eye. 

“I’m pretty sure you owe me,” he said as he leaned against the wall next to you. 

“Oh, you were serious?” 

“Of course.” 

You stared him down, waiting for him to waver. But he didn’t. Instead, he just smiled at you like you were an old friend, someone who he had shared tubs of popcorn with and borrowed a towel from after a summer day spent in the pool. 

You felt entrapped in his gaze, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. His eyes were warm and comfortable like a rare spot of sun on the wood floor in winter. It wasn’t exactly a staring contest you were partaking in, but you still didn’t want to be the first to look away. 

“I don’t even know your name,” you finally conceded. 

“Ten,” he said simply, reaching out a hand to shake. 

You told him your name and he repeated it back to you, rolling the foreign syllables around on his tongue like they were peas fresh out of the pod. Your name, something so mundane after hearing it so many times, sounded fresh and beautiful coming from him. 

“So how about you buy me an ice cream cone to pay off your debt.” 

“It’s too cold for ice cream.” 

“It’s never too cold for ice cream,” he said cheekily before turning to say goodbye to his friends. 

You stepped forward as well to let Yuta know where you were going, and after an affirmation from Sicheng that Ten wasn’t a creep, he let you go with a promise that you’d text him when you got home. 

——

“So what’d you think of the performance?” Ten asked you before taking a bite of his green tea ice cream. 

You shuddered at the sight, gums cringing in phantom pain. He tilted his head like a cat would at your actions, and you quickly had to explain that it was aimed at him biting his ice cream, not at the performance. 

“It was amazing,” you said after the miscommunication had been cleared up. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mm.” 

Your mind drifted off for a moment as you relived the contents of the show you’d just watched. Some songs had been slow, strange, and hypnotizing. Others were much more upbeat, the energy in the room making you feel like you could fly up into the rafters of the grand auditorium. 

“What about me?” Ten asked, successfully jolting you from your fond remembering. 

“Huh?” 

“What do you think about me?” 

You smiled at the cheshire grin on his face, noticed the way his eyes twinkled with mischief. To yourself you thought, I think I’d like to see more of those eyes, but out loud you said: 

“I think I’d like to get to know you better.” 

——

Months passed and you did exactly that, got to know each other better. You learned that Ten actually hated fruit and that he had only wanted to buy the clementines for his roommate, the aforementioned Sicheng. You saw firsthand how hard he worked, how creativity ran through his veins in place of blood and leaked out of his pores in place of sweat. 

You quickly learned that he shared your affinity for coffee and so, since you only lived a few blocks away from each other, much of your time was spent haunting the local coffee shop. It was there that he told you of his home back in Thailand and of his family and friends there, as well as the story of how he started dancing. 

He talked a lot if you let him, but you didn’t mind. He was fascinating to listen to and to watch. Time and time again you found yourself sinking into the depths of his eyes as you listened, bathing in their warmth. 

He caught you doing just that a few times more than you’d like, laughing kindheartedly at your embarrassment before starting back up again where he had left off. He was always kind, even when he teased you for the purple butterfly sticker you bought to place over your laptop camera. 

“You watch too many crime movies,” he’d said before letting out an exaggerated yelp when you’d punched him in the arm. 

Tonight you were watching yet another crime movie on that same laptop, your blankets creating a nest for you to rest in. Ten sat next to you, his fingers braiding the loose strings on the side of one of those very blankets. Every now and then he would look up to watch you, barely remembering to pay any attention to the movie. 

Your brow creased as you focused on the crime detailed in the film, your eyes wide and reflecting the screen at him. Your shoulders were hunched in and for a moment he wondered whether it was from the cold. This made him realize how cold it was in your living room, despite all of the blankets, and so he slipped an arm around you until you were pulled up against his side and sharing his body heat. 

You jumped in response to his actions, almost crying out from surprise after being so engrossed in the movie before you. 

“Sorry, I thought you were cold,” he said quietly. 

“Oh. It’s okay,” you decided, not wanting to admit how comfortable he was and how nice he smelled. 

“Okay,” he said, moving his arm into a more comfortable position. You jumped again but for a different reason this time. 

“Sorry I-” he started to retract his arm. 

“No, it’s okay I just-” 

“Wait,” he cut you off, his trademark grin growing and filling you with anticipation. “Are you ticklish?” 

“No,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. 

He let out a giggle and poked your side to test his theory. You jumped a third time, pushing him away in annoyance. But now he was laughing outright and you couldn’t help but laugh with him, any momentary exasperation disappearing as the golden sound poured out of your throats. 

The two of you sat there laughing for far too long and simultaneously not long enough, movie long forgotten. You hadn’t laughed like that since you were a kid, that exhilarating feeling where anything and everything is truly hysterical. 

Eventually, you lapsed from breathless giggles into giddy smiles. As Ten watched you, his heart still pounding like a drum in his chest, he had a rare moment of clarity. 

“I like you.” 

Once he came to the realization it wasn’t something he had to think about saying out loud. Why shouldn't you know? You were the only one that he cared to tell after all. 

“Like like?” you asked despite how childish you felt. 

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Like like.” 

Your lips parted in surprise at his words, eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings. 

“You don’t have to say it back if you don’t want to,” he said matter of factly. “I told you so you’d know, not so you’d say it back.” 

The corners of your mouth turned up against your will as you stared down at your hands where they rested in your lap. You realized then how easily smiling came to you since you’d met him. How easily happiness came. You no longer had to convince yourself that your small pleasures and indulgences were happiness, for in the time since you’d met Ten you had simply begun to believe it. 

“I like you too.” 

“Really?” his eyes lit up as he looked at you, mouth curving into a newborn smile. 

“Really.”