#or that they all feel the same weight sinking into their bedsides like they would when he'd come and check on them in the night

[brutlist]

mourning the heugh children and how they all have the same trauma bond over how they looked at heugh like some legend that was just larger than life , that bled gold , like every exhale of smoke was it's own force of nature just because it was his , that smelled like it had rained when they'd been sleeping when he carried them , and he was their daddy

[rafestify]

Strange — Rafe Cameron

Rafe Cameron x JJ Maybank x Pogue!Reader

Summary : Pogue!Reader looks back on her complicated relationship with Rafe, full of love and pain, as she decides to move on and explore a new connection with JJ after confronting Rafe at the Boneyard, realizing that love can change from one stage to another without fanfare.

Warning : none just angst (english is not my first language)

A/N : this is a pretty short one and it's based on strange by celeste :)

I tried for you,

Tried to see through all the smoke and dirt,

It wouldn't move,

What could I do?

Being with Rafe was perfect. Growing up as a Pogue, I never imagined the life I had with him—the fancy dinners, the expensive dresses, the world of luxury that I’d only ever dreamed of. But the best part? Rafe wasn’t the monster everyone warned me about. He was gentle, patient, and shockingly soft around me. It surprised everyone. He made sure I was okay, left sweet notes on the bedside table whenever he left early, and canceled plans with Topper and Kelce anytime I asked to spend time together. He never said no.

But Rafe was obsessed with getting the cross. He wanted to prove himself to his father so badly that it started to consume him. And that’s when everything fell apart. Two months passed—no texts, no calls. Nothing. It was like he had disappeared. I did everything I could to reach out, but there was no response. Life blurred on, and before I knew it, JJ was there. It started innocently—him venting about his confusion with Kiara, me listening like I always did. But those conversations turned into something more, and soon, we were walking hand in hand along the beach. I tried not to fall for him—my best friend—but Rafe's absence made it all too easy. After two months without love or affection, JJ filled the void.

I touch your head

To pull your thoughts into my hand,

But now I can't

“Rafe, what’s wrong?” I asked softly as I stepped into his room, my heart sinking at the sight of him hunched over on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. Seeing him like this shattered me in ways I couldn’t explain—this wasn’t the Rafe I knew, the one who always seemed so unbreakable. My voice trembled as I knelt beside him, desperate to reach him. “Why can’t he just be proud of me for once? I’ve done everything, and still—nothing. Not even a thank you,” he choked out, lifting his head, his bloodshot eyes searching mine, pleading for something I couldn’t give. I used to be the one who held him in moments like this, whispering reassurances, calming his storms. But now, who would comfort the poor boy?

Say isn't it strange?

Isn't it strange?

I am still me

You are still you

In the same place

The Boneyard had always been my favorite, a chaotic mix of laughter, music, and the salty sea breeze that felt like freedom. Rafe never understood; he’d scoff at the idea of beach parties, insisting we could have better nights at fancy restaurants. But deep down, I knew there was a part of him that loved the carefree nights, the way we would sink into our own little world while the chaos swirled around us. We’d find our spot in the shadows, just the two of us, cocooned in a bubble of laughter and whispered secrets as the music pulsed around us like a heartbeat. But this time was different. The air was heavy with tension, and as I looked around, I could feel the distance between us stretching like an endless ocean, the once vibrant colors of the Boneyard dimming into shades of gray without him by my side.

Me, JJ, and Kiara were talking about saving turtles when I saw him. Tall, muscular, a buzz cut—someone I didn’t recognize at first. But when he turned around, my breath hitched in my throat. It was him. Rafe Cameron. His icy blue eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the world fell away, leaving just the unbearable weight of his regret. I could see the guilt and sorrow etched into his gaze, but it didn’t change the ache in my chest, the months of silence and abandonment that had already broken me. He looked like he wanted to say something, to fix it, but I couldn’t bear to wait for words that wouldn’t heal what was already lost. "Slow down," JJ’s voice cut through, concern in his eyes as I choked on my beer. "Sorry—" I mumbled, excusing myself as I tried to get away, my mind racing. I fumbled with my phone, desperately trying to call Sarah, but she didn’t answer.

Then, I walked straight into someone—into him.

"Oh my god, I’m sor—" I started, but then I looked up, and there they were—those piercing blue eyes, once my refuge, now a reminder of everything that had shattered between us. The familiar warmth they used to hold was gone, replaced by an intensity that sent a chill through my body. In that split second, every buried emotion surged back, hitting me like a tidal wave I wasn’t ready for.

"Y/N," Rafe said softly, gripping my arm.

"No. Just… no. I don’t need your excuses or apologies, okay? I don’t need an explanation. Save it for yourself," I said, yanking my arm free.

"Just let me explain—" he pleaded, his voice breaking.

"Am I not being clear enough?" I snapped. "Here, let me make it clear, we’re done. We’re breaking up. Right here, right now. Got it?" I forced the words out, watching the shock flood his face. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came.

I walked away quickly, not looking back. I couldn’t.

Isn't it strange

How people can change,

From strangers to friends,

Friends into lovers,

And strangers again?

Rafe stood frozen, watching her walk away, each step widening the distance between them, not just physically, but emotionally. The girl who once held his heart had just ripped it out, right in front of him. And he had no one to blame but himself. He had chased glory, validation from his father, only to lose the one thing that made him feel real. And now it was too late.

But for Y/N, it wasn’t just about Rafe anymore. JJ had stepped in when Rafe disappeared, had been there when she needed someone most. His presence had become something she didn’t know she could rely on. As she returned to JJ and the Pogues, her eyes caught Rafe’s one last time, but there was nothing left to say. Rafe had made his choice, and so had she.

"Are you okay?" JJ asked, noticing the shift in her mood as she sat back down next to him.

"Yeah," she said with a small smile, her hand instinctively reaching for his. "I think I am."

And in that moment, as the waves crashed in the distance and the music played on, Y/N knew that chapter with Rafe had closed. JJ wasn’t a rebound; he was the beginning of something new, something she hadn’t even realized she needed.

likes and reblogs are appreciated!🎀( ﾟ∀ﾟ)人(ﾟ∀ﾟ )

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! -18

Character : Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It's just a business marriage. Bucky thought it would be easy until he encountered the stepsister of his fiancée. She turned his world upside down.

Warning: Tragedy, Angst, Manipulation, Intimidation

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || Support : Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤���

Everything related to Celestial Enterprises has fallen to the ground. Once a conglomerate company, now it’s just a name.

You watch everything on the TV beside Cassandra's bed. She’s still weak since the incident. Reading the headlines about Celestial, you say, “We won, Grandma. Wish you could see it.”

Then the door opens, and Bucky comes in with flowers in his hand. He smiles at you, “How is she?”

You glance at Cassandra and sigh, “Every time I come by, she gets tired easily and falls asleep. But the nurse and doctor said she’s getting better.”

Bucky nods, understanding all too well. He went through the same phase—his trauma triggered, and he got drowned in his nightmares again.

“Give her a moment,” Bucky says gently.

He steps closer, placing the flowers in a vase on the bedside table. You notice the care in his actions, the way he adjusts the petals so they look just right. It’s a small gesture, but it means the world in a place like this.

“Have you eaten?” Bucky asks, turning his attention back to you.

“No,” you admit, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on your shoulders.

“Then let’s get something to eat,” he suggests, his tone leaving no room for argument. He offers his hand, and you take it, grateful for the support. You glance at his hand, noting the absence of gloves. The gesture strikes you—evidence that he’s moved past his trauma.

As both of you leave the room, you take one last look at Cassandra. The door closes softly behind you. Unseen by you, Cassandra’s eyes flutter open. She clenches the blanket with her hand, her grip strong and determined.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

At the Hospital

All the hard work that Jonathan has poured into Celestial Enterprises has come to nothing. Losing the company has shattered his soul more than losing Ophelia ever did. The company was his life, the reason why he breathed.

It doesn’t stop there. It turns out his wife, Genevieve, is related to a criminal mastermind who kidnapped Bucky. Not only is he bankrupt, but he also married a woman with a criminal past. Genevieve is on her knees, tears streaming down her face as she begs for his forgiveness.

“I had no part in it,” she sobs. “I didn’t know.”

Jonathan, still stuck in the hospital bed, looks at her with pure disdain. “You’re disgusting.”

Genevieve’s heart sinks. The only person in this world who could help her is him. She doesn’t understand why she’s connected to Bucky’s kidnapping. She wasn’t involved at all. Victoria is gone, and all their assets are frozen because of the bankruptcy.

She has no friends left to ask for help. The socialites who once fawned over her now shun her. Desperation clings to her like a second skin as she looks around the sterile hospital room, searching for a lifeline.

“You have to believe me,” Genevieve pleads, her voice breaking. “I didn’t know about Bucky. I never would have—”

Jonathan interrupts her, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. “You’re nothing but a parasite. I should have seen it from the start. You latched onto me, thinking you could rise above your sordid past. But you’ve dragged me down into the mud with you.”

Genevieve’s eyes widen in shock and anger. “How dare you? After everything I’ve done for you, for this family?”

Jonathan sneers. “Done for me? You’ve done nothing but ruin everything you touch. You’re a cancer, Genevieve. And now, because of you, everything I’ve built is gone.”

Her hands shake with fury and desperation. “You think you’re so perfect? You think you’re blameless in all this? All of this happened because of your daughter!"

Jonathan’s eyes flash with anger. “Get out. I don’t want to see your face ever again.”

Genevieve’s vision blurs with rage and hurt. In a moment of blind fury, she grabs a syringe from the nearby tray and stabs it into Jonathan’s chest. He gasps, eyes wide with shock and pain.

A nurse, who just entered to check on Jonathan, sees the attack and screams, “Security! Help!”

Genevieve looks at the horror-struck nurse, then at Jonathan, whose eyes are starting to glaze over. Panic takes over. She pulls the syringe out and drops it, her hands covered in blood.

Without thinking, she bolts from the room, running through the hospital corridors. Alarms blare, and footsteps echo as security personnel rush to intercept her.

Genevieve’s mind races as she runs, knowing she has nowhere to go and no one left to turn to. The life she once knew is in ruins, and now she’s on the run, a fugitive from the consequences of her own desperation and rage.

The news traveled fast, and you soon heard that Jonathan got hurt again, this time because of his own wife. “Wow, karma,” you muttered under your breath.

You touched your grandma's hand, still resting as she slept. “He got what he deserved. Now all that's left is that woman.”

Your thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of your phone. Glancing at the screen, you saw it was a call from the hospital. Answering it, you heard the voice of Jonathan’s doctor on the other end.

“Your father is in a coma,” the doctor said gravely.

You felt a surge of emotions but quickly composed yourself. Before leaving, you kissed Cassandra’s forehead gently. “I’ll be back soon, Grandma,” you whispered.

Arriving at the hospital, you walked through the sterile corridors to Jonathan’s room. The sight of him, lifeless and hooked up to machines, brought a strange mix of satisfaction and pity.

You leaned in close, whispering into his ear, “All those years, you ignored me, abandoned me. Now look at you. Helpless. Everything you built is gone. Your wife betrayed you, your company is ruined, and your precious Victoria is gone. This is the end for you. You did this to yourself.”

You let the words sink in, hoping he could somehow hear the pain and anger you had been carrying for so long. After you finished, you straightened up, feeling a strange sense of closure.

Just then, your phone rang again. This time, it was the nurse from Cassandra’s care facility.

“Your grandmother is missing,” the nurse said, her voice frantic.

“What? How could she go missing?” you exclaimed, panic rising in your chest.

You hurried out of the hospital, trying to think where she could have gone. The streets seemed to blur as you drove, your mind racing with worry and fear.

“Where could she be?” you whispered, hoping for a miracle.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

Genevieve went to Valerie's studio to hide and to find the secret stash of money she had hidden there. She needed it to run away, to call in old favors for a new identity and passport. As she hurriedly prepared to leave, her hands shaking with a mix of fear and desperation, a pair of scissors fell, landing perilously close to her fingers.

“Oops. My hand slipped,” came a cold, calm voice.

Genevieve shrieked, her eyes widening in horror as she saw Cassandra standing in front of her, a chilling smile on her face.

“Hii!!!” Genevieve shrieked, shocked to the core.

Cassandra’s eyes were icy and piercing. “You’ve taken my daughter’s life, stolen the childhood of my granddaughter. Now it’s your turn to live in hell.”

Genevieve backed away, trembling. “You…you’re crazy!” she stammered.

Cassandra stepped closer, her voice steady and unyielding. “You ruined everything. Jonathan was a fool to fall for you, but you knew exactly what you were doing.”

Genevieve tried to muster some defiance. “Jonathan loved me!”

Cassandra laughed, a sound devoid of humor. “Love? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You manipulated him, tore our family apart, and for what? Power? Money?”

Genevieve's face twisted in anger. “You can’t do this to me! I won’t let you!”

In a swift motion, Cassandra slapped Genevieve across the face. “Aww,” Genevieve whimpered, holding her stinging cheek. She couldn’t believe this old woman had the nerve to strike her, and the fact that Cassandra’s expression remained unchanged was even more unsettling.

Now Genevieve understood where your temperament came from. Not from Jonathan, or even from your late mother, but from Cassandra.

“You won’t get away with this,” Genevieve hissed, trying to sound brave.

Cassandra’s eyes bore into hers, unflinching. “Oh, but I already have. Your life as you know it is over. You have nowhere to run, no one to turn to. You’re alone, just like you made us feel.”

Genevieve's bravado crumbled, tears welling up in her eyes. “Please,” she begged, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

Cassandra shook her head slowly. “It’s too late for apologies. You’ll pay for what you’ve done. Enjoy your hell, Genevieve.”

The fight between Genevieve and Cassandra continued to rage on, a chaotic blend of anger and desperation. The studio echoed with the sounds of their struggle—Genevieve's frantic, panicked shouts and Cassandra's fierce, unrelenting movements.

Genevieve, despite her earlier bravado, was struggling. She tried to fend off Cassandra’s relentless attacks, but the old woman was surprisingly strong.

Each time Genevieve attempted to counterattack, Cassandra met her with a forceful push or a sharp jab, her movements precise and driven by years of suppressed rage. Genevieve’s face was contorted in fear and disbelief as she realized Cassandra was far more formidable than she had anticipated.

Suddenly, the sound of sirens pierced through the air. The studio door burst open, and a flood of police officers, followed by you and Bucky, stormed in. The sight before them stopped everyone in their tracks.

You and Bucky exchanged stunned glances. Despite her age, Cassandra fought with a raw, unfiltered strength that defied her appearance. Her face was a mask of determined fury, each movement fueled by years of pent-up anger and pain.

Genevieve, on the other hand, was visibly shaken, her attempts at resistance growing increasingly desperate as Cassandra's relentless assault continued.

The police officers hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to intervene without escalating the situation further. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, and stepped forward.

“Grandma! Stop!” you commanded, your voice echoing through the studio.

Cassandra paused, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and turned to face you. Her eyes, usually so calm and composed, were now blazing with the intensity of her emotions. For a moment, she seemed to waver, the anger in her eyes softening just slightly.

Bucky moved quickly, stepping between the two women, his presence commanding and authoritative. “Everyone, calm down,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the chaos. “We’re taking you both into custody.”

Genevieve, now visibly trembling, clutched her bleeding cheek, her bravado shattered. She looked at you with fear and resignation, realizing that her escape plan had crumbled.

Taglist:

@thezombieprostitute

@thetravelingtyper

@scott-loki-barnes

@mostlymarvelgirl

@chemtrails-club

@dexter99

@seresingirlie

@missvelvetsstuff

@kjah97

@tfatwsoldir

@itsteambarnes

@toldyouitwasamelodrama

@sapphirebarnes

@thedonswife13

@angelbabyyy99

@cjand10

@esposadomd

@buckitostan

@wh0reforbucknasty

@bada-lee-ily

@evie-119

@mrsstuckyboo

@ghalouha

@iamasimpingh0e

@loki-laufeyson68

@buckybarnessimpp

@milllieeee

@stormy-stardust

@ashdoctor

@mushycore

@crazyunsexycool

@anixerz

@mcira

@touchstarvedforbuckybarnes

@sidraaaaaaaaa

Author Note: Hey friends,

If you've been enjoying the content, I've set up a Ko-fi account.

Your support through tips would mean the world and help me keep creating.

Only if you feel like it!

Here's the link: Ko-fi

sThanks a bunch for being fabulous followers!

[nervocat]

hello! may I req platonic blade comforting teen!reader who is scared of thunder?

“Thunderstorm again, isn't It?” (no cws - wc: 543, platonic/comfort/fluff, gn reader)

Thunderstorms — something you absolutely despised. You didn't mind the rain at all, but the loud booms of thunder make you shiver a bit. Maybe it was silly for a Stellaron Hunter to be scared of thunderstorms, but you didn't care.

You huddled under your blanket in your room, thankful you didn't have any missions from Elio to carry out. Your door opening startled you a bit, and at the same time another loud boom came from outside, the rain pounding on your window.

“Blade?” you question, his face only being lit up from your bedside lamp. Blade comes in and gently shuts your door, all while looking at you.

It almost looked like he had something to tell you, but he saw your shivering figure under the blankets and sighed.

“It’s the thunderstorm again, isn't it?” Blade was always straightforward — not wasting any time to get to the point.

You look away from him, eyes on the ground. You give a small nod in reply, a flash of lighting from your window before another loud boom of thunder reaches you. You squeeze your eyes shut in response.

Blade sighs, walking up to you and sitting on your bed, it sinking under his added weight. “Get up,” he says, hands resting on his lap as he looks at you with his usual frown and furrowed brows.

While questioning his intentions, you reluctantly sit up from your bed and look at Blade, curiosity shining in your eyes. He signals with his head to come closer, and as you are, yet another loud boom is heard and you cling onto Blade, startled — he was the closest thing to you anyways.

You felt him tense up a bit, and you pull away from him slowly. “Sorry, Blade, you were the closest thing to me so-” you're stopped by the gaze of Blade, his face seemed to have softened.

“I do not care for such small things,” he says as he looks you in the eyes. You swallow nervously as you hug Blades torso, head resting on his shoulder.

Blade did not know what to do with his arms, but looking at you, he decided to wrap one arm around your torso, his thumb gently stroking your shoulder as an attempt to comfort you.

Being in someone else's embrace was nice, especially during a thunderstorm like this. You begin to get tired, focusing on Blades slow, a bit irregular breaths. It was expected from someone like him, he was essentially dead man walking.

While drifting on the brink of sleep, you feel a hand on your head. Blade's thumb was still gently rubbing your shoulder, so you could only assume it was Blade's other hand that was also gently stroking your hair.

Blade was the last person you expected comfort from — nonetheless from a thunderstorm. You had expected to be told off by him, you were a teenager and a Stellaron Hunter, “get yourself together,” (he would never say or do such a thing).

As you finally fall asleep, Blade keeps his eyes on you. If anyone were to look at the Hunters face, he seemed to have a ghost of a smile and a gentle look in his eyes as he held you in his arms.

[ ★ - notes . writing for Blade is sm fun, my little silly <33 but another request done!! Yay!!! I have a lot of motivation to write as of late and I'm very happy abt it :33 if Blade seems ooc here that's my bad 🙏🙏 ]

★ — © nervocat || I appreciate any reblogs made, and pls don't repost or translate my works anywhere, ty — ✦

[jolalibrary]

sunrise

francisco morales x santiago garcia

GIF credit to @perotovar

summary: after mixed messages, pope asks frankie if he'll watch the sunrise with him.

wordcount: 1.1k warnings: none. jo doing jo things with words. just two boys, mixed messages and a bit of hope. an: happy pride. this fic is dedicated to the lovely, wonderful @perotovar who not only is a great friend, but also has never made me feel like i'm not part of pride. it's been a long time since I've written m/m, but erin, your kind words (and gif) filled me with joy. i hope this fills you with joy too.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz—

He doesn’t need to look, to smack his hand around the bedside table, Frankie knows where his phone is.

Retrieving it, pressing it to his ear—old sleep crusting in his eyes—Frankie lets out a soft groan, the weight of lingering thoughts still pushing heavily against his mind. With a reluctant sigh, he mumbles a tender hello, his voice heavy, gruff.

“Hey,” Pope says.

It elongates, stretches out like a fragile thread suspended between them—as though another word should have followed but isn’t spoken.

“You awake?”

“Am now.”

He doesn’t miss the chuckle that’s embedded into the breath. Nor, how it brushes down and through the phone. A sensation bubbling across his skin, his body remembering how it feels to have it against him.

“You’ve not been replying—in the group chat.”

He rubs his face, the motion all a hopeless attempt to awaken his mind, wishing the act would spur on words. Something. Anything to bridge the aching void between them.

It doesn’t.

It just adds to the other things churning inside him, layering over doubts and questions—the ones that linger unanswered, even when they are alone, haunting the spaces between their moments together.

Sliding the phone back against his cheek, he sighs. “Yeah, sorry. Just… wasn’t checking things.”

“Yeah, thought so.”

He hums, and then releases a heavy breath. Needing to fill the silence before it begins. Not wanting to find out if today it’s comfortable or the opposite.

“You busy?”

“At 3 in the morning?”

Pope laughs—and Frankie hates how much he likes the sound. Despises it, almost. Loathes it, like he detests how he feels.

“Didn’t know if you wanted to watch the sunrise with me.”

“I’m a whole flight from you, Pope.”

“Don’t have to be in the same location to watch the sun come up, Fish.”

“We fuckin’ do if it comes up at different times, cabrón.”

There’s a pause, then a chuckle. One that begins with Pope and then ends with him. It fills the air, the space, the area between them that they pretend not to notice or ask about whenever they come home.

Because home isn’t out there, where they’re adorned in layers that barrier against artillery and threats; home isn’t where they help the other free from it all in the comfort of a base room or a tent in the middle of nowhere. Home is real. It’s chosen paint on the walls and picked out bedding; it’s photographs filled with only the best and souvenirs that remind of good times.

And, right now, the only evidence of Pope here is the memories—

That first kiss. How fuelled it had been, how he’d done it purely to stop the tide of ifs and buts that Pope had been flinging, angrily darting in the hope to hit the bullseye and wound him further than his foolishness had.

And it’s not that Frankie wishes to hang up, it isn’t that he hopes to shove things further into his soul. He’s had his crisis—had it when he’d had Pope pressed against his spine, breath fanning out over his neck, making the hair curled from their earlier activities twitch and tickle.

But, he’s at least come to terms with the fact this isn’t a home thing. A thing which doesn’t exist when he steps on the plane to go back to a life where people call him Francisco. He’s made his peace with it, accepted it—as much as a person can.

He’s done the work to rationalise and reason. So, whatever this phone call is, it feels counterproductive. It feels like sinking, falling through those steps and nets he’s built until he’s drenched in the will-they-won’t-they he’s clambered far away from. The hopes seep into his skin, worming into his brain, threatening to paint shadows on the back of his eyelids at what the two of them could be—

“What are we doing, Pope?”

There’s an exhale. It’s likely a sigh, but it’s hard to assess without the facial expression. The way he wears his feelings in his body language.

“I‘m not sure.”

Frankie expects that, somehow. Yet it still stings, hurts—ripples out like a lashing he’s braced for. Rolling onto his side, he grinds his jaw. Staring at the gap in the curtains, the one that’ll allow light to bleed through in a few more hours, nostrils flaring as he shakes his head.

“I can’t watch the sunrise with you.”

“‘Cause of the time difference?”

Rolling his eyes, he blows out a harsh breath. “No. Because if we do, I’ll confess something that’ll make it hard for you to do that compartmentalising shit that you do about the fact you and I fuck.”

The silence that follows is painful, excruciating. It’s devoid and barren, dull and full of nothing. There’s no background noise to drown it out, the night too quiet, the hour too dormant—to the point it almost makes Frankie feel guilty for disturbing it.

“What if I told you I’m at the motel on 22nd—”

Frankie sits up. Bolt upright. The suddenness of it forces the sheet to fall from his neck to pool at his waist, the air cool flurrying over warm skin, heat blooming in his cheeks.

“—the one you talked about—”

His heart hammers. Pounds.

“—the one you go to when home is a bit too… home.”

“Pope…”

“Fish.”

Swinging his legs from under the sheets, elbow resting on the place above his knee, hand wiping down his face, awake, blood pounding in his ears.

“Por favor no bromees.”

Sighing, blowing it right into his ear. It’s far more soothing, rooting, than it has been before.

“Wanna watch the sunrise with me, Fish?”

Swallowing, fear threatens to poison the joy that is trying to fill his chest. His hand clamps around his knee for leverage, for strength. Squeezing, likely making his skin paler—it returning to colour when he releases as he tries to get his brain to calculate the percentage of how much of a good idea this is.

But then he hears his name. It whispered, with more of an infliction, a question to it.

And so he takes a breath. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I’ll… get dressed now.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

A silence unfurls, one nicer, more bearable than any of the others before—

“Well hurry then, Fish.”

And then, as Frankie suspected, Pope ends the call.

tagging: @morallyinept (for your collection)

[forest-hashira]

2 Be Loved

this has sat in my drafts for... idk exactly how long, a month at least, because i was trying to decide if i even wanted to post it here. i wrote this for myself when i was Going Through It with my depression. now that i've sat on it a while, and i've generally been doing better, i've decided it's time to go ahead and share this. i hope you all enjoy it, and that it brings you some level of comfort or reassurance if you need it 💜

read on ao3 here | wc: ~2.4k | cw: gender neutral reader, plus size reader, mental health issues (reader is in a depressive episode), emotional hurt/comfort, some fluff at the end, really this is very self ship coded

You’d spent practically the whole day in bed. And the day before that, and the day before that, and probably the day before that, too. You’d lost count, honestly; all the days bleeding together and blurring in the fog of your mind. 

This was far from the first time this had happened, and you knew it would also be far from the last. Your emotional state had been a rollercoaster for most of your life, and had only become more volatile in the last few years. You would be fine, until you suddenly realized you were decidedly not fine, with some realizations being more gentle than others.

Like this time, for example. You hadn’t suddenly buckled under the weight of the world, but instead had woken up one morning and felt paralyzed; even just the idea of getting out of bed, for any reason, felt insurmountable. So you simply… didn’t. You stayed in bed and slept between episodes of your favorite TV show, grasping for anything that might stop you from sinking further into the depths of your depression. 

Satoru had been as patient as ever, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead and whispering a little “I love you,” before he’d left for work. He knew you struggled this way sometimes, and had never been anything but supportive and loving. Suguru had called in “sick”, opting to spend the day taking care of you, which mostly consisted of slipping in and out of sleep all day and occasionally bringing a snack from the kitchen. Satoru had joined you back in bed as soon as he got home from work, effectively squishing you between himself and Suguru, where you were helpless to do anything but let them love you.

It had reduced you to tears, shoulders shaking as ugly, half choked sobs tore themselves from your chest. They had let you cry, not rushing to try and quiet you as they might have done when they were younger; they let you get it out of your system, only stepping in to comfort you when you started to speak. 

“I’m sorry,” you’d cried, eyes shut tight as you tried to avoid their gaze. “I’m sorry I’m…” you’d struggled for words then, losing them between your hiccuping sobs and the darkness that clouded your mind. 

“I’m too much,” you’d come up with eventually. “My emotions are too messy, and my mind doesn’t work right… I feel like all I do is cause problems for both of you. Like all I do is hold you back and drag you down.”

You hadn’t seen the look they’d exchanged, the pain that pinched their features, but you had felt the way they pressed in closer, as if they could crush the depression out of you. 

“You are not too much,” Satoru had murmured, gently tilting your head up to meet his gaze, his cerulean eyes sparkling in the low light from the lamp on your bedside table. “You could never be too much, not to me – to us.” His thumb brushed lightly along your cheekbone, delicately wiping the tears from your skin even as they were replaced with more. “We love you so much, y’know? I love you so much. Taking care of you is not a chore, or a burden.”

You’d shaken your head, unable to believe his words. “You can’t possibly mean that.”

“But we do,” Suguru had been the one to speak that time. “You mean it when you tell me the same thing when I’m depressed, right?”

“Of course I do.” There wasn’t any hesitation as the words left your lips. “Taking care of you is a privilege.”

“Then why can’t you believe we feel the same way about taking care of you?”

His words had left you reeling, so much so that you almost didn’t hear Suguru when he continued. 

“Satoru’s right, angel. I love you. We adore you, and we want to take care of you. Always.”

As Suguru had hugged you tighter with one arm and pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, he’d placed his other hand on your white haired lover’s hip, keeping him as close as possible. Satoru had been eager to oblige, snuggling into you as much as possible. He’d brushed your hair from your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead, one hand cradling your face while the other reached across you to settle on Suguru’s hip. They had effectively caged you in, both with their bodies and with their love. It had shattered you, reduced you to tears again, but they hadn’t minded; they were there to hold you together, to pick up the pieces when you couldn’t do it alone. 

Through some unspoken agreement, your boys switched places the next day; Suguru had gone into work while Satoru had called out “sick” to take care of you. They did their best not to leave you alone for too long whenever they could help it, but they could only get away with calling out sick when everyone knew the two of them were perfectly healthy; when the higher ups knew that you were the one keeping the two special grades and teachers from fully doing their jobs.

A few days passed with your lovers taking turns staying home with you, until one day they both called out to stay home, though you didn’t realize that at first, since Suguru was quick to return to you in bed, holding you close as you drifted off again, faintly away of the sound of the front door closing and locking before you were fully asleep. 

When you woke up again, the first thing you were aware of was the fact that you were alone in bed. At almost the same moment, though, you heard music coming from what you guessed what the kitchen, though you couldn’t quite tell, since the bedroom door was shut; wherever it was coming from, it was definitely upbeat pop music, so you knew for certain Satoru was the one who had turned it on.

With no small amount of effort, you pushed yourself into a sitting position, rubbing your eyes for a moment and yawning before you crawled off the bed on Satoru’s side. You shuffled over to the dresser then, opening drawers and grabbing clothes pretty much at random. You wound up in a black sweatshirt and a pair of light blue sweatpants, both of which were at least two sizes too big for you, which even your fuzzy brain knew meant they weren’t actually your clothes; they belonged to your two giants of lovers.

Once you were dressed, you turned back to the nightstand, grabbing one of Suguru’s hair ties to pull your hair out of your face with, and, after a deep breath, you decided to brave the kitchen.

Opening the door to the bedroom allowed you to fully hear the music that was playing, and you were a little surprised to realize it was in English, rather than Japanese. Satoru liked to listen to anything that was happy and upbeat enough, but he – understandably – had a bit of a preference for J pop music. 

Still a little surprised by the music choice and a little foggy from sleep, you make your way to the kitchen in a bit of a daze. Both Satoru and Suguru were in the kitchen: Suguru at the counter, mixing something in the stand mixer, while Satoru danced around to the music, occasionally trying to steal a bit of whatever Suguru had in the mixing bowl, and being effectively swatted away every time. You stood in the doorway for a few moments in silence, just watching them in utter adoration.

Eventually, though, Satoru noticed you, and he got a bright grin on his face as he raced over to you. “You got out of bed!” he gushed, wrapping you up in a tight hug and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m so proud of you, mochi,” he murmured against your scalp, and something about the nickname in combination with the praise made you feel like you were going to melt into a puddle right then and there. 

Just as suddenly as he had engulfed you in a hug, the white haired sorcerer was releasing you, lunging for where he’d left his phone on the counter by the bluetooth speaker he was using for the music. You watched curiously as he opened his playlist, hastily skipping through a handful of songs before he got to the one he was apparently looking for. Seeming pleased with himself, he made sure the song was playing, turned the volume up a little bit, then turned back to you with that sparkling grin of his. 

You blinked in surprise when you heard the singer’s voice, and you looked up at him with a look of complete bafflement. “I didn’t know you listened to Lizzo.”

He sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. “No, baby, you gotta listen to the lyrics!” he insisted, taking your hands and doing a very small little dance with you right there in the doorway. 

Though part of you wanted to argue, you had never been good at resisting your energetic lover, and this time was no exception. Before you even nodded, Satoru already knew you’d given in to him, and he pulled you a bit closer to himself as he started singing along with the lyrics. And not quietly, either: he sang them with all the enthusiasm in his body, and though you hated to admit it, it was contagious, even in your depressed state.

By the end of the first verse, you were smiling, a small laugh escaping you at your lover’s almost puppyish behavior. When the chorus came around, you started singing along as well, and you noticed belatedly that Satoru was singing the lines of the background singers, rather than the main chorus, like you were. 

“Am I ready?”

“You deserve it now.”

“‘Cause I want it!”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Am I ready?”

“You gon’ figure it out.”

“To be loved, to be loved.”

Your singing faltered then, and you stared up at Satoru for a moment, suddenly realizing why he’d picked this song to serenade you with. He stopped singing as well, smiling gently down at you as he watched you fit the puzzle pieces together in your mind.

“We’ve always been ready to love you.”

The sound of Suguru’s voice from behind you caused you to startle a bit, but you looked up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

“Are you ready to let us love you again?” His tone held no resentment, no bitterness, only gentle adoration, and you were certain that if Satoru didn’t still have a solid grip on your hands, you would have sunk to your knees with the overwhelming realization of how much these two men adored you, despite how much your mind sometimes tried to convince you they shouldn’t.

Unable to find your voice, you nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill down your cheeks. You allowed your eyes to flutter shut for a moment as Suguru leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, but just a few seconds later, Satoru was tugging you back into his space, spinning you around so your back was to his chest. The song was still playing and he was apparently still determined to get you to dance with him.

Suguru laughed softly at his lover’s antics, shaking his head slightly at Satoru and offering you a slight shrug when you looked up at him for some sort of explanation.

Now the subject of Satoru’s whims, you allowed him to dance around the kitchen with you in his arms, still singing along with the song, though now his volume was lower, as he sang the words down at you. You smiled, allowing yourself to get lost in the warmth of his love, even if his fingers were cold where they wrapped around your own. 

“He call me Melly, he squeeze my belly.”

Your eyes flew open as Satoru sang the words, his chilly hands coming down to squeeze at the soft flesh of your stomach, the touch pulling a rather undignified squeak from your lips, but he just continued to beam down at you. He wasn’t going along with the lyrics of the song to make fun of you – he’d expressed to you enough times that he adored the soft pudginess of your body for you to know he meant it – but it still surprised every time he made sure to pay special attention to the squishier parts of you.

The sound of your squeak pulled another laugh from Suguru, and though at first you were planning to glare at him, you couldn’t go through with it; not when his expression was full of so much love and relief. He crossed the kitchen to reach you again, whatever was in the mixer long forgotten in favor of you. When he reached out for you, going to him was easier than breathing. He pulled you close, pressing his lips to the crown of your head as he swayed around the kitchen with you. The movement didn’t match the energy of the song at all, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You were safe and secure in his arms, and Satoru had enough energy for all three of you; it was impossible not to watch him as he danced around the kitchen, white hair and blue eyes shining, and he flashed you that brilliant grin of his every time he caught your gaze. 

Things weren’t suddenly perfect; Lizzo and dancing in the kitchen was not a magical fix-it for the irregularities in your emotional state, but it was certainly a stepping stone back to your normal. And you knew, without any doubt in your mind, that you would have the support and full confidence of your lovers behind you every step of the way. They were your way back to yourself, after all. Suguru was your anchor in stormy seas, tethering you to something real, something sturdy; Satoru was the lighthouse calling you home when the waters calmed enough for you to move again.

i hope you guys have enjoyed seeing some of my other stuff i hadn't yet shared here! though i can't promise when i'll have anything new, know that i am working on things now + am preparing things for my upcoming milestone event!!! take care of yourselves as best you can 💜. divider by cafekitsune

tagging: @kentohours @mitsuristoleme @marinnnnnnnnn @witchbybirth @peachdues

[mercurygray]

Ooooh, build-a-fic! How about "here, let’s get you warmed up" + contentment + the bedside of someone who doesn’t want you there :)

I find it very, very funny that no less than three people gave me the dialogue prompt to warm up, and I think just that many gave the location prompt about bedsides.

I took the wild-card option on characters here as an excuse to do a little thought experiment - the threatened Vivian/Doctor Huston fic.

It's a bit whumpy.

---

It was the nightmares again.

Adam rolled over in bed and tried to control his breathing, focusing on the sloped, white ceiling of his room. It had been a while since he'd had one. He thought he'd been getting better. It was always the same dream, or similar - the siren announcing the need for ambulances on the airstrip, the thrumming wind from a still-beating engine, and then the orderlies were pulling everyone he'd ever loved from out of the plane in bits and bloody pieces, and the bodies never stopped at ten.

He closed his eyes, hand splayed over his heart like somehow the weight would slow down the muscle. Your name is Adam Huston. You're a doctor with the 8th Air Force. You're at Coombe House, in Dorset. You're here for a few weeks away from your unit, just like everyone else here. You are good at your job. You will try your hardest to make sure they all get well. You will try your best to make sure you get well.

Get well - a high order. Who was the doctor here, and who the patient? The line seemed indistinct sometimes. It'll be an easy posting, Adam. Observe and evaluate. They just need a little time away from it all - get a chance to get their feet back under them. If you see anything serious, you can mark it in the file. Big house, plenty of fresh air - and half a dozen pretty girls to keep you on your toes.

Pretty girls - offered like they'd stopped making them in England when the war started and the beauty of women were somehow also rationed. Francy, in charge of everyone, as well as Susan, Julia, Peggy, Caro, and Vivian - smiling, shaking hands, welcoming him in like they did to everyone who arrived here, the all-American girls from next door, if next door was an extremely selective women's college.

The last woman, Vivian, had looked a little pale next to the others, her lipstick somehow too bright for her face. "Everything all right?" he'd asked, duffel in one hand and raincoat in the other. The urge to reach out and take her pulse was tangible, and the fact that his hands were full was suddenly unsettling. He adjusted his grip on the suitcase instead.

"Just a little under the weather, is all." She gave him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'll be right as rain when it blows over. Can I show you upstairs to your room?"

Coombe House was a country estate, built for shooting weekends and house parties, with bedrooms and corridors that went for miles. The airmen were downstairs in the guest rooms, and the staff, along with the hostesses and him, were upstairs in the servants corridor, with sloping ceilings and threadbare runners in the hallway to deafen the noise. "Your own, of course," she'd said, opening the door for him and letting him step inside. “We couldn’t have our doctor bunking. Butler’s down at this end, and we’re at the other, with the maids. Just how it was before the war.” Somehow the sparseness of the room didn't bother him. It's only temporary, this place. She watched him set down his coat and duffel on the bed. "They've opened up a wall a little way down for a little kitchenette - a sink and a gas burner for tea or reheating a cup of soup. Sometimes we keep strange hours." He nodded in agreement, glanced out the window at the grounds below, taking in the garden, the hedges and the curve of the river, everything still green and growing. "I'll leave you to get settled then. Dinner's at seven - dress uniforms." And then with a brief smile she was gone.

He wandered through the house, getting a feel for the corridors and the rooms - the library, the games room, the sitting room filled with ping pong tables, the ballroom with its badminton nets. An office, too, white cabinets, a desk, and a chair across, so someone could sit. No lights, no exam chair - a consulting room. A file drawer, too, standing in the corner, full of other men's secrets.

He turned off the light and left that for another day.

The rhythm of the house took some getting used to, after months on the flight line. Breakfast was at 9 am, not six, and everyone slept in. There was no review of the ward, no supply stock take, no white coat and stethoscope...no late afternoon flight return to manage. He took walks, watched birds, tried to ride a horse. Mainly he talked to the men. Theirs were quick stays, six or seven days, long enough to watch them uncurl a little, unclench their jaws and slide their shoulders down from their ears. Easy enough to understand - how many men back in Norfolk with the 96th were just the same as they?

The hostesses, too, were easy to read - Peggy with her bicycle and her loud laugh, Susan with her easy knowledge of the whole library, leading her book group like she didn't know that it was her smile and her black curls that made them all come to talk about things they hadn't read. Francy, effortlessly in charge of everything, everyone's sister and everyone's friend. Always first names, with the girls, and never Miss, while the boys were Patterson and Johnson and Reed, last names and nicknames and inside jokes. And he was Doc, as though they'd always known him thus, stamped from the same plate as every other doctor on every other base, the kind and concerned uncle asking obliquely how they were doing, whether they'd gotten the game scores, how they were sleeping, whether the dream had come back.

But Vivian remained aloof, somehow. The ashen look from her first day retreated, but she was still different from the others, somehow set apart. He found out that she was from Massachusetts, that she had two siblings and a ginger cat. It felt like the others saw it, too - she was the older woman, somehow a better prize where attention was concerned. One night after dinner he caught her singing at the piano while Susan played - a children's song in French. She played tennis like a champion, danced beautifully, never got a man's rank wrong - but what she'd done before the war she never said.

Finally his curiosity got the better of him one afternoon, listening to Caro call for her twice before she answered, as though she didn't know her own name. The filing cabinet beckoned. He sat down and found the stack of medical records for the Red Cross.

He'd made good headway through the cabinet when the gong rang for dinner (After a week here, it still sounded silly to hear it) and he rushed upstairs to quickly change into his better uniform, comb his hair and make sure his tie was straight.

In the dining room he made a beeline for Vivian, smiling away the lieutenant she was talking to by clearing his throat and flashing his captain's bars. (The younger man took the hint, given in so many officer's clubs, and beat it.)  "How are you feeling today?"

She didn't look pleased to be asked. "I told you I would be fine in a few days."

He stepped in, pitched his voice lower. "And are you expecting to recover from recurring malaria overnight, Lieutenant?" He pronounced the rank with special emphasis and watched her eyes flash in recognition. The Red Cross certainly didn't make them officers, but the Nurse Corps did - and Vivian Arsenault hadn't started her time with the Army passing out donuts and coffee in England. In fact, she hadn't started in England at all - and that was just the trouble with tropical climates, wasn't it - that they had different diseases there? Such a lot of trouble from such a little insect.

"You read my file." It was an accusation - almost a disappointment.

"I'm a doctor. I needed to know who I was working with. And I was wondering why you never seem to hear your name when anyone calls you. It's because you're still not expecting to hear it." He looked at her daring her to disagree - she didn't.  Yes, First Lieutenant Arsenault, joined in '38, three years abroad in Manila, invalided out of the Nurse Corps in June of 1941 for recurrent malignant malaria. A lucky thing, since the Rock fell in January of 42 - if you thought about luck that way, anyway. "I expect this is quite the change from Fort Mills," he offered, glancing around the room.

"Not really," she replied. "Soldiers are soldiers. But you're right. I was Arsenault for so long that Vivian sounds wrong, or ...insubordinate." She sniffed. "Francy knows, but please don't tell the others. They know I'm a nurse, but not - not that."

"And as a nurse, I didn't think I'd have to tell you that you ought to be in bed if you're having an episode."

"I've told you," she said, fixing him with a look that would not be crossed or questioned, "I'm fine. It passes quicker if I'm busy."

"We're not going to win the war by you working yourself to death," he said, a little more strongly than he meant. "It's not the end of the world if someone doesn't have a tennis partner."

"But how will I feel if he goes down next week?" She looked at him with a grim smile. "They only have the time they have."

It was an argument he could see he was not going to win, and he let her move away, down the table to another group of soldiers. And what about you, he'd wanted to ask. What about your time? Somehow silence seemed wiser.

Days passed - men came and went.  Outside the estate the war went on regardless. This being England, sunshine was cause for celebration, and a cloudless day practically cause for a parade. Huston opened the windows in his office to watch the men on the pond trying to tip their boats, and decided to try and squeeze in a walk before the day took a turn. He paused at the house’s great front door and considered his options, hands in pockets - the gardens? The lake? The stables? 

He made his way to the back of the house, passing a few fellows on bicycles, one of the groundsmen with a dirty shovel,  the kitchen maids putting out the rubbish bins for someone to move and collect. The bicyclists waved as he went by, but most everyone else out here ignored him, too caught up in the world of their own making. And that was fine by him. Responsibility sat differently outside - here he was neither doctor nor parent, only a fellow traveler, out to enjoy the air. The gravel of the house’s footpath opened up to the lawn, lined with trees that some pair of jokesters were making a contest out of trying to climb, egged on by a crowd, the tennis court, air filled with laughter, the rhythmic thwack of a tennis ball, going back and forth. Adam stood and watched the game for a minute, watching Vivian set and serve with the abandon of someone who did this far too often to be considered merely ‘good’.

And then a great crack, a cry of pain - the tree limb behind the tennis court had broken and sent its traveler down to earth. It was all instinct, what that sound woke in him- Adam picked up and ran.

It had been weeks since he’d treated a broken limb, felt like months since he’d seen blood - it didn’t matter. The measures of command came back like water. You’re a doctor in the 8th Air Force, and you’re good at your job. “Easy there, Carl, easy does it. I’ve got you. Sit up with me now, you’ve had a bit of a shock. Can someone run back to the house for Francy? We’ll get you inside in a minute, Carl, just sit and catch your breath. That’s just the adrenaline kicking in. Can you move your fingers for me? Good. Stand up, easy now, there’s a good chap, we’ll wait just a moment here…”

Suddenly there was Vivian in her tennis whites, murmuring something about helping, about not needing Francy, and the two of them took Carl inside to the consulting room and Vivian went for bandages and alcohol and Francy turned up regardless to manage the curious crowd outside the door.

Palpate, clean, numb, set, bandage. All the same steps in the same cadence, just the same as he’d been doing for years. And at every movement there she was - swab, syringe, bandage. It would keep Carl Nolan off the flight roster for a few weeks, but he’d manage. Young men always did. He looked up from tying off the bandage and saw that Vivian was watching him closely, her expression hard to read. 

He finished setting his instruments back on his tray and rose from his chair to go and wash his hands. “That was good work,” he said, as blandly as he could.  She wasn’t the type who took a compliment easily, and if you were too effusive, he’d observed, she’d assume you were lying. (Had she learned that in the Army, at officer’s club dances and the tennis court? Or was it before then, back home in Haverhill? He had such a lot of questions for her and he didn’t think she’d ever answer one.)

“And you.”

He bit back a smile over the washbasin and turned back to look at her. “You sound surprised.”

Was that a smile? But just as quickly as it had appeared it fled. “Maybe I am,” she replied, leaving to change her clothes or return to her game, he didn’t know which. He snorted and set it aside. It had been good work, small though the service might have been. An arm broken falling out of a tree wasn’t an arm broken on a bombing run getting thrown against a wall while your pilot dove to avoid a flak field - injured, rather than wounded. Still, it was good to feel useful - some days he felt like he was hardly doing anything at all. 

The end of one crop of soldiers meant the arrival of another - Adam watched the hostesses dash outside in the mornings to make introductions as the van rolled up, letting out another group of airmen all with that slightly dazed look in their eyes, glancing up at the house’s grand facade like they still weren’t sure this was real. Three…four…five. Five.

He stepped out into the hallway, counting shadows on the drive outside again. Five. Hm.

Adam retreated back to his office as Francy brought the new group inside and showed them the stairs and the door to her office, the lavatory on this floor and the way they could get to the dining room, and waited until the coast was clear before opening his door. "Hey, Francy.” She stopped, clipboard in hand. “Where's Vivian?"

"She's upstairs," Francy said, extremely unconcerned in a way that Adam found hard to interpret. Was she being calm for the benefit of the airmen, or was there really no cause for alarm? But then, perhaps she didn't know about the malaria, and thought only that Vivian was the kind of person who got a stuffy nose a little more often than most. "It's just a cold. She said she'd be down tomorrow."

Adam nodded and tried to follow Francy's calm, wondering if he ought to cross to the women's side of the house and check the room under the eaves with ‘Vivian’ chalked on the door. She won’t want that, he told himself. She’s a grown woman - she knows herself. You can give her that respect. It’s a cold - nothing more.

Day came, and day went - and still no Vivian. Susan left a tray at her door, but no one saw her take it in.

It wasn’t a cold that woke him up the following night - and it wasn’t one of his nightmares, either. He rolled over in bed, wondering what it was that had roused him, and heard a clatter in the kitchenette down the hall, a low moan. Adam blinked in the dark, swinging his legs over the side of the bed searching for his slippers and fumbling for his dressing gown, belting it against the nighttime chill. (It was always cold here, under the eaves. Warm air was supposed to rise but somehow it never seemed to reach their rooms.)

His eyes adjusted to the relative dark, moonlight peeking in from the window at the end of the corridor, and made his way down the hall, somehow already knowing who and what he’d find. 

There was Vivian, yellowed out and chattering, wrapped in her bathrobe with her blanket around her shoulders and her hand feverishly knocking against the counter, looking at the spilled kettle on the floor with bleary eyes. A deflated hot water bottle sat on the sideboard, waiting to be filled. How hard had it been for her to find the kettle and fill it in the dark, when her hands were as bad as they were?

"Jesus, Vivian.” In two moments he was next to her, picking up the kettle and its lid and setting them on the sideboard, grabbing a towel from the rack to mop up the floor. “Why didn't you say anything?” 

"Don't send me home." Her voice struggled through chattering teeth. "I don't want to go home."

"No one's sending you home, I just want you to be warm." It was the most honest he'd been all day. “You're shaking. Let's get you back to bed."

“I have work to do.”

“Yes, you do,” he agreed wholeheartedly, steadying her back down the hall to her room. “And so do I.” It was all too easy to steer her back down the hall, back into her bed and to tuck the covers around her. “You’re going to stay in this bed until that water boils, and I will bring the hot water bottle back to you,” he said, in a tone that said he would not be taking no for an answer here. “There’s no sense in the two of us freezing here.”

How long it was, to wait in the dim light of the kitchen impatiently anxious for the kettle. She’d been left for the last 48 hours, but who was to say it hadn’t started sooner? Without antimalarials she needed the shivers to come down as soon as possible, or there was a risk of febrile - 

He darted back to his room for aspirin and came back just as the kettle was starting to boil. 

“Take these,” he ordered, handing her the tablets and a glass of water, the now full bottle under his arm. She palmed the pills and drained the glass, teeth still chattering. “And then let’s get you warmed up.”

“What are you doing?” she asked, as he tucked the now-hot bottle in between her and her blankets, and then left his slippers at the side of the bed and slipped in between the sheets with her. 

“Making sure you stay in this bed and sleep,” he said, as if this were the most normal thing in the world, to climb into a woman’s bed. (No one could complain - she was still in her dressing gown and he was still in his.)

 “I’ll be warmer than a hot water bottle, in this icebox.” 

Her body felt strange next to his own, hot and cold all at once, and there was the familiar urge to do what one did with a woman in bed, wrap your arms around her and pull her closer than law and manners would allow. But that was for another time and another place. You need care just like any of those men downstairs do - but it’s not your arm that’s broken, Vivian Arsenault, and you don’t need someone to talk to. And I care, even if you don’t want me to, even if you want the world to think you don’t need caring. A little distance was required - but not much. His arm was loose around her body, outside the folds of her bathrobe.

He thought she’d make more noise about it, but nothing came. “And here I thought you might protest a little more, Lieutenant.”

A pause. “You’re the only one who read the files,” she managed, quietly. “ All of the others were too worn through to care.” Another pause. “And If you were really going to try something you’d have done it by now. First week, maybe. First night.” She hugged the hot water bottle closer. “You saw I was sick and asked if I was feeling alright.” Another pause, longer this time. “And I don’t…mind it so much, from you.”

Something in him was in freefall. I feel…something for you, Vivian Arsenault, and I thought for a while it was simple fascination but I think it’s more than that. “I may kiss you,” he warned, perfectly serious about it. Make me useful to you, Vivian.

“I may let you,” came the reply, gently tucking her body closer to his. Her hand closed around his and he shut his eyes feeling finally content, knowing that tonight, at least, there would be no dreams except of her.

[bettysupremacy]

Hi! How are you? I hope everything is well :) I saw that your requests open and I wanted to request a James Potter fic where the reader is a bit insecure when it comes to romantic stuff because she has never dated anyone so when James and the reader start dating she gets really shy about everything and James helps her feel comfortable with all of it maybe? I hope you like the idea! Thanks in advance :)

hey babe! thank you for the request I hope you like how it turned out

James stands in the bathroom, sink running, caps clicking. The sight and sound is a kind of domestic you’ve never felt before. This freaks you out.

“You wanna pick a movie, dovey?” It’s warped and bubbly from a mouthful of toothpaste, but you understand.

When he’d asked you to spent the night you hadn’t realized the intense bellyache of anxiety you’d get sitting in his bed, in his shirt, in his socks, waiting for him to be finished in the bathroom. If you had, you would’ve backed out.

You’re fingers fumble through his dark blue comforter. His room is so him, it’s a little suffocating. The remotes not here. Blue comforter, tee shirt thrown over his bed, circle framed glasses on a nightstand. His bedside table catches your eye. It’s in there.

You simply cannot open that drawer. You’re already suffocating in the intimacy of his room, you can’t also fall into the depths of his most personal drawer. He notices, wiping his mouth and jogging to the bed.

“Sorry.” He swiftly opens the drawer and tosses you the remote. It lands in your lap with the cushion of his blanket. “You ok?”

“I’ve never done this before.” You frown embarrassed.

“Slept over at my flat?” He breathes out, suppressing a smile. ”God, I hope you haven’t done that. D’be a bit weird, bug.”

You breathe a laugh but it comes out wonky. He frowns. “What’re you worried about?”

“I don’t know.” You whisper. His hands grab yours, thumbs working into your skin.

“Y’don’t gotta be nervous.” He smiles. “We’re just watching a movie is all.”

“And sleeping.” You add. “In the same bed.”

“Sleeping is what you’re worried about?” He teases. “You’ll be unconscious, I think that’s the least of your worries.”

You smile, genuine smile, this makes james proud. “What if I hog the blanket?”

“As long as you’re warm.”

“Stop.”

“What!” He laughs. “As long as my baby’s warm I’m content.”

You shake your head. “What If get too close? I’ve never shared a bed.”

“Baby, if you think that’s a problem..”

“I’m serious.” You give weakly.

“I’m serious! If you mind your personal space I won’t mind mine.”

The stare is silent but the smile on his face has you fighting off your own. He takes his hands back, bringing them up to your face. Rubbing the rough surface of his rugby palms over your cheeks, you lean into the touch.

“Seriously, baby,” he murmurs, “don’t fret it.”

You nod. Letting him take in your face.

Slowly, very slowly, he pushes you back. You almost don’t notice but the way his hands come down to your shoulders brings nerves back into your belly.

“I like when you’re in my personal space.”

He lays on you like a weighted blanket. Though, you can’t feel a weighted blanket breathe. Head in the spongy pillows, your fingers come up and tangle in his curls.

“This is nice.” You mutter.

“See?” You can feel him sigh. “Don’t let anxiety eat you.”

“Okay.”

“There’s nothing to be anxious over, you’re safe.”

“I know.” You mumble again.

He looks up at you. “You getting tired? Should we skip the movie?”

“No, put it on.” Your head shakes as much as it Can laying down. “I won’t fall asleep.”

“You liar!” He affably laughs. He can feel your giggles against his chest. “Can I at least get a kiss before we start the movie and you don’t fall asleep?”

“Mhm.”

The kiss he plants to your lips is warm and sturdy. He sits there for a second, too long to be chaste, to quick to be deep. When he pulls back you’re smiling.

“Y’ready?” He pushes some hair from your face. “You pick a movie?”

“No.”

He groans loudly, dropping back down on you. “What would you do without me?”

[diazsdimples]

Fuck It Friday!

Hi! How are we all doing after the episode? I've had the most insane week of my life last week, and spent around 60 hours at the hospital (I think), with active shooters and emergency caesareans so didn't manage any words until this morning. I think I live in the Grey's Anatomy universe lowkey dsfkdfs. Please enjoy a little bit of Eddie Lore from Frostpunk AU!!

Tagged for FIF by @wikiangela @smilingbuckley @daffi-990, @hippolotamus and @steadfastsaturnsrings, please go check out all their works! Daffi has a new Rivals chapter out and it is INCREDIBLE

It takes a couple of weeks before the doctors think Eddie and Christopher are strong enough to leave the hospital. Christopher recovers fast, much to Eddie’s relief, and he would be allowed to leave the hospital a week before Eddie, but there’s nowhere for him to go, and Eddie doesn’t want him to leave his side. He’s almost lost his son once; he’s not going to let it happen again.

He’s got a feeling Buck is plotting something. The man has been by his and Christopher’s bedside almost every day since they woke up – and, Eddie suspects, every day before they woke up – with a short break to go out on another mission that he’d grumbled no end about. But lately he’s been talking in hushed tones with Hen and Chimney, and even Bobby, before returning to his chair and pretending nothing had happened. It’s suspicious, to say the least.

Eddie’s still not entirely sure why he feels so at ease with Buck. He barely knows the guy, with only the vaguest, blurriest memories of him before the hospital, but he’s started to wonder if the calm, angel-like presence he felt during his coma might be the same as he feels when Buck is nearby. If Buck was his angel.

They talk a lot. There’s not really much else to do, and Buck seems content to sit and listen to Eddie talk about their life back in Sector 126. Eddie tells him about his parents and his sisters, and what it was like growing up with them.

He tells Buck about how Sector 126 was very devout and focused a lot of their laws off the word of God. How his parents raised him as a good, God-fearing boy but he never felt he was entirely there with them about it all. How he met Shannon and they immediately clicked, becoming inseparable as two teenagers, rebelling against their Sector’s laws as often as they could. How Shannon had come to him 5 months into their relationship to say she hadn’t bled in two months and couldn’t stop throwing up. How Eddie had immediately escaped to the Army Warehouse, claiming it was to support him and Shannon so they can move into a tent of their own.

He tells Buck about raising Christopher with cerebral palsy in a Sector that didn’t believe in taking drastic measures, instead believing that God would provide. How he’d had to resuscitate his newborn son because none of the medics would. Buck holds his hand as he gets choked up, and Eddie feels a relief as the weight of the last seven years lifts off his shoulders. Buck listens and listens as Eddie relives the worst moments of his life as he talks about how he and Shannon decided they couldn’t be together, but they also couldn’t stay in Sector 126 with Christopher, because their son needed help they couldn’t provide him.

When he tells Buck about how Shannon had died 3 days into their journey, frozen overnight because she wouldn’t let Eddie hold her in their shelter as they’d had a fight and she was furious with him, Buck holds him while he cries. He lets himself sink into Buck’s arms, tears streaming down his face and eyes listing shut as Buck scratches his fingers through Eddie’s hair and whispers soothing words into his ear.

He'll never forgive himself for what happened to Shannon, but Buck makes him wonder if maybe he could move on. To allow himself to be happy for the first time in his life.

No pressure tagging

@theotherbuckley @watchyourbuck @bidisasterevankinard @neverevan @babybibuck

@aroeddiediaz @spotsandsocks @bibuckbuckgoose @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg

@jesuisici33 @loveyouanyway @cal-daisies-and-briars @exhuastedpigeon @epicbuddieficrecs

@kitteneddiediaz @hermscat @worriedbisexual @thekristen999 @slightlyobsessedwitheverything

@actuallyitsellie @idealuk @dangerpronebuddie @underwaterninja13 @rainbow-nerdss

@thewolvesof1998 @loserdiaz @elvensorceress

[lonelycowgirls]

Girl on Film

New Harry and Stella content! 🌟🎉 *the crowd goes mild*

I know it's been an AGE, but I've been working on this on and off for a while and I just wanted to get it out there, but it just wasn't happening...

But here it is – I hope you all enjoy as much as I did writing it, certainly made me feel some type of way 😏

Please like, reblog and follow if you enjoy it!

My asks are also open for feedback and ideas to how this universe can continue.

Nel xo

~

“So, I had a patient come in today, who I haven’t seen since her six-week scan, and she said I look good because I’ve put on weight?” Stella said in a questioning tone, pulling her hair back with her fluffy hairband.

“Oh, right,” Harry nodded, turning the corners of his lips down in consideration, then returning to carefully shaving his chin. Stella frowned at him in the mirror and crossed her arms, after popping the cap back onto her micellar water.

“Well, have I?” This was dangerous territory, the way Harry responded now would determine how the rest of their evening would go – and he’d never mastered the right way to answer these types of questions, no matter how many ‘man-to-man’ chats he’d had with his dad and his friends.

“Have you what?” He said, words coming out strangely due to his stretched cheeks as he ran the razor blades carefully across his skin. He heard Stella scoff. Wrong answer.

“Put on weight, you dickhead. Are you even listening?” She resisted the urge to shove his side so as to not cause him to cut himself.

“Oh, right, I can’t say I’ve noticed, bub.” He mumbled nonchalantly as Stella’s chin pulled in with frustration.

“Well, that’s great, a woman who barely sees me notices more about me than my boyfriend who I live with.” Harry rolled his eyes as Stella marched out of their bathroom. He leaned against the double sink unit they shared and hung his head with a sigh, some remnants of white, frothy shaving cream still covering his chin.

This was typical Stella, she knew it as well. Knew that she could fly off the handle at the slightest thing – like she was made of gasoline and just a flicker of a match could cause an explosion. He’d put up with it for a long time, when a few of his friends and family members had told him to leave and find an easier life, he’d considered it for a week at most and then looked at her face again and couldn’t imagine being without her – temper and all.

Harry was a chilled out guy, he liked to think that they balanced each other out. He’d act as fresh water poured over Stella’s flame whenever she got too hot, and Lord did she know how to get him wound up when he needed it.

Yeah, they were a delicate balance, but didn't she ever piss him off as well sometimes.

Once he’d finished up and brushed his teeth, he shut the light off in their ensuite and slumped back into the bedroom with his tail between his legs. Eyeing Stella, she didn’t look up from her book from behind her glasses. She eyed his back when he turned.

Harry pulled the duvet back, sliding in beside her and shutting his lamp off. One arm resting on the pillow above his head, he shuffled to get comfortable and sighed, staring up at the ceiling.

“Was I too skinny before?” Stella asked after a few beats, taking a break from staring at the words on the page — having been on the same sentence for nearly 10 minutes.

“What?” Harry made a distressed face, running his palms across its planes – he was hoping he could just go to sleep and she’d forget about it by morning. “Babe, come on.” He said, rolling to his side to look at her.

“What? I’m being so serious,” she replied, shutting her book and chucking it on her bedside table. “I need to know if I’m living unhealthily.” She flopped her arms down by her sides, looking up to the ceiling.

“You know you’re not though, Stell.” Sure, Stella was on her feet for 15-hour shifts at least twice a week, skipped breakfast and only managed an average of five hours of sleep each night, but she tried to eat well and work out when she did get time. “What’s this really about? Why are you so upset by what this random woman said?”

“Do you really not see it? You never noticed?” Stella felt vulnerable, even after all this time with him, she felt uncomfortable looking him in the eye.

“I don’t want this to come across the wrong way…” Harry came up to lean on his arm, looking down at her and running a hand across her body over the top of the duvet. She chanced a look up at him, skepticism clear on her face. “I haven’t noticed, because I don’t think about it.” Stella opened her mouth to retaliate, almost sitting up but being pushed back down. “Listen,” He warned with a look. “I don’t think about it… because I’m thinking about how I can make you laugh next. I’m thinking about how much I’m looking forward to next sitting down in the evening and having a cuddle whilst watching Love Island or old Four In A Bed episodes, or some new drama you want to watch. I’m thinking about how gentle and loving you are with the cats. I’m thinking about how lucky I am to be able to come home to you, to your hugs and kisses. I’m thinking about how comfortable and cosy you make our home. I’m thinking about how you’re the best friend I’ve ever had… and the only partner I’ll ever want.”

Stella pursed her lips to keep a smile from bursting across her face, Harry moved to remove her glasses from her face, leaning in to kiss her, but she moved her lips away just before they connected. Harry smirked at her with a mock frown in his brow – now she wanted to play.

“You are such a sweet talker…” She said quietly, running her fingers back through his thick hair. “You should write songs.” Harry nodded with a dumb look on his face, like she’d just said she’d discovered that water is wet.

“That’s actually such a shout from you.” Harry nodded, dimple protruding from his smirk. He leaned in to rub his nose against hers, but she continued to dodge his puckering lips.

“You know what,” she said, pushing him back by his shoulder, his eyes growing darker and lulling now, routinely running from her eyes to her lips and back again. “I think it’s because you’re not on tour anymore.” She perched on one elbow to mirror him, creating a level playing field.

“What are you on about?” Harry laughed slightly, trying to pull her into him by her hip even when she pawed at his chest in protest.

“Think I’ve gotten too comfortable, when you’re not here I’m actually conscious of how I look.” She was being honest, he could tell by the lack of smirk next to his own. He shuffled forward, taking her further in his arms — with minimal protest this time.

“I don’t know how to respond to that.” Harry’s voice came out muffled as he buried his face in her neck. She chuckled, rolling her eyes and scratching his scalp through his hair.

“Suppose I should make a bit more effort around you, shouldn’t I, really?” She commented, “You are Harry Styles™ after all.” He brought his head out to look up at her with a deep frown, bordering on disgust.

“Nah, fuck that shit. Sloth about if you want to. Do you, sister.” She smiled softly at him. “Doesn’t make me wanna shag you any less.” She threw her head back in a lazy cackle, and he took that opportunity to press a few kisses to her throat.

“Is that all I am to you… a hole?” She shook her head at him and tried to move, only for him to pull her closer again – damn Brad for those inescapable arms.

“Now, now... you’ve got two other holes which I’m also very fond of.” He smoothed his hands down her sides. “Even if I only got to be in one for about two and a half seconds… and the other one only opens on my birthday.” He pinched at her waist and she gasped, slapping at his arm.

“Got that right.” She said smugly, leaning forward to kiss him firmly on the lips.

“Mmm, now that you mention it,” He bit his lip, nose still grazing Stella’s. “Your arse has been looking a lot rounder... fuller.” He cupped it in his hands, so familiar with the way it felt.

“Stooooop.” She pushed at him, yet again, to no avail.

“Can barely fit it in my hands now.” He was exaggerating, easily grabbing a fistful.

“Harry.” She chastised, trying to roll away. He flipped the duvet off of the two of them, exposing her naked figure.

“Let’s take a closer look, eh?” He instead rolled her to her front, she cackled, accepting her fate and running a hand over her face. “Ah, yes, I believe the mandem would call this, a bunda.” He smoothed his hands up and down over the bare skin, she laughed louder at him pretending to inspect her.

“Stop it, you idiot.” Stella, covered her face in embarrassment as Harry manhandled her arse with his fingers, kneading the flesh like dough.

“No? A batty then.” He questioned, licking a stripe up a cheek and then digging his teeth in for a bite. Stella gasped, feeling a heat pool in her abdomen. She looked down at him then, arching her back to push her bum out to his face. “Oh, so now you like it?”

One thing about Harry; he could make Stella feel like a supermodel. She felt incredibly average in her everyday life, whether it was doing the weekly shop or working the wards. But she always felt undeniably sexy with him — even laid bare before his eyes. When he manhandled her like this, she felt the urge to set up a camera to push record, just so she could watch it back to see herself with him. See him work her up from an outside perspective.

She flipped her hair over to one side, biting down on her lip as he pressed open-mouth kisses all over her arse, feeling herself grow wetter and wetter. She turned her head to watch him again, loving the sight of her gorgeous man worshiping her. His eyes were closed, almost in a dreamlike state, as he pushed each kiss with a small groan and a wet smack.

Ghosting his lips up the crack of her bum, Harry spread her cheeks and spat in the gap, causing Stella to groan. 

“Mm, yes… get it wet, baby.” She sighed out, her voice taking on that velvet tone that had him driving his hips into the duvet. Unable to wait and knowing exactly what she wanted, Harry continued to massage her cheeks up and outwards while he went to town on her hole. He glanced up to watch her burying her face into the pillow, clutching it and groaning from her chest. Unlike when he went down on her up front, Stella could never look directly at him when he ate her arse. She loved it, but he knew she’d never straight up ask for it, so he’d have to take the lead to bring them into the position they were now in, so that she could enjoy herself without embarrassment.

Forcing her hips back into his face, Harry growled and brought his hand down with a smack, followed by a harsh grip, making her arch and throw her head back. Keeping his lips attached to her hole, he cupped under her hip bones and lifted until she was up on her knees, her sacred parts fully displayed out for him. Before he had a chance to get his own fingers on her, she was rubbing slow, deep circles into her clit, moaning from her throat, hair coating her face as she pressed into the pillow.

He smirked when their fingers brushed and moved back slightly to spit at her again, licking and smacking his lips against her puckering hole that was clenching in rhythm with her heavy breathing. Her fingers came to move in tandem over his on her clit, allowing her to guide her own pleasure.

“Fuuuuuck me, I’m gonna come, love your fucking mouth.” Curses tumbled from her lips but before she could reach the apex, she was flipped to her back. Harry grabbed her wrist as she bounced back on the mattress, hair a disarray and chest and face carrying a delicious flush, and placed it back on her pussy. She immediately began her furious ministrations again.

“Come, baby,” He ordered, lying on his stomach, face inches from where her fingers were flying, he spat on her once more to keep her going. “Let me see that pussy clench.” He held her legs open and she winced over the stretch pulling at her inner thighs. At last, silently screaming, Stella’s mouth went agape. Her chin dropping to her chest, eyebrows drawing in almost impossibly close and finally breaking eye contact as they rolled to the back of her head. “Yes, yes, yes.” He chanted, mesmerised.

Seconds of silence were finally met with a deep growl from her throat as her head fell back on her shoulders and she convulsed in ecstasy. Harry pulled her wrist away and attached his lips to her clit, sucking it like a sticky sweet. Every breath that escaped her lungs was paired with a small high-pitched moan, her nails digging into her boyfriend’s head while her hips rutted into his face.

Harry could tell she was coming down, after years of pleasuring her he knew her body almost as well as she did. He moved to press soft kisses across her labia, continuing up to her soft tummy, each full breast and up to her neck. Her ankles locked around his lower back as she draped her arms across his shoulders — feeling consumed and divinely pleasured. 

Harry rutted up into the backs of her thighs, “You’re such a little sex pot, aren’t you,” another rut, a moan from her, “could watch you play with yourself forever.” Another rut, “We should film ourselves.”

“Oh, yeah,” She sighed over a laugh, shaking her head. “Can’t imagine what could go wrong there.”

“No one will ever see, baby.” Harry whispered, darkly, running the tip of his nose up her cheek, pushing a kiss into her temple. “Wanna take you away with me, I’ve been in love too long… I’m too grown to be missing you… touching myself like a teenager over just the thought of you… your body… the way it feels… the way it responds to me… wanna have something to really remind me.”

It’s like he was drunk, all this mumbling, he was drunk on her. On them. It was all Stella could do but to lie back and take it, they didn’t even need to place him inside her, he just rutted until he slipped in, a soft gasp leaving her lips as he slid along her walls. 

She caressed the side of his face with the tips of her fingers, both of their bodies pressed together and rocking back and forth together. It was intense — Stella had never cried during sex before, but the feeling of burning behind her eyes suggested a first time for everything.

Harry’s pubic bone continued grazing her clit, so right that it was almost maddening. Stella couldn’t control her moaning, it was nearly too much. His strong hips sped up consistently until their breathing was mingling together in a tangle of hot air and she was clinging to him for dear life.

“Baby, baby, baby, fuck!” Stella squealed rhythmically as they rocked, “God, Harry.” She cried in disbelief and tried her hardest to keep her eyes on his, she couldn’t bare to miss a moment of the look on his face — just so enamoured, present and fucked out. They needed this so badly. She ran her thumb over his bottom lip. “I love you…” Stella was feeling every emotion, Harry had done what only he could, he’d stripped her walls and made her submit. “I’m beyond in love with you, Harry.” She breathed out with a moan that had Harry tearing up, but also speeding up. “I’m part of you.”

“Fuck…” Harry cursed, holding his mouth over hers and panting over the excursion of his hips, his masculine instinct kicking in. He was fucking her like an animal fucks his mate – like it was the last thing he’d ever do. 

When he finally came, it was with a juvenile whine as she held his chin between her thumb and fingers and clenched down hard, and she was reminded of her gentle and sensitive lover. She brought him down to kiss her and his repetitive, high-pitched moans vibrated on her tongue. Rolling off of her, they both laid with their arms splayed out, Stella’s head still resting on Harry’s forearm. She stuck her tongue out at the icky feeling of his come dribbling out of her, but could barely feel her legs to move to the toilet.

“You get sooo emotional when we fuck nowadays.” Harry panted, energy spent, droplets of sweat running back into his hairline.

“Shut up, I can’t help it.” Stella weakly hit his rising chest with the back of her hand, making him laugh. “Your dick triggers me.”

“Nah, I love it. Never change.” She smiled at that, rolling slightly to throw a sticky leg over his hips.

“Oh, don’t worry, this temper and batty isn’t going anywhere, baby.”

~

Read more from the Been There All Along universe here!

[little-bloodied-angel]

This morning I woke up and my right leg was screaming. The pain was so intense and brutal it was what woke me; I had to sink my teeth into my pillow and scream, too. Every cell from hip to knee is (yes, still) burning, liquid acid going through my veins; and the calf is strained and cramped and protesting the extra work as hard as it can.

I still had to use the bathroom; when I tried to stand up it buckled, like a lightning bolt went through it, and I went to the floor. Even just rotating in bed to get out was agonizing on my hip. My foot was numb, full of pins and needles for lack of proper circulation.

I limped there, dragging my leg behind, supporting my weight on the wall and gritting my teeth. The process of sitting down and standing up almost made me black out.

Over the sink, I looked at myself in the mirror and willed myself not to cry. When I came back into my room I caught sight of my medications on my bedside table, the myriad of pills I'll be taking for as long as I live. The Tramadol on top of them was mocking me, and I did cry then.

I remember everything my body could do. I remember flying. I remember the fall, too, the agonized animal screams that seemed to come from outside my body, the brutal audible SNAP of muscle and tendon, the bone against the hardwood, the hushed whisper-shouts of "get help -she can't move -she can't walk -god, her leg!"

The doctor's office and his placid smile as he told me I was "lucky" because my ACL didn't require surgery at the same time he delivered my death sentence, or what may as well been.

"A career in ballet is no longer an option for you".

I know he didn't understand how people who dance with the goals I did live and die for that dancing. He thought I was young and I'd find something else to do. I was young and a part of me died in that accident and I had to bury it.

I remember a different doctor, a different office, her worried face scanning my psychiatric history like she thought I'd kill myself right in front of her because of the diagnosis as she told me what I already knew.

"You have fibromyalgia. I'll prescribe medication to manage it, you have to be careful with it. But..."

But it'll never get better. You'll always hurt. It'll get worse. I already knew that. I just wanted someone to sign on it, because it turns out that when doctors perceive you as female, complaints of chronic pain tend to fall by the wayside, particularly if you have a history of mental illness. She took me seriously. She warned me about my leg, about what a flareup would do somewhere I'm already hurting all the time, and I kept myself from barking at her I fucking know, that's part of what it's been like for almost a decade because at least she believed me.

I mourned my body again, all the same.

I lay in bed gripping my thigh, trying to will the spasms down, trying to decide between yelling and sobbing, trying to figure out why: had I slept on it wrong? Was it the weather? It had hurt after walking too much on Monday, but not as much as I expected; a delayed reaction? It didn't matter, in the end; it wasn't going to take the pain away.

I thought of Izzy, as I tore my lips apart with my teeth to feel something that wasn't my damn leg. I thought of how real he felt, the tears and the screaming, the gritted teeth, the suicidal loss of identity. The loneliness. I thought of his stubbornness, his progress. How much both of those realities meant. How they thrashed it all, in one moment, and all but told us, the ones that feel like him, "when the desire to die comes back just do it. You've outlived what you were, so who you are has *had enough*", and my mouth tasted like blood for more than one reason.

He meant so much. He could have meant so much more. And we have to wipe the spit of this insult from our faces and carry on and accept it was part of a happy ending.

He might've forgiven it all; he was a character and you made him. I don't. I won't. I'm still here, with my pain and anger, and I refuse to die so the people who want me gone can live in peace. And I refuse to be quiet and accept that for a happy ending I should fade away.

If you can't understand this anger, at least don't insult me and others like me by telling us there's no reason for it.

I'm hazy with pain and aware that I'm rambling. But whatever I don't bleed in ink will poison me.

[ladyofthe-lake]

"Season's Change" — a #Suptober24 ficlet

Day 1: Autumn

When Dean crawls his way to Lisa’s, his face and body healed from the fight with Lucifer but everything else still shattered, summer is already beginning to take root in Cicero, Indiana. The heat of the months that follow feels only right, as Dean’s mind is halfway in the world he’s found himself in, a suburban life, and halfway in Hell, where Sam is locked in a cage with Lucifer and Michael. The flames of it lick at him; the chains from his own time in Hell burn his skin, he swears he can feel it.

After the initial shock of his arrival wears off, Lisa takes some time to set down ground rules: it starts and ends with don’t do anything crazy, Dean. She doesn’t know all of the details of what he’s been through, just how close the world came to ending for her and Ben and everyone in their little suburb; doesn’t know that Dean’s been scraping by on blind hopes, deals with every kind of devil they make, and prayers to a falling angel for the past two years; doesn’t know that he has no idea how to do this picket-fence, apple-pie life.

But she does know the shapes of these things, the weight of them as he sinks into bed with her. She knows that he struggles to hold them; that at any moment they may topple over, and that they might hit her as they drop, or worse, they might hit Ben.

Dean knows it too. He tries to keep it together, he really does. At least, he does when he’s not sneaking into the garage to grab weapons out of the Impala, or gathering ingredients for the latest spell or ritual he’s found in a dark corner of a library or a page so deep in the internet’s web that he’s not sure he’d ever be able to find it again. You could call it a last ditch effort, but he left last ditch miles back, and now he’s in his own territory of hopelessness.

He’s normal. He is. When he’s not creeping out to a crossroads with the knife in his hand, ready to carve up whatever son of a bitch is brave enough to show its ugly face without giving him what he wants. When he’s not dropping to his knees at the bedside, as Lisa tucks in Ben in the next room, folding his hands in front of him, bowing his head, and trying to find words to say a prayer, one that would make sense, one that would reach Cas’s ears. One that might ask what he wants to ask: did you put me back together wrong, there in the cemetery? When you fixed me — what did you leave behind?

In early June, the morning after Dean’s summoned a demon and offered anything, any damn thing, in exchange for Sam’s escape from the cage, Lisa tells him that Ben’s been asking for burgers. And she’s got work, Ben’s at day camp, but Dean’s got the day free — or so she thinks, though his plan involves a follow-up with the crossroads bitch from the night before — so why doesn’t he go to the grocery, grab some chuck, throw it on the grill?

What ensues is a long, hot day of fighting with the fucking thing. First he goes to the store and argues with himself about the meat, which to choose; same with the buns, same with the fixings. Dean loves a burger, of course he does, but he’s never just made one from scratch. Never wandered into the local Kroger to grab ingredients so he can whip them up — where? Outside of the shittiest motel in every backwater town in America that’s got a monster problem?

When he gets back with the stuff, he opens up the grill to check it out, and sees that it’s in deep need of a clean. Even Dean can tell that. So he spends awhile scraping off the char, wiping down the grates, and while he’s out there in the backyard, he notices it needs a mow.

So he mows it. And then he notices the gutter’s loose on the end, so he gets up on the ladder and fixes that. While he’s up there, he decides to stomp around on the roof a bit, check for any weak spots or leaks like he knows what he’s doing. He tries, really tries, to be domestic. To be settled.

It’s not exactly the summoning ritual he’d intended, but well, he’d gotten nothing from the demon the night before, and if he doesn’t grill up some perfect hamburgers tonight, Lisa might throw him out. As much as he feels like a fly trapped in a box and trying to accept it as home, he knows this stability thing is good for him. It’s giving him a springboard from which to figure out his next move. And it’s not so bad; he likes Lisa, likes Ben, likes who he pretends to be when he’s with them.

When evening comes, Ben arrives in a howl of excitement, Lisa traipsing in the door behind him. Dean goes to fire up the grill, ready to make them both happy, because it’s easy and he can do it — better than stopping the damn apocalypse, yeah? — only there’s no gas. He curses, Lisa reprimands him lightly for doing so in front of Ben, and it’s back to the grocery store.

Despite all Dean’s best efforts, the burgers come out hard that night, and Ben calls them hockey pucks and throws his on the ground. The adjustment to living with someone new in the house has been difficult, and Lisa tries to tell Dean this, but well, he doesn’t have to hear it, does he? He feels for himself how difficult it’s been. He apologizes to Ben, then takes him to the Burger King down the road. When Ben dons the paper crown, Dean smiles and takes a picture with his phone.

That night he takes the Impala for a long drive, but he doesn’t go back to the crossroads. He can’t handle two failures in one day. He just fucking can’t.

The summer swelters on and on. His new life gets in the way of his grasps at the old one; he doesn’t have the time for the research, rituals, and other things he needs to try to help spring Sam out of the box. Ben goes to batting practice at the local Little League diamond on Mondays; he has swim lessons at the community pool on Tuesdays; Lisa teaches a late yoga class on Wednesdays so it becomes ‘Dean Night,’ which is synonymous with chicken nuggets for dinner and a movie Ben probably shouldn’t be allowed to watch but enjoys thoroughly; Thursdays the neighbors come over and they all talk about work, and kids, and things like the economy; Fridays, he learns, are good for date night, and he understands the groove of Lisa’s favorite restaurants within a few months; Saturdays and Sundays are variable, sometimes with birthday parties for Ben’s friends, sometimes with outings to museums or amusement parks, but always something to fill the days.

By July, Lisa’s gotten him a job. By August, he’s spent every spare moment, cashed out every credit card he has, and has nearly gotten himself killed a dozen times over trying to unlock the Lucifer box. By September, his exhaustion is palpable, and the grass is growing long again, and again, and again.

The change to autumn is the first full seasonal change he spends in one place since he was four in Kansas. He’s there to see the daily temperatures steadily, blessedly, drop. He helps pack Ben’s lunch for his first day of school and listens to a blow-by-blow account of the day when the school bus drops him off at home. He’s there when Lisa pulls out the autumnal decorations, the felt pumpkins that she places on the bookshelf, the spider web that she strings across the front porch railing, even the witch’s hat that she sets on the dining room table.

Dean tells her that witches don’t really wear those hats, but that they do love a disgusting little pile of bones. And she shoots back that she’s not going to put a pile of bones on the table.

He’s there, still, waiting for something to happen, waiting for a real shift to come, waiting to feel satisfied with this new life he’d wanted, when the trees in the backyard drop their leaves.

It’s a Saturday. Ben’s with his cousins for the weekend and Lisa has a yoga retreat. She leaves early, kissing him on the cheek as he lays in bed, tells him to have a good day, to do something with himself. And he tries to think of what to do: is there a book he hasn’t gotten his hands on yet, is there lore somewhere that he hasn’t heard of? Could he call up Bobby (again) and take the earful of idjits if only it would get him an answer? But no, there’s nothing left to try. Not even Bobby can figure this one out, and he’s told Dean several times now to stop trying.

So he lumbers out into the mid-morning chill, grabs the rake and doesn’t look at the Impala, which he’s now covered up, trying not to tempt himself. He takes the rake and a bag and heads out into the yard. Last time he talked to Bobby, he’d be told to sit down and be happy with his life, that it’s the best one a hunter can hope to get. But how can that be, when there’s a gaping hole in the middle of it? When everything gets pulled in and disappears? Cas is blowing in the wind, Sam’s in Hell, Bobby’s tired of Dean’s bitching — what can he do?

The yard is covered in leaves. He starts in the northwest corner and decides to work logically. It’s physical work, but not difficult. Dean’s gotten soft in the past couple of months and he knows it. He should get a gym membership, only he can’t really imagine himself in that kind of environment. Used to be, the adrenaline of the hunt would carry his aching, tired body for miles; used to be, he could take any kind of punch and get back up. Now, though, as he rakes the leaves into ever-bigger piles, he wonders if those last punches he took were enough to knock him down — permanently.

As he rakes and fills up bag after bag, stuffing the leaves inside of them until they’re full to bursting, his thoughts are drawn toward Cas. Cas, who disappeared without a trace. Cas, who’s probably busy fixing Heaven, and good for him, only Dean wants him to come back now, wants him to lay his hand on Dean’s shoulder and see if he can take another go at fixing him. Maybe he didn’t get deep enough at the cemetery; maybe he didn’t realize there was more to do, more to sew back up.

He doesn’t pause, just keeps working, even as these thoughts spill through his mind. Cas, who’s made it clear that his real life is in Heaven, that his choice is to live with the angels while Dean mucks it out with the humans down here. Cas, who went through hell with him, who had him gasping for air in his own damn coffin, who could come find Dean at any time he wanted but hasn’t yet. Cas, who’s celestial and big and important and probably, right now, is glad that Dean’s tucked away nice in his little suburban life; safe, quiet. Cas, who doesn’t have to clean up Dean’s messes anymore. Cas, who’s probably relieved.

Dean keeps working until each leaf has been raked into a pile, until each pile has been shoved into a bag and carried out to the front curb. He works until the cold is beginning to get to him, to tingle his fingers and toes. He works until he feels something akin to that moment, at the end of a hunt, when everything seems to be teetering on the top of some divide; when it could fall one way or the other, when everything could change for the better or for the worse.

He’s tired of having one foot in his old life and one in his new; it’s time to pick a damn side, for his own sanity — to put that ahead for once, yeah? Sam’s not breaking out anytime soon, not unless something changes, and when it does, Dean’ll be ready. But for now, the only thing that’s happening is he’s driving himself crazy and wearing out his welcome with Lisa and Ben. His new life.

Dean ties up the final bag, and glances back toward the tree line, just for a moment, not sure why he does it. For a second, there, he’d sworn he saw something. He gets the strange feeling in the back of his mind, the feeling that there’s something important that he’s supposed to do, only he doesn’t know what it is.

He carries the bag to the curb and tosses it next to the rest, then heads inside. He locks the door behind him and heads upstairs, to shed his clothes into the laundry basket, to shower with the full-sized shampoo and body wash that he bought at the store weeks ago, to towel off with his towel, to go downstairs and take out his dishes and make his lunch.

Upstairs, in the bathroom, he pauses to look out the window one last time, to see the yard from above. It’s clear, the grass visible but dying, the leaves gone. It looks good. He smiles a bit, because it’s all he can do, and then turns on the hot water.

[littlelovelyra]

Chapter 3: Mine. (In Darkness, Hope Flickers)

AO3

Ascended Astarion (reimagined) x Vamp Spawn Durge (female, named)

"Once again, no gods answered your cries… they never did. You called out many times over these past 200 years and you were always met with the same deafening silence."

Notes on series: I explore Ascended Astarion. In this world, I have chosen to have him find himself again as the series progresses. Please think of this as reimagining his story where yes, he has a lapse in judgment out of fear and ascends. However, I think it would be beautiful to have him redeem himself, defying what it is to be a vampire lord. Eventually, breaking the cycle of abuse

MINORS DNI

Warnings: Possessiveness, mild non consent, gortash, angst, slight manipulation, PiV, language, teasing?, kinda smutty, ascended astarion,

Summary of chapter is below. Word Count: 4,966

Summary of chapter: A few weeks have passed since you and Astarion had last been together, the solitude that surrounds you feels heavy but not as heavy as the void that fills your heart. You know this break was needed and that inevitably you will eventually lose your freedom to him once the tadpole is removed, so is there even a point in having a break? While you and your companions continue to gather more information on the Absolute you have decided to utilise your previous connection with Gortash to gain his trust by attending one of his many extravagant parties, however, you were not successful in gathering information. What could have derailed that?

____________________________________________

Lilah:

In the cold solitude of the night, the bed you once shared with him feels like a vast ocean in his absence and every evening you sink helplessly within its sheets, drowning in your loneliness. Memories woven into every single piece of stitching haunt you and fill you with deep mourning for the loving relationship you once had. No matter how often you wash your clothes, sheets and even your hair, his scent lingers as if to push you down further into sadness viciously. Taking a break from him was necessary while you were still free and you know you have lost the man he once was. You needed to accept this reality, yet you held on to that tiny glimmer of hope that he might still be in there. Your Astarion… the man who opened his heart to you despite years of abuse… the man who trusted you to see parts of him that nobody else saw. A white-hot pain rips through your chest again, leaving another set of deep slashes on your heart and tears spill from your eyes. 

You roll over, bury your head into your pillow and scream into the feathered void. This has become routine for you when it reaches midnight. In a burst of frustration you snatch a book from your bedside table and fling it across the room, watching it soar through the air hitting the wall with a loud thud and another thud followed as it reached the floor. You curl yourself up into a ball and release a new set of tears as soft sobs escape from your lips. 

You must not have heard the door open to your room as you feel a warm hand gently squeeze your shoulder. Lifting your head through your blurry vision you see Halsin kneeling before you as concern floods his eyes and another sob escapes your lips. He gently pulls you down to the floor and cradles you in a soft embrace as if you were a piece of fragile porcelain. 

“Shhh my heart, it’s alright.” His hand rubs warm circles on your back as you inhale deeply trying to stop yourself from crying. “Come, you need to rest.” He lifts you as he stands and places you back into your bed. You feel his weight sink in next to you on the mattress and you turn towards him nestling yourself in his arms. “Sleep… please, I’ll stay with you.” His voice is soft but you can hear the slight edge of worry woven through his words and all you can do is nod your head in response. Halsin is a good man and perhaps in another world the two of you would have met under different circumstances and fallen madly in love. But in this world, underneath these stars, your heart only yearned for one person and it was not him. 

‘Would it be so horrible to at least give Halsin a chance?' A thought flitters across your mind as you feel his arms pull you closer to him. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on him; he deserves more than I could offer him. My heart wouldn’t be in it… and even if I could, I would be under Astarion’s command once the tadpole is gone.’ A quiet acceptance rolls through you as you close your eyes and take a deep breath; the sweet scent of honey and warm earthy undertones envelop you, and slowly you drift off to sleep.

************

The sound of muffled voices in a heated conversation stirs you from your sleep. As you slowly wake up and look around your room, you notice that you are alone once more and the morning light trickles in through the curtains. Cautiously, you tiptoe to the voices and press your ear against the door, eavesdropping. Gale, Halsin, and Astarion are in a heated disagreement, you steady your breathing, straining to catch every word.

“I’m with Halsin on this, there is absolutely no way we can put more strain on her right now. You heard him Astarion, she is barely sleeping.” Gale’s voice is frustrated and laced with annoyance.

“Right, so we are meant to trust the Druid because he obviously knows what’s best for her, hmmm? Need I remind you who I am to her?” Astarion sighs dramatically.

Halsin scoffs loudly “Who you are to her? I can tell you who you are. You are the very thing keeping her awake at night. You have shattered her soul, all for power. Did you know that she has wept every single night since she separated from you?” Astarion stays quiet. “No? Or were you aware, but you did not care to save her from her heartache? Because power means more to you?” Halsin’s words are like a blade, sharp and deadly. 

“She was the one who asked for a break, Druid. Do not imply that it was my decision. I don’t see what any of this has to do with us anyway. Gortash has requested our presence, and given her history with him, it only makes sense that she attends with us. We are meant to be his allies, or, at least appearing to be so. It is one party for hells-sake. I am sure she can cope.” Exasperation seeps from Astarion as his patience begins to wear thin. 

“I will not ask her to do this.” Halsin lowers his voice, and an eerie calm settles in each word. As you try to silently shift your weight to your other foot, a very faint creak escapes from the floorboards. Halsin continues, thankfully not noticing the sound. “I will not put more pressure on her, by all means, Astarion, you go and ask her. Drive that wedge further between the two of you. I will be there picking up the pieces.” 

“Well, my dear Druid, I believe I don’t need to ask her as it seems she’s been listening in.” Light footsteps approach, and before you have time to react, Astarion opens the door and stands before you smugly. “Hello, beautiful. Care to join the conversation? It would be rude not to, seeing as you have been listening in.” 

You stare him down, and pure rage settles in your stomach. You straighten your posture, turning towards Gale and Halsin. “Gortash is having a celebration? Tell him I will be there and that I expect to have his undivided attention.” You turn now and face Astarion “You want me to go and play ally with Gortash? I was not only Bhaal’s chosen, but his chosen too. I’m sure your powerful mind can figure out what that means, master.” You lock crimson eyes and watch as your words sink in. Astarion holds your gaze for a moment then turns and descends into the tavern. 

Gale awkwardly clears his throat and mutters about needing to finish breakfast for everyone. With a hasty retreat, he leaves the foyer, abandoning you and Halsin to the silence. 

“Gortash’s chosen?” Halsin asks curiously. 

“We... have a history. I sometimes have small moments recollecting our time together. I would not call it a relationship; it was casual, and no commitment was needed. However, he chose to only be with me.” You avoid his gaze as a wave of shame swallows you.

“I understand. Would you explore that again with him?” Halsin’s voice carries no judgment, just his genuine curiosity. 

“No. I don’t think I would. Now that I know what love feels like, it seems redundant.” You offer him an apologetic smile as you know he understands who you speak of. “Thank you for last night, Halsin. I can’t express to you how much it means to me. I’m just sorry I cannot give you all you want. I can’t commit to anything, and I am unsure I ever will after Astarion...” Your voice trails off as you stare out the open window. 

“Commit? I don’t need your commitment, Lilah. The heart should be free to roam as nature intended. But, I appreciate that we may have different views on the matter, and I would never persuade you to see my ways. If holding you at night is all you need, then I will be glad to help in whatever capacity I can.” He smiles sincerely and pulls you in for a hug.

“Thank you, Halsin. You are a good friend.” You release yourself from the embrace and look up to read his expression. His eyes are soft and peaceful. You believe he means what he says; he is happy to be in your life however he can, and a sense of relief washes over you. “Let's go get some breakfast, huh?” You playfully jab his side and walk into the shared quarters, where you see Gale beginning to serve your companions their food. 

_______________________________________________

Astarion:

As you exit the tavern your mind is filled with confusion and anger. ‘Gortash’s chosen?’ The audacity of that woman, throwing that in your face in front of that blasted druid who so desperately wants her. Over the past three weeks, you've observed from a distance how he seizes every opportunity to play the role of Prince Charming—always rushing to her side with ferocious haste before you could intervene. You knew she wept almost nightly since she called for the break. Your heightened senses do not allow you to escape her soft sobs that she believes no one hears. The way she screams into her pillow, a sound so broken that you fear it may just haunt you for all eternity. But she chose this; she decided to distance herself. Why did she do it if this is how it is impacting her? How were you not good enough for her now when you have all this power? You gave her immortality, and it still wasn’t enough. If you had stayed a spawn, you would have outlived her and being without her was not an option. You took the ascension with so many things in mind, mainly because with this power, you could be together forever and have everything. How was that not appealing? 

Walking along the path you notice the steady stream of people filling the once quiet streets, going about their daily business. Swiftly you make your way to the palace, determined to finally figure out what you want to do with the place.  Honestly, you thought that by ascending, your life would become easier. Yet here you are, struggling to decide how to decorate. You had visions of her bringing it to life, giving it new meaning and making it your own. After everything you had been through together, you would have never thought that ascending would be the demise of your relationship. 

Swinging the doors open you slowly walk through the dull, empty halls, frustration simmers within you until it erupts uncontrollably. In a fit of rage, you yank every curtain from its rails, flooding each room with sunlight. You tear paintings off the walls and strip the bedding from each bedroom, dragging the curtains, bedding, and paintings to the elevator that descends into the hidden chasms beneath the palace. This task takes far longer than you anticipated; you underestimated the sheer amount of clutter that needed to be discarded. Then again, the entire place was in shambles—if you could drag the walls themselves into the chasms, you probably would. As you descend to the hidden rooms, you begin the tedious task of hurling each painting, curtain, and bedsheet over the ledge, watching them plummet into the darkness, never to be seen again.

You repeat this process until there is nothing left, and as you stare out from the ledge into the darkness you can’t hold back your emotions any longer.

“Fuuuuck!!!!!!!” The scream rips through your body, escaping your mouth as you drop to your knees. “Just give me a FUCKING BREAK! Are you listening this time!? GIVE. ME. A. BREAK!” Another scream escapes, and when the echoes fade, a heavy silence swallows you. Once again, no gods answered your cries... they never did. You called out many times over these past 200 years and you were always met with the same deafening silence. A constant reminder that you were alone and it seems the gods intended to keep it that way. An exhausted sigh leaves your lips as you rake your fingers through your hair and return to the elevator, vowing never to return to these hidden rooms again. 

As you exit into the hall a soft, warm light fills the room. Glancing out the window you realise the sun has begun its descent, you didn’t realise how long this process had taken and a part of you was glad that you managed to waste the hours away in solitude. It’s not that you didn’t like being around her anymore, it’s that you felt this annoying feeling in the pit of your stomach knowing that you can’t have her. The way your body aches to hold her makes you feel weak and being in her presence is a constant reminder that not even ascending could stop you from being pathetic. All you have managed to do after gaining this power was fuck up and lose the single most important thing in your life. That certainly doesn’t scream “Vampire Lord”, it screams failure. 

Slowly dragging your hand down your face you gather yourself and inhale deeply. “Get it together. You have appearances to uphold. Especially tonight.” Your thoughts pull you from the pity party you’ve so willingly participated in and you begin to ready yourself for this evenings events at Wyrm’s Rock Fortress. 

As you open one of the closets in the main bedroom, your eyes land on an outfit you've never seen before. In your 200 years as a spawn, no one had ever worn this—it’s the kind of attire you would have remembered. You lift the top carefully and peer inside the collar, discovering its name: "City of Brass," a fitting title for the exquisite garment you now hold delicately.

You slip into a black padded undershirt, its soft fabric comfortably hugging your skin, before tucking it into a pair of black dress pants that contour perfectly to your legs. As you fasten the outer blazer, you catch your reflection in the mirror, admiring the intricate design. The blazer, a deep navy blue, is adorned with elegant silver metallic embroidery, fastenings, and trims that add a touch of powerful sophistication to the ensemble. You slide your feet into a pair of black leather boots then run your fingers through your hair and as you take one last look of yourself in the mirror only one word comes to mind; imposter.

______________***_________________

If you could praise Gortash for one thing, it would be knowing how to put on a great gathering. The man knew how to host a party, as you walk into the main hall the festivities are well underway. Around the room there are small separate groups of people holding drinks in hand engaging in conversation, there are other groups swaying to the music in the middle of the hall and people gathered near the food table filling their plates. 

Across the room a melodic laugh weaves it’s way through the noise filling your chest with a familiar warmth. You know that laugh all to well and as your eyes fall on her you swear you felt your heart beat, once with longing and once with jealousy as you see her hand placed on Gortash’s arm while she throws her head back in laughter. As your eyes roam down her body you see his hand cupping the small of her back against her skin. The dress she wears is a beautiful midnight blue with a low cut back, the material flows straight down her body and is slightly translucent as each time the light catches her you see her shadowed figure through the thin material. You watch as Gortash’s hand lowers to the edge of that low cut back nearing her backside and a fiery heat ignites through you.

“Oh I think NOT.” You grumble to yourself as you stalk over, composing yourself along the way. You needed to look confident and you needed to stop whatever THAT was.

“Well, well, Darling you look ravishing this evening.” Your words smooth over like silk as you subtly wrap your arm around her waist and turn her into you. Placing a soft kiss to her cheek you bring your mouth to her ear “You have no right looking this delicious.” 

“You showed up. I assumed you would not be joining us this evening since you were away all day.” She peers up at you through her lashes, her gaze landing on your lips for a brief moment before meeting your eyes. 

“Ah yes, I had some business to attend to but I would never miss the opportunity to see you all dressed up.” Your lips pull up into a smirk as you subtly inch closer to her, needing to feel her lips against yours just once. 

You hear Gortash clear his throat as his hand settles on her shoulder pulling her attention away from you and you felt like ripping that hand clear off his body in that moment. 

“Astarion, how nice of you to join us, I was just about to take Lilah for a little walk down memory lane. You don’t mind, do you?” He raises his eyebrow in a challenge with a shit eating grin spreading across his features. 

“Memory lane, huh?” Your gaze falls to Lilah who watches you curiously and you feel the muscle tick along your jaw while you clench your teeth waiting for her response. You know what memory lane is, Gortash and her had history before she lost her memory. “By all means, be my guest. Who am I to stop old flames from rekindling?” Your question is more of a challenge to her and part of your soul begs her to prove you wrong. 

She looks at you in disbelief and you see the rage flood her features. “Come on Enver, I would love to reminisce, perhaps you can help jog my memory.” Her voice is cold but you hear an edge of pain there as she links her arm through his and you watch them disappear up the steps, heading toward his private quarters. 

Fuck. 

______________________________________

Lilah

Enver’s private quarters has a vague familiarity as you slowly move around the room taking in the decor. As you skim your hand along his desk images of your cheek being pressed against the hard surface makes your skin crawl as you recall this piece of furniture being utilised for more than just the signing of documentation. Perhaps it was foolish being brought here but you did this out of spite, you thought that maybe Astarion would stop you, that maybe it would stir something in him. Unfortunately, you were wrong and now you find yourself alone in a room with Gortash.

As he approaches you with two drinks in hand you accept the beverage as a sly smile paints his face.

“That desk was rarely used for work. Though, most of the furniture in this room had been used creatively… apart from this.” His sleazy gaze meets yours as he ushers you towards the long dining table. “I do wonder, if you would indulge me in a little experiment? To see if we can get those memories to resurface?” He gently taps the table gesturing you to take a seat. This is a dangerous game you’re playing but for now there is no need to break an alliance just yet. Confidently you stroll over to the table, lifting yourself up to sit on its surface and as you watch Gortash retrieve a chair from the side of the room your legs tremble slightly as they hang over the tables edge. 

The soft padded chair settles with a dull thud as he places it in front of you and runs his fingers along the fabric, prowling around and eventually seating himself before you. His head in perfect line with your core and you squeeze your knees close together ensuring he has no visuals of your womanhood. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Your mind is races with possible reasoning to deter him because you cannot afford to mess up this alliance, not now. 

“Relax, nothing will happen. Only if you want it to.” A low chuckle escapes from his lips as he places his hand on your knee, his thumb slowly caressing the exposed skin. Visions flood your mind of nights where your skin burned with desire under his touch on this very table. This certainly was his dining table… not only for food. A sick twisting feeling builds up inside your gut as bile starts to rise, you inhale deeply trying to fight the wave of sickness that has taken over after seeing these memories. 

Do something, say anything! Just get off the fucking table Lilah! You scream internally to yourself. Sitting up straight you open your mouth to suggest rejoining his party but before the words can come out you hear the doors swing open. You snap your attention towards the entrance and see Astarion stumbling in with a young blonde female draped over his arm and a fiery rage settles in the pit of your stomach. You lock eyes with him and see his own rage dancing behind those crimson pools as his mouth twists in disgust. In his defence you suppose walking in to seeing Gortash in a very suggestive spot may definitely be a disgusting sight, however, the little blonde thing hanging all over him is just as disgusting in your opinion. A shrill giggle escapes from the woman as she attempts to drag him out by his arm and for the first time since you denied Bhaal your mind swirls with murderous thoughts. 

You grab a butter knife that was left on the table and fling it in his direction, as it cuts through the air it misses his face by inches. The sound of the knife skidding across the ground behind him comes to an end and all that is left is a heavy silence as the two of you glare at one another. 

Gortash chuckles once more as he stands from his seat “Well, I suppose it’s time for me to head back down, I am the host after all.” He takes your hand and plants a soft kiss to your palm and exits the room, taking the young woman with him. 

The door clicks shut and Astarion slowly makes his way toward you, never breaking eye contact. You watch as he stalks his way over and notice the slight flare in his nostrils and tick of his muscles along his jaw from clenching his teeth. As he stands before you his hand grips your face, pulling it up to meet his gaze and he holds you there.

“What?” The word is a challenge from your lips and you wait for his response while he still holds your face in his hand. 

“Explain yourself.” His words bite out through clenched teeth and the crimson in his eyes become ablaze. 

You scoff loudly at the audacity of this man. “Explain myself? I’m not the one sneaking into rooms with pretty little blonde things draped all over me!” You try wriggle your way out from his grip but you can’t break free. 

“I came in here because I thought you may need help removing yourself from the situation. But I see I was wrong.” The heat in his words burn your skin, does he really think you believe him?

“Bullshit Astarion. You couldn’t wait to get yourself another pretty little obedient consort. Don’t lie to me.” You wriggle once more but stay locked in his grip and an irritated sigh escapes you. “I wouldn’t follow you blindly, perhaps your little plan on making me your spawn really backfired on you, hmmm? Go get your little blonde-.” Your words are interrupted by the sound of his other hand slamming down on the table next to you as he draws his face closer to yours, his lips only a hairline away from yours.

“Do not accuse me of such things. Tell me, pet, when his hands were on you did you think of me? Or perhaps when the Druid visits your chambers in the late hours of the evenings, do you think of me then? No? What about when he kisses you? Do I cross your mind at all?” His breath skates across your lips, teasing your senses. “You belong to me.” 

“Fuck you.” Your breathing feels heavy as rage swirls within your chest, a slight tremor begins to take over your bottom lip and before he can notice you catch it between your teeth.

His eyes fall to your lips and as he looks back up at you his mouth crashes into yours. A low groan vibrates from his throat as the hand that once gripped your face laces itself into your hair. His other free hand shifts from the table, gliding to your back pulling you firmly against him and you instinctively wrap your legs around his body bringing him in closer. The anger inside you has not wavered and as far as you can tell, neither has his. Every movement of the kiss is filled with fire and desperation, as your lips part he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth and you feel a brief sting that is later replaced with a sweet metallic taste. Your blood. 

“Don’t…bite me.” You grunt between his kisses.

“What would you do about it?” He quips back in an irritated tone as he moves his hand from your back to your inner thigh, pushing your dress up to your hips.

“Don’t tempt me. Next time my knife won’t miss.” Your hands angrily fumble around his trousers as you unfasten them. A low growl escapes his mouth and the sound vibrates across your lips. 

“I’m sure that would sound very intimidating… to a stick… of butter.” His words stagger as he removes your panties and you feel them slip past your ankles, falling to the floor. “A butter knife… was not a good choice…” his hand snakes its way up your thigh and stops near your core. You feel his index finger trace one long stroke through your slick seam and he groans against your mouth in another kiss.

“Just shut up and take me.” Irritation sweeps through you. This is stupid. He is stupid… You’re stupid. What in the nine hells are you doing right now??

“Always so impatient. That’s your problem.” His words huff out in an irritation of his own as he frees himself and grips your hips. 

“Perhaps I just know what I want. So why wait?” You grip his hardened length and guide him in. As he pushes forward your head falls back and you release a loud sigh, relishing the feeling of him against you again. For a few moments there is only the sound of your heavy breaths and the rhythm of his body driving into you while his thumb works your sensitive bud. A tightness begins to form in your core as your muscles tense and your body begins to tremble. You can feel the sweet release edging closer… closer… and then… he stops.

“What the fuck Astarion?” You wiggle your hips to try get the momentum going and you feel his hands pinning your waist down. 

“End the break.” He breathes into your ear. 

“No.” Your reply is short but sharp. He’s out of his mind. 

“End. The. Break.” His voice is low and commanding but you hear a slight desperation to his words. “Why delay the inevitable? You are mine.” He teases a short thrust that sends flames across your body. 

“If I end the break will you let me come?” Your irritation spills over, how dare he do this to you. You feel his thumb slide down your core. “Maybe.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he rests his forehead on yours. 

“Will you turn me into a vampire? Or will I be a spawn forever?” You close your eyes knowing what the answer will be. 

He pauses for a moment releasing a small sigh. “One day.” A small knot forms in your throat and you realise you have no more fight left in you. He’s right, it is inevitable because once this tadpole is gone you are under his command anyway. Why delay it? 

“Compromise. Let’s compromise. The break is not fully revoked. You need to make me believe that I mean more to you.” You lock eyes with him once more and wait for his response.

“Fine…” He thrusts slowly and a groan breaks free from your lips. “But I get a condition too.” Another slow thrust moves through you. “You are mine. No one can touch you. Not Gortash, not the druid… no one.” Before you have the chance to respond to his claim on you he captures your mouth once again as his body moves against yours. His thumb returning to the sweet little bud that begs for release. His free hand grips your waist and he drives into you faster and harder, the feeling builds up beneath your skin, your muscles tighten, body trembling… and finally the wave of pleasure crashes over you as you cling to him his name escapes your lips in a cry of passion. 

You feel his hips buck as he pulls you closer and as he finds his release he lets out a groan that moves through your body. His hands cup either side of your face, he stares into your eyes and in a deep snarl a single word spills from his lips:

“Mine.” 

Previous Chapter

[satora-lhansi]

Day 11 - Surrogate

“Alphinaud, Alisaie. As of this moment, you shall no longer bear the name of Leveilleur.”

There had been no rest for the Scions since that fateful meeting - the Telophoroi made their move on the Carteneau Flats and everything had been chaos until at last the Lunar Primals had been expunged.

Now, with a quiet moment at last in hand, the weight of what Fourchenault Leveilleur had done began to sink in.

“How could he do this to us?! Our own father, disowned us! And for, caring about people?!” Alisaie was nigh inconsolable, storming around the room, seemingly uncertain what to do with any part of herself.

“Sister, please,” Alphinaud grunted as he tried to restrain her before she threw a framed photo of the Leveilleur twins with their father they had on their bedside table in the Rising Stones. “What father did was inexcusable, I agree, but there are far more urgent matters at hand!”

The fiery twin was near screaming, “I know that, brother, I do! But how are you not angry at him? We are his children, we have spent years trying to do the right thing and help people, and he disowns us! It’s as if he wants everyone outside of our home to die!” A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind and spun her around to face her brother. In an instant, her face broke from rage to despair.

Tears streaking down his face, “I am angry, Alisaie. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, about what he said. But that’s why I can’t let myself dwell on it. He has made his choice, and we’ve made ours. We are doing everything we can to help people.” Alphinaud’s voice broke as he continued, “If he is not proud of that, if he thinks us so wrong as to disown us, then we are not the ones to blame.”

“Oh, Alphinaud, I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

Setting the nearly-chucked photo on its usual table, face down so that neither of the twins would have to look at it, Satora spoke up. “I apologize for coming in here without knocking, you two. We heard yelling and were concerned, so I wanted to check on you.”

Startled, the twins glanced over at their Miqo’te companion who had been at their side these last several years.

“I know it’s not much, but… if you find yourself lacking for family, you know I am here for you, right? We all are. I admit I’ve seen you as almost like family for some time now. If you want to make that official, I would be more than happy.”

Alisaie rushed to the Keeper’s side to hug her, while Alphinaud stopped himself after a few hesitant steps. “I appreciate that more than you know,” he began. “I think I speak for both of us when I say we feel the same, but might we have some time to think on it? The emotions are still raw after all.”

It was Satora’s turn to burst into tears. “Of course, you two. Take all the time you need.”

[wuahae]

juyeon + the mansion at the top of the hill + 11:43pm (But does the time really matter… ill let you decide .) - ari

[23:43] / the mansion at the top of the hill

-

the moon hangs low tonight, the silver light weaving between the trees as it casts a gentle glow through the mansion windows. the cold from outside almost penetrates into the mansion itself, moonlight providing no warmth on a pitiless autumn night—almost.

a single lit lamp held in your hands, your slippers shuffle across the carpet as you make your way down the empty corridor. the wick burns steady, flame flickering as it reflects off the pool of oil swaying about with each step. it was a common occurrence, this sort of thing. at this hour, all the servants had already gone to bed, tired after a long day of work and ready to reset for the next, which meant it was only you roaming these halls. quiet, lingering, waiting.

your bedroom at the end of the corridor is an unassuming sight. a single door leading into the room, the inside is almost just as simple—a vanity placed in the corner, and a small desk placed alongside the wall, and a large bed sitting in the middle of the room. shutting the door quietly,  you place the lamp by the bedside and watch silently as the only source of light casts long shadows throughout the room. the owl hoots, the wind whistles through the rustling of leaves, a branch knocks against the glass.

a part of you still feels it, even with so many years distancing that night from your present. there's still a weight on the other end of the mattress sinking in beside you, the faint phantom of a touch hovering over your skin, a shiver running along your spine as you breathe in a shaky breath and feel yourself shudder on its way out—

"juyeon," you call, soft, and even the wind outside falls to a hush.

if you looked in the vanity mirror, you know you would see his reflection staring at you from behind, so familiar he would be almost solid enough to touch. but you know if you chased that rabbit trail, if you let him lead you to where he wanted you to go, if you turned to face him head on, he would disappear without a trace.

(the flame on the candle flickers; only one shadow remains.)

"i'm sorry," you start, and somehow, it feel like that's all you've been doing, recently. apologizing, and then repeating the same mistakes over and over again. "i took a long time to return, didn't i? i didn't mean to, there was just a lot to handle at the estate today." fiddling around with the trinkets on the vanity, the perfume bottles clink together as you rearrange them, crystal glass cool against your fingertips. "it's an important day tomorrow, after all."

you glance up, and the ghost meets your eyes with a reprimanding look.

"don't look at me like that," you retort, head instinctively trying to snap back before you stiffen and stop yourself midway. you swallow hard. "you know it's not that simple."

it is, juyeon counters silently. you know better than anyone how simple this really is. he doesn't say anything though, he never does.

(look at me. look at me. look at me.)

if he really wanted you to truly let him go, then he'd find a way to make it happen—he always did. you like to imagine you're not the only one complicit in this, that some part of him still wants to remain by your side too.

the clock on the wall ticks, the minute and hour hand aligning perfectly at the top. juyeon's silhouette flickers, like a ripple in the water. it's been officially one year since he's died, and you're still trying to hold on and pretend that you can still touch him.

sometimes, you wonder if it's even him anymore, or if it's just the memory of him you've latched onto. but you've decided it doesn't really matter, in the end. some version of him, however dead it may be, was better than being without him at all.

"good night, juyeon," you whisper. the disappointment in his gaze forces you to avert your eyes tonight, too. just like every night beforehand. the first time it happens, it's a mistake; everything that happens afterwards is a choice, and even with the guilt viscous enough to suffocate, you can't really find it in yourself to care anymore.

("i think i died with you," you'd told him, one night. you've been trying to make true of that every night since.)

there are two ghosts haunting this mansion—you've made sure of it. if you look close enough in the mirror, you can see the faint outline of your figure rotting alongside him. this is the burden you've chosen to carry, the hole you've dug for your own burial.

the candle is blown out with a single whoosh.

[unperceivable-future]

kiss me hard before you go

Hawks/Keigo Takami x Reader

Content warning: Messy writing. English is not my best language and this was not proof-read. Foul language. Angst. Character deaths. Description of trauma. Spoilers. CANON DIVERGENT. Ambiguous ending? THIS IS ACTUALLY ANGST PLEASE, PLEASE STAY SAFE!!!

Synopsis: You really should have kissed Keigo.

Notes: I was listening to Summertime Sadness by Lana Del Rey. Writing this made me dizzy. And I need a new screen protector, this one makes typing difficult.

===============

It is only human to feel regret. It is an emotion that is a trademark to humans.

You suppose it is natural for you to feel this way, to feel the crushing weight of regret and self-anger as you watch yet another sunset of reds and golds from your hospital window.

You should have kissed Keigo before you parted ways.

Fuck, you should have told him everything before you both parted. How much he truly meant to you.

"After the War, we will talk." The memories of his weakened, wincing hug shortly after waking up from his fight with Dabi feels like a suffocating and heavy vice against your throat. And you feel so, so cold.

And so, so angry. For the first time ever since the two of you became friends, Keigo did not keep his promise. He has never let you down, always promising to catch you when you fall.

You should have told him that it has always been him.

Maybe he would have slowed down and listened. Unlike now how you rush to get out of this sterile room, ansty and blocking out the worried yet clinical voice of your physician as he listed out the extent of your injuries.

You mute out words of fractures, punctured organs and whatever else the team of surgeons and Recovery Girl worked hard on to keep you alive. Vacant eyes zeroing into the pathetic vase of yellow and purple chrysanthemums left by one of the sidekicks or fellow pro-heroes. The most relevant note to your care plan is that you can walk again, albeit not so well.

"Get well soon."

"I am so, so sorry."

Harmless little blooms that scream to your face, they bring nothing but discomfort. Taunting, even.

You want to get rid off it.

The moment the physician leaves you to your false sense of peace, you try to close your eyes and sink into the delusions that all is fine. But that sense of calm is gone when the doctor went and told you how broken you were, are.

And the vase of flowery insults do nothing but add salt to the wounds. You look at the source of your misery, your bandage hand reaching out and slapping the pottery off your bedside table allowing the chrysanthemums to fall and scatter on the now unsterile floor along the broken pieces of porcelain.

Now the vase is as broken as you. Good. You never intend to get well anytime soon.

The War may be over and the heroes have won. You see it in the news before throwing the remote to the television, straining your messed up arm.

You feel defeated despite the emotional grin of the newscaster.

The same vultures that picked heroes apart, further dragging down the morale and maintaining the civilian restlessness are now cheering and sobbing silly little "thank yous" and "you did its" to those who actually fought. As if they never jeered you in the first place.

Despite the cracked screen of the television, it keeps on fucking going. The list keeps on going. The supposed broken little thing keeps on yapping. Much like your forecasted recovery, the list of the fallen comrades took ages to end.

Recovery takes so long and you desperately rushed it. It is akin to his service, it was agonisingly slow yet suffocatingly fast. You hated being there yet you wished it could last forever for it was the last time you get to see him. Or, what is supposed to be him.

Keigo's quirk granted him hollow bones, it made him light and agile yet fragile like porcelain. And like porcelain, he was so broken in the end you never got to witness him whole for the last time.

The most you can do was to kiss his grave, uncaring of the way his mother emptily looks at you.

A part of your anger is directed to her. Maybe if she had a spine, maybe if her skull was connected to it---maybe Keigo would not have been forced to be quick. He would not have to rushed to become a hero.

He would not have found it necessary to grow up so quickly, to lift the weight of the world on his shoulders when he has to account for his grand vermilion wings and hollow bones.

But perhaps it is also your own regrets talking. Your father always said that regrets never ever come first.

Regret does not come before you when you enter Keigo's apartment to clean and pick up the mess he left behind. It comes after you pick up one of his discarded shirts that has not been put in the wash months ago, before the war against the Paranormal Liberation Front. It comes after picking up the crumpled pieces of paper, scribbled with drafted apologies to the public for not disclosing his past and for killing Twice.

Regret comes after picking up one of the pieces of paper and reading lines and lines of "I'm sorrys" never intended for the public but for the man he wished he could have been friends with.

Perhaps now Jin and Keigo can be friends.

Regret comes after never kissing Keigo and never telling him how much you actually loved him.

It comes after you in forms of purple and yellow chrysanthemums, of broken bodies, blood and screams and smokes and shattered porcelains and lit incense and dead villains and bloody battlefields and lost wings and broken bones and crying children and crying heroes and crying lovers and crying best friends and broken All Might statues and charred bodies and jeering public and suffocating newscaster microphones and Gigantomachia and decay and fire and blood and purple and yellow chrysanthemums in your dreams. Or when you close your eyes. In the darkness, in the silence.

Regret never comes before you, it haunts you right behind your eyes and inside your ears and heart. But it never goes before you.

Perhaps that is why you do not feel it when you twirl in your favourite red dress that matches Keigo's non-existent wings. The dress he wanted you to wear for his birthday, the hair and shoes styled like that very special day. Perhaps that is why you do not feel regret when you make your way to the top of the abandoned building that was once Keigo's hero agency.

Perhaps that is why you do not feel any regret and only curiosity what it feels like to be as fast as your best friend, the man who will always be.

If you are fast, going 99, perhaps regret can not catch up. Neither does fear.

Maybe Keigo won't break his promise this time.