#pain? needles? whatever!! what if it's AWKWARD

[wildwood-faun]

it's so funny how I managed to forget I had social anxiety

hint: it's because I didn't meet any new people

[miirohs]

piercing [y.j.i]

pairing: Tattoo Artist!Yang Jeongin x Reader wc: 0.8k cw: n/a an: the choker pics bro.... the way these choker pics have a grip on my fucking psyche is insanity. yang jeongin stop please. for my sanity.

“You ready for this?” Jeongin asked, back to you as he rearranged his materials. 

The lights above you shone brightly, illuminating the surroundings of the little room, little stickers and doodles slapped all over the blue-gray and beige walls. 

You observed him from your seat on the examination table, eyes flitting over his neck, tracing the flowers down his back until they disappeared under his white tank top. 

The jacket he had been wearing sat abandoned next to you, shrugged off as soon as you were in the room alone. When he turned around, you averted your eyes, pretending to be looking at the worn fabric.

Watching you, he spoke again, slower this time as you hadn't responded to him the first time.

“Are you sure you wanna go through with this baby? I can’t promise it won’t hurt,” He warned, pulling his gloves on and ripping a packet open with his teeth, “and it’ll be pretty sore for the first couple hours.”

“It’ll be fine,” you answered, looking down at your scuffed up sneakers. You were already slightly regretting it, and you weren’t even 10 minutes in.

“Hey- hey look at me? You’re doing great, just hold still for me, yeah?” He deftly grabbed your chin with his hand, forcing you to make awkward eye contact with him as he moved your head side to side. You watched him, tapping his pen against his dimples.

“What kind of piercing did you want again babe?” Pen in hand, he paused to look at you, expectant.

“A- uh, a helix, I think?” 

He nodded in response, messing with his lip piercing as he tried to mark down the area on your right ear. He always did that. Fiddled with his lip ring when he was nervous.

“Did that hurt when you got it?” You pointed to the lip ring.

“A little. I’d say recovery was worse in my opinion,” he stated matter-of-factly, letting go and handing you a mirror. “Does the placement look okay to you?”

“Yeah, it looks great-“ You said, giving it a small glance before turning back to his ring, reaching out to run a finger over it. It wasn’t cold, surprisingly.

“You didn’t even look at it,” He groaned, flustered as he grabbed your face again to double check.

“Hey! I’m not the professional here,” You mumbled, trying to pull down his hand from your ear, “but I think it’s fine right where it is!”

“Okay then,” He said, a little flustered, turning away from you to grab whatever was on the cart, “if you’re sure, I can start right now.”

Your stomach dropped as he held a packet, inching closer to you. It was almost as if he was treating an injured animal.

“Can you please hurry up, you’re making me nervous,” you peeped, shaking slightly.

“Just stop moving,” he said nonchalantly, needle tip pressing against your helix.

As it pushed through, the pain flared, earning a whimper from you. It was very brief, fading into a dull yet prominent throbbing in your upper ear as he inserted the cool metal.

“Looks like you did it,” he whispered, running a finger over your knuckles as he held you, “good job.”

“Y-yeah,” you winced, watching as he discarded the needles, running you through basic procedures as you reached up to grab the piercing spot.

“and if anything happens- hey, are you even listening?” You blinked, finding him looking at you quizzically. His hand was wrapped around your wrist, pulling it down.

“I just told you no touch! You’re supposed to keep that area clean while it heals!” He whined, pinning your hand to the table as he brought something to your ear.

You grinned, pulling him in by his choker, lips smashing into each other.

The metal was warm, tasting of something artificially sweet as you caught your teeth on it, tugging on it.

He hissed into the kiss, yet pressed even deeper.

“Yeah, I’ll just check to see if one of our piercers other than Felix is available- Oh!” Chan had the door wide open, foot halfway in as he stared at the both of you.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Chan yelped, hands over his eyes as if you had done something offensive in front of him.

“Hey, I was just giving him the kiss i owed him!” You giggled, earning another whine from Jeongin as Chan stepped out, obviously embarrassed.

Through the crack of the door, you could make out him whispering: “please hurry up and finish if you will.”

“I think we have to go now,” You whispered, and he trapped you in between his arms, leaning against your ear.

“This isn’t over.”

“I doubt it is,” You smirked, tracing his arm as you let go, prancing out of his room, “I’ll see you later Innie.”

[hihello-pinky]

middle of the night

last installment to the After 8PM mini series (yep, calling it that) hehe

part one | part two

suna rintarou x afab reader!

angst to fluff, ig

latter part is not edited and written during the middle of the night (intended)

likes and reblogs will be appreciated! xoxo

leave me love? (tips!)

***

almost everyone will agree that finding something to dislike about hani nakamura is like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

you remember the first time you overhear that statement at lunch in the cafeteria, and you laughing a little to yourself. you can’t even blame the gossiping students because that’s just how nice hani is.

however, you should have known that when trying to find a needle in a haystack, you begin to doubt its existence until you feel a prick and you’re bleeding and the needle already got you.

the pain you’re currently feeling is far akin to a small prick as you replay the conversation you had with suna at the convenience store in the middle of the night again and again and again.

“what did you want to talk about that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” he had asked.

you had taken a deep breath before replying, the words came out of you quickly, as if your bravery for confessing has a timer. “well, i… i have something to tell you. it’s actually a bit selfish of me to say this to you but… i like you as more than just a friend, rin, and it’s been a while now. i’m sorry for suddenly springing this unto you but i just have this need to confess or else i would feel like exploding inside. you don’t have to say anything; you can choose to interact less with me from now on but yeah, i just really needed to get it off of my chest.”

suna had surprised you with his reaction. he had a deep frown on his face and given you an accusing look. “do you really not want me to be happy?”

“huh?”

“for fuck’s sake, y/n, i know about your little game! hani told me everything. you dropping all the hints all those months ago, fueling whatever sort of feelings i had for you, playing with my heart, when you only want to use me to be closer to osamu. i even chose to ignore those because i know we’re young and inclined to do stupid, bad things. but damn! can’t you just leave me alone?”

and you were so dumbstruck by what he had told you that you were only able to look at him in disbelief.

“cat got your tongue?” he bitterly asked before breaking eye contact.

you shook your head after you had processed what he said and with a defeated sigh, said, “we’ve been friends for two years. did you really believe i was that kind of person? why didn’t you ask me to confirm it? and most importantly, i grew up with the miyas so why would i even use you to get to osamu, who, by the way, is like a brother to me? you know what, suna? maybe you’re right. i should leave you alone. i don’t deserve to be around someone who would easily believe lies about me.”

you feel tears roll down your cheeks as you force your mind to stop the reel of what would probably be the last time you ever talked to suna. not for the first time, you wish to never have called him and asked to meet. oh, to only have sucked the pain up and not confess to him. maybe the heartbreak would be less than what you have to deal with right now.

the concerned look on his face as he met you in the convenience store doesn’t matter anymore; neither does the fact that he was wearing the hoodie you’ve always asked him to give to you.

hurt, betrayal, and anger all brew inside of you. you can’t even fully process everything. hani, who everyone sees as the sweet and kind person betrayed you as a friend. suna, who had captured your heart, hurt you for believing that you are capable of doing such terrible things. and to top it all, anger at the both of them and mostly anger at yourself for walking away from suna before he can even respond to what you said to him.

*

suffice it is to say, the next time you see suna is extremely awkward. it’s at volleyball practice and thankfully, you’re not the sole manager of the club, making it easier for you to avoid any interactions with him.

“are you feeling better now?” osamu quietly asks you as he takes the water bottle from your hand during one of their breaks.

you reply with a nod but before you can let go of the bottle and escape from the twin's prodding questions, the grey-haired boy uses it to pull you closer to him. “you didn’t respond to any of my messages yesterday and you’re avoiding suna like he’s the plague.”

you click your tongue. of course he would notice. the same way he knew the reason of your breakdown in his car after that dinner. i’m not an idiot, y/n. i can see through your lies during all the time ‘sumu and me teased you. you actually really like sunarin.

“i swear i’m fine, ‘samu. stop being a worry-wart for me, okay?” you forcefully take your hand from the bottle and you swivel away from the twin only to meet eyes with suna.

it’s obvious he’s been watching the interaction and your chest tightens, thinking about what he said the other night. once you notice him begin to walk towards your direction, you quickly turn to tend to aran. thankfully, the coach calls for the practice to resume not long after.

you usually admire suna during practice (when you’re not too busy taking notes) but just seeing him at the present brings back memories of what happened so you try to avoid looking at him. those same memories keeping you up at night. suna, at your favorite convenience store in the middle of the night, looking at your exasperatedly and shooting words that hurt you while wearing your favorite hoodies of him.

the coach’s whistle echoes in the gym, breaking you out of your sorrowful thoughts. “suna, are you not feeling well? you seem a lot distracted.”

suna sighs heavily and you barely miss your co-managers whispering to each other how there are rumors that suna recently got in a lovers' quarrel with hani. your heart is thumping wildly as you watch him approach the coach who is sitting very near to where you’re standing.

“sorry, coach,” he says as he scratches at his nape. “yes, i’m not feeling well.” he then shoots you a not-so-subtle quick look. “can y/n accompany me to the clinic?”

*

he knows it’s a foul move to involve the coach and the team in the middle of practice but suna didn’t know what else to do. you’ve blocked his number and all his social accounts. his attempts to talk to you in person have all been futile. it's not helping that osamu refuses to talk to him about you.

so, really, he was left with no choice.

however, you remain awfully quiet as the two of you walk towards the school infirmary, a good distance between your bodies. he wants to talk to you but he doesn’t know where to begin, especially that this is very different from all the times that he has walked you home in the past where a silence is most welcome, oftentimes interrupted when a stray cat passes by.

when you arrive at the clinic, the nurse is out so you take seats at the waiting area. “y/n…” he finally says after a few moments pass with your deliberately ignoring him.

you still refuse to look at him and instead play with your hands. the action calls his attention towards your wrist and it breaks his heart to see the absence of the beaded bracelet that you always wore ever since he gave it to you after he won it in an egg claw machine game a year ago.

“y/n, please… will you hear me out?” suna doesn't mind that there obviously is desperation in his voice,

your jaw clenches a little as your fingers pause. he imagines the internal conflict within you before you finally let out a soft sigh. “okay.”

suna doesn’t miss a beat. “i’m sorry. i’m so, very sorry, y/n. i talked to hani and she admitted to everything. still, it does not change the fact that i hurt you by believing in her lies. i don’t know what happened to me and i have no excuse for myself.”

when you finally look at him, he almost wishes you continued to avoid his gaze. gone is the warmth that he always sees in your gaze and in its place is just hurt and sadness. “i just keep thinking… that all these months, during our every interaction, at the back of your mind, there’s this thought that i’m a bad person. and i…” your voice breaks as you swallow. “i don’t know, suna. why didn’t you just talk to me?”

why? it’s the same question he’s been pestering himself with for the past two nights. how could he let that happen? why was he easily deceived by hani’s lies?

“i’m sorry, y/n,” he apologizes again, aware of the despair laced in his voice. “i wish i can take away the hurt i’ve caused you.”

your teary eyes mirror his own. “i don’t know if i can trust my so-called friends ever again. i’m just confused and sad and hurt, rin.”

the slip of his nickname buries the hatchet deeper in his chest and suna just wants to scream. he wants to say that he broke up with hani shortly after she confessed about the lies. but that wouldn’t change anything now, and it’s not like you would care. not knowing what else to do, he moves to sit beside you and carefully reaches for your hand.

when you don’t resist, he begins to rub this thumb against your palm as he gently maneuvers your head against his shoulder. his chest tightens as the sleeve of his uniform quickly dampens.

no more words leave either of your mouths, the silence enveloping you as he lets you cry against him, just like how he let your tears stain his hoodie the first time you bumped into each other at the 12th convenience store in the middle of the night over a year ago, the warmth of his shoulder comforting you from your pet hedgehog’s passing.

only this time, your tears are caused by him.

*

“suna, you’ve been a close friend of miya atsumu ever since high school, how are you feeling about his engagement?” the reporter asks behind the camera.

you watch suna wear that signature smirk of his. “of course i’m happy for my friend, and i wish a lot of good luck to his beloved.” his answer causes a few laughter from around him.

“how about you, then? you’ve been extremely secretive about your love life.” the reporter follows up excitedly.

suna raises an eyebrow. “i thought you said you only have one question for me?” he shakes his head before beginning to walk away. “but all i can say is that i’m happy.”

the reporter fumbles a little but he has lost suna already, so he moves on to one of the other players from the national team.

you’re about to switch channels when a small figure joins you on the couch. “mama! was that papa?”

you turn to your son – a complete miniature of his father – and ruffle his hair. “yes, sweetie.”

he breaks into a toothless grin and goes to the center of the living room to dance around, all the while singing about how his papa is in the television.

meanwhile, your phone rings and you answer it quickly. “hey.”

“hey. did you watch?”

“yeah… you were so great. though i have one question for you, and i promise it’s one question only.”

rin’s soft chuckle at the other end of the line makes your heart flutter. “so you saw the interview? go on, what’s your question, love?”

you take a quick but deep breath before asking. “do you ever regret agreeing to keeping our relationship secret? like, nobody knows you’re married and with a kid, and most people think you’re just some volleyball-obsessed person who’s going to grow old alone.”

he laughs once again. “i didn’t know people think that about me,” he mocks surprise. “but to answer your question, no. i’d rather people believe i’d grow old alone than curse me for being a jerk who once hurt the love of his life when they were teens.

"i also don’t want people to know that i spent my senior year in high school trying to woo you and earn your forgiveness. how you forgave me and we became friends again but then you rejected me when i confessed after graduation? no way.”

you’re also laughing now, reminiscing on the past. how, after that day in the clinic, you and suna drifted for the rest of sophomore year. you had wanted space and he respected that.

you never got closure with hani, her family coincidentally having to move to tokyo after that school year ended but you think that’s for the best. you didn’t know what you would have told her anyway.

“so all this secrecy because you don’t want people to know that you’ve been rejected?” the teasing in your voice makes you giggle yourself.

“yes,” he replies playfully. “and also because i want to protect you! i remained loyally single for years until you finally agreed to a date during your senior year in university. god knows some crazy fans might curse you for making the suna rintarou wait for you!"

“and whose fault is that?” you’re smiling crazily into the phone now. “also, since we’re spilling stuff here, how about you also tell the world how you knocked me up three months into our relationship?”

your eyes drift to your three-year-old son who’s running towards the sounds at the front door. it’s when you notice that rin has dropped the call. he crouches down to kiss your son at the top of his head before covering his ears. “again, i’m sorry about that accident honey, but look at our little angel, isn’t he a cutie?”

you cross the small distance from the couch to the doorway. finally reaching your husband, you kiss him on the cheek. “the world is missing out on seeing your cute mini version.”

he wraps an arm around you as you both watch your son whose attention has gone back to the toys on the carpet. “what’s with all these hints, love? are you saying you’re finally okay with giving the public a glimpse of our happy life?”

you nuzzle your head against his chest. “maybe yes. maybe no… maybe later when…”

“hmm?”

you don’t respond for a while. “say, rin, do you want to drop by the 12th convenience store later around midnight once our son is asleep? i already asked osamu to come over to watch him.”

rin hums against you. "that's random, though? and how come you get 'samu to agree to babysitting favors so easily when i have to literally boost the sales of his onigiri?"

"silly, silly, sunarin," you singsong as you slap him playfully. "so, what do you think? wanna go to our convenience store later, at the middle of the night?"

"okay. do i need to bring the big eco-bag for the snacks we will be hauling?"

you untangle yourself from his arms as you make your way to your child. a perfect guise to hide your grin. "actually, no. we'll just be buying a little item."

*

in hindsight, you should have known better.

atsumu miya, despite being a professional volleyball player and recently getting engaged to the nonchalant sakusa kiyoomi, still likes to drink alcohol.

here you find yourself again at a long table, your friends from the volleyball club in high school gathered along with some of their plus ones. onigiri miya had closed early today for the private event. as osamu miya worked on the food with the help of his new assistant (whose eyes can't stop admiring her boss, but you'll tease osamu about that later) his blonde brother is already almost done with his first bottle.

he's telling the story of how they pranked one of their teammates that he and sakusa had broken up as a way of sharing their engagement. when the poor younger boy learned of the joke, he had ignored them to the point that atsumu had to reach out to kageyama to get him to talk to him.

"i told you it was a stupid idea and yet you didn't listen," sakusa adds to the ending of atsumu's story.

you laugh with your friends around the table, your lips opening up in a yawn once the laughter dies down. rin, ever the observant lover, lowly asks if you're okay, gently squeezing your hand he's holding under the table.

"i'm fine," you smile sweetly at him and his eyes soften a little. upon seeing he's still a little bit worried, you peck his cheek. "don't worry about me."

"you should be getting some rest," he says.

he must have said it louder than he intended or maybe you two just did not notice the table going quiet. atsumu speaks. "rest? suna, we're still not at the age to be tucking in bed at 8:00 PM. you know what we actually need? drinks!"

somehow, he gets the others to drink as well. shortly after, osamu finishes with the food preparation and his assistant, along with kita and aran, help set the table. the group happily eat and converse, sharing updates about their lives and reminiscing on their high school days. suddenly, you feel someone glaring at you.

"what?" you curiously ask atsumu whose eyes are looking at you with as much focus as he can muster with his tipsy state. "you're cheating!"

"huh?" your brows are furrowed and you turn to rin beside you but to your surprise, he's laughing. everyone looks at the both of you, half-intrigued and half amused.

rin kisses your forehead before taking the glass on his left and sipping. "he meant this, love. idiot surprisingly notices i've been drinking for us."

you're pretty sure you're already blushing. "oh."

"ah ha!" atsumu looks proud. "so i was right? come one, y/n, it's no fair! why are you not drinking? omimi and ginjima are the designated drivers tonight so no need to hold back!"

your cheeks still feel warm. "actually, i can't... i shouldn't have been drinking three weeks ago..." you exchange a look with rin and he nods at you. before you can continue, atsumu cuts you off with an excited squeal. "suna rintarou! how dare you keep this secret from me! and you, y/n, i thought i'm your brother!"

"for goodness' sake, 'tsumu, calm down," suna responds to the blonde, we actually only found out a week ago."

atsumu pouts, his cute drunken antics entertaining everyone at the table. "fine, forgiven. but i better be the godfather this time around!"

*

despite ginjima's insistence to drive you and rintarou home, you both decline his offer. after all, the walk home for onigiri miya restaurant to your home is not that far and late night walks with your rin is always welcome.

the moon and stars provide the two of you light as you walk home, your arms linked together. the night's breeze is nothing against rin's warm body. "love, i'm gonna tell you something but please don't panic, okay?"

his sudden sentence surprises you but you hum in agreement anyway.

"we're being followed by some media."

"oh."

he stops in his track, urging you to do the same. he looks down at your face, eyes holding gentleness one would not have expected from the stoic middle blocker. "do you want me to tell them off?"

you surprise yourself by saying no. rin cocks his head slightly before you respond. "i think i'm okay with a little bit of our private life being shared to the world."

he studies your face for a moment before smiling. "okay."

"okay?"

"yeah," he breathes close, hand already cupping your face. you get on your tiptoes as suna rintarou leans down and kisses you, but not before softly whispering, "i love you, y/n."

camera shutters be damned.

*

[ 11:07 PM]

[Instagram Update: s.rintarou posted a photo]

[is the "growing old alone" in the room with us?]

-end-

[doe-writes-stuff]

A/N - My first foray into the wonderful world of Matthew 'Manwhore' Murdock. Thank you in advance for giving my stuff a try if you do happen to continue on!

CONTENT WARNINGS: Strong language

You didn't think walking home from your terrible date would lead to you defending an unconscious vigilante from a couple of teens with too much curiosity for their own good, but...well, this was Hell's Kitchen. What else did you expect?

I should have worn my goddamn sneakers.

Hollow clicks measured your path along the pavement. Sharp, determined steps. No matter how many times you tried adjusting your feet in the 3 inch open-toed heels adorning them, the pain wouldn't go away. Serves you right for not breaking them in for a few days before your date. Now, with no ride back home and a reluctance to waste money on a cab when you could simply walk the 5 blocks it would take to get you there—cabbies were charging out the ass nowadays—you were cursed to suffer the consequences of your lack of forethought.

Not a great place to be at two in the fucking morning.

The alternative of removing them entirely and going nearly barefoot across the sidewalk wasn't all that appealing. For one, your pantyhose would be swiftly ruined. Not to mention the possibility of stepping directly onto a used heroin needle or the uneaten remains of someone's discarded dinner along the way. No thanks. You'd risk the bastard of a blister and not even complain about it in the morning.

Not too much, at least.

Skipping your short cocktail dress in favor of something a bit more conservative saved you from the awkward form-fitted waddle it would have forced you into. The strappy little piece would have been wasted anyway on the lackadaisical, stoner thrift shop owner who'd shared a few drinks with you at the bar only a few minutes prior. Something told you it still wouldn't have kept his eyes from wandering to your red-headed, busty bartender countless times over the course of the night.

"Expectations weren't high to begin with." You remind yourself in a mutter, adjusting the purse strap a bit higher up on your shoulder, crossing another street and doing a routine sweep around to look out for any cars or people in your general vicinity. You coughed against the faint stench of stale cooking oil and car exhaust that always seemed to permeate this street corner.

Wincing past the pain radiating from the back of your heel, you take notice of a few boys who'd jay-walked over the street to now be several dozen feet in front of you, heading the same direction. They talked amongst themselves, their conversation too far or too quiet for you to hear. Hands in their pockets, they looked around frequently. Suspicious.

Teenagers, judging by their fashion choices. Likely out and about looking for trouble after sneaking out of the house. Despite the likelihood they weren't out for the most innocent of reasons, they weren't much of a concern. Nothing indicated they'd noticed you or, if they had, even cared about your presence. Still, should they decide to turn around and make your night a little too interesting, you figured your heels could be good for one thing: swinging with reckless abandon with their pointy ends facing them. If the threat of your heels didn't convince them to leave you alone, the can of pepper spray in your bag should be more effective.

But as luck would have it, they held no interest in you whatsoever. In fact, something turned the boys' heads towards an alley as they passed by up ahead. So much so, in fact, that they stopped completely and stared at whatever it is they saw, pointing and gesturing frantically. A frown wrinkled your face as they briefly conversed, before hurrying out of sight into the alley.

Just keep on walking, I really don't need this tonight, you thought bitterly, hoping despite all logic that they weren't about to commit a crime or do something equally nefarious that would require intervention. Home was only a few more blocks away, so close and yet just out of your grasp.

Curiosity begrudgingly gets the better of you. And maybe you were being too hasty in assuming the worst out of these boys. Perhaps they'd just seen a cat and were stopping to help the poor thing. Wishful thinking, but hey, if you manifested hard enough, maybe God would grace you with some peace tonight.

However, any thoughts of peace flew out the window as you stepped past the edge of the warehouse beside the alley and glanced in the direction the boys had gone. Because despite the hazy darkness of the wee morning hours, the building's side door was brightly lit with a security light, the back of the alley awash in pale yellow as a result.

And within that sickly illumination, you saw a figure prone on the ground, surrounded by the two boys standing beside them, looking down.

Alarm rose through you at the sight. You hadn't heard a scuffle, or any cries of pain, or anything to remotely hint that they'd just assaulted this person, but honestly you didn't know what else to think. And despite knowing that calling the police would likely be the wisest choice for your health in this situation, you doubted they'd arrive in time to prevent this person from straight up getting mugged or hurt further.

Seconds ticked by. You weren't stupid enough to so casually dive into danger like this, but you liked to believe that someone would do the same if ever you found yourself in a similar position. Besides, it didn't sit right with you to let a couple teen punks give Hell's Kitchen a worse reputation than it already had. This was your home too, damnit.

Scrabbling in your purse for the can of pepper spray you'd purchased for self defense, you throw caution and self-preservation to the wind and hurry as fast as you can down the alley towards them. The nerves in your feet protest with as much negative feedback as you thought they could possibly inflict, but the seriousness of what you were seeing gave you the strength to ignore them for now.

The closer you get, the more you can identify, like the way one of them toes at the individual's leg with a few gentle kicks, as if testing their awareness. The other teen pulls his phone out and seemingly snaps a picture. Snippets of their conversation can now be heard.

"-dare you to do it."

"Shouldn't we call the cops?"

"Fuck no! If you're gonna a pussy, I'll do it." You caught one of them saying with a laugh, crouching down to reach for the person's face.

"Hey!" You call with as much authority as you can muster, finally gaining a grip on your mace and lifting it from your purse to point at them. Their heads whip around to face you. "Take a step back! You two think hurtin' people is funny or somethin'?"

"What? This wasn't us!" The one who'd crouched beside the unconscious man says, standing in a rush and holding up his hands defensively. He looked no older than 15, if you had to guess, face full of acne and the sad beginnings of what you thought was his attempt at growing facial hair.

"Chill, lady. He was like that when we found him, and he's passed out. Can't hurt us." The other leaps to defend, gesturing wildly at the person still laying prone on the ground. A man who, you now realize in alarm, is dressed exactly like a certain vigilante rumored to be hunting the streets of Hell's Kitchen. The adrenaline that fueled your little interruption was now backed by a wave of chilled awe and apprehension.

What had you just gotten yourself into?

Before the revelation of who you had stumbled upon could fully hit you in force, one of the teens steps away and continues babbling. "It's the fucking dude on the news."

"All the more reason to stay the hell away from him, then." You say, swallowing past the rising feeling of regret coursing through your head, unable to help catching glances at the man that felt more a myth than reality. "A couple of kids like you shouldn't be poking around people or places like that."

"He was just laying here, and we wanted to look. I mean, come on, no way you don't wanna know who he is, right? Everyone does." He seems to plead with you to agree with him, young face torn between his burning curiosity and the opening at the top of your mace can. "The guy's been all anyone ever talks about around here."

"He's knocked out, so he wouldn't even know. Just a peek, that's all." The other one adds, crouching next to him as if to reach for the mask again, but he just shakes his head and looks at you. "We were gonna call the cops after. Maybe there's a reward for catching the guy, you know?"

The boys smile in that charming way boys in high school think they are, but you find yourself taking a quick step forward, startling them enough to get them both on their feet and stepping away from the masked man.

"The only thing you're gonna do is go the fuck home. Now." The warning comes out through gritted teeth, irritation clearly showing through and doing what you'd hoped it would. It felt a little extreme to be threatening teenagers, but they'd seriously do something stupid if you didn't get your point across. "Or try something, and see what a face full of mace feels like. After that I'm getting the cops involved, and I'll bet explaining that one to your parents is gonna be a delight."

"Fuck, ok, relax." Acne face says in a rush, rounding you and stepping past his friend to go back the way they'd come. Hands still, up, he looks at you like you were the gum he'd just stepped in. "We'll leave. Damn."

Thankfully without any further convincing, the two boys head off towards the entrance of the alley, muttering what you thought to be 'crazy bitch' under their breaths and glancing back at you and the vigilante. Eyes on them until they disappeared around the corner, you let out the air from your lungs that had been held there too long, eyes closing as the moment passed.

And here I thought a shitty date was the worst thing that could happen tonight...

Once the light-headedness had mostly dissipated, you slowly look down at the infamous Man in the Black Mask just a few inches from your feet.

Being up-close to the guy that had been giving the criminals lurking in the shadows pause for weeks on end was a rather surreal experience. Things like this didn't happen to you. Never. Your life was boring and dull and now you were standing over the unconscious man and wondering what the fuck you were supposed to do next.

A momentary flicker of fear slid down your spine, recalling rumors of the guy's brutality. A few pictures of the criminals the cops had picked up off the streets after a run-in with the Man in the Black Mask had circulated the internet. They hadn't been pretty, to say the least. Your hand toyed with the can of pepper spray, debating.

For the supposed boogeyman in the darkness, he looked like...just a normal guy. There was distinct muscle tone under all that black fabric, but he was certainly no body builder. Nothing a bit of dedication at the gym wouldn't give someone. Rough stubble framed his chin and in the yellow glow of the security light, what looked to be dried blood stained a streak from his nose down to his lip. He'd been in a fight sometime tonight.

The suit looked homemade, you noticed. Curious, but...made sense. There wasn't exactly a retail store for vigilantes, yet somehow it struck you that this guy had essentially put on an athletic shirt with zero combat protection, tied a cotton mask to his face, and then proceeded to beat the bad guys up night after night. You'd seen nerds at conventions with more detailed fits than him.

How'd he even see out of that thing anyway?

He still hadn't moved in all this time. Perhaps you should have been more nervous of him suddenly waking up and attacking you, but something told you that he wouldn't. Blind hope, perhaps, but still, something.

Slowly, the fear lowered just enough for you to crouch and, after much debate with yourself if this was really the smartest thing to be doing, you placed a gentle hand against the man's chest. Warmth. A subtle rise and fall had you relieved that he was breathing, if not conscious. Alive.

The cops didn't like him, and as a law-abiding citizen, neither should you. Hell, there could be some law against helping a vigilante out in the first place. Aiding and abetting? Were you risking a charge by chasing off those teens?

Something didn't feel right about allowing his identity to be exposed. He was doing good for Hell's Kitchen. Your coworker's sister's fiancé was saved from getting mugged according to Kathy which, in all honesty, should be taken with a grain of salt. But on the off chance he was doing more help than hurt in your community, you didn't see a reason to make his life harder than it was already.

...did this make you an accomplice? Ugh.

A glance up at the alleyway where you'd come from reminded you that anyone else could walk by and see this guy just laying here in the light. And the next one might not be as harmless as a teen looking to satisfy their curiosity. You weren't sure how he'd come to be here in the first place, but surely he hadn't intended to pass out where just anyone could walk up and lift up the mask. The briefest idea to lift the mask yourself and see who he was disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Clearly he wore one for his own safety or maybe just to intimidate the bad guys, and if what you knew about him was true, he was out here for the right reasons. The last thing you'd do was get in his way of helping.

Another glance around at the small alley reveals a darkened corner that was out of sight from the sidewalk. It wasn't too far, and you doubted you'd be able to do much more than drag him that distance anyway. With a resolute sigh, you put your pepper spray back in your purse and shift to grab both of his arms by the wrist, attempting to pull him out of the light towards the wall to lean him against.

The moment you try moving him, you realize you'd underestimated how much effort this was going to take. Especially in heels and a dress. A curse escapes under your breath.

"Jesus..." You huff out a breath, shifting your grip once more to better accommodate his dead weight.

Your feet, which had previously been in pain in your heels, were screaming at you with torturous malice. Another couple tugs gave little by way of results.

"Now would be a great time to wake up and help me out here. Teamwork makes the dream work or whatever..." Unfortunately, he remained silent and unconscious.

You rethought your whole idea the longer you continued to try dragging him over to the wall, feeling the couple drinks you'd had less than half an hour ago the more you exerted energy, but you had already gained a little ground. Only a few more yards to go.

Finally figuring out that you'd have more leverage by lifting him from beneath his armpits, you managed to reach under him and pull with much more ease that way.

"Maybe lay off the protein and pick a salad some time." You gripe through tight lips.

The sack of potatoes that was the Man in the Black Mask still gave you a ton of trouble, but at least you were gaining by several feet with each pull rather than inches. This position also gave you a nose-full of the smell of sweat, washed cotton, and the faintest hint of the guy's preferred cologne, you thought. Really not the best combination of aromas but, in all honesty, still better than your date's pungent musky scent that you were half-convinced he'd bathed in prior to meeting you.

With one last frustrated grunt, you manage to prop his back up against the wall, settling him into a semi-comfortable sitting position. You panted, out of breath, stepping back to examine him one last time, smoothing down your dress.

He seemed steady enough, and hopefully no one else would come down this way looking for anything. It was all you could do for him, especially given your feet would likely fall off or catch fire at the rate you were going in these heels. Hissing in pain, you step back and remembered there were still 2 more blocks to walk before you got home.

With one last look at the vigilante, you shook your head and sighed. "Just...don't get killed, ok? Hell's Kitchen is safer with you in it."

A subtle shift in his stature and a low groan at the back of his throat alerts you to his growing awareness. Without the adrenaline to keep you from enacting on your flight response at the impending awakening of the vigilante, you swear under your breath and get the hell out of the alley, hoping he was still too out of it to notice your swift departure.

With any luck, he'd be too disoriented to figure out what had happened. Heels clicking in a mad fury down the sidewalk, you forced the man in the mask out of your mind with great effort, already calculating the number of painkillers you'd have to take to be able to walk tomorrow.

Flickers of awareness. Not enough to fully rouse him at the time, but a small iota of stimulus enough for Matt to remember once he awakened. As he roused, his back propped up against the roughness of brick and the tell-tale alleyway stench of trash and rust filling his nose, he couldn't help but mull over what he could recall.

A woman's sharp voice. Sensations of movement around and above him. Something had touched him. And again, a woman's voice, this time fainter and quiet, but close.

Don't get killed, ok?

It was difficult to tell what he'd truly heard and what was his mind conjuring what it wanted to.

Ignoring the many aches and pain in his body as he stood from his seat against the wall, Matt noticed more and more things seemingly out of place. Two similar male scents. The subtlest hint of sharp spice in the air—pepper spray. Not strong enough to have been used, but at least present nearby.

Coming back to his senses was quick, though not as fast as he would have liked. By morning, the taste of brewing coffee was so strong in the air of Hell's Kitchen that there was nowhere he could go to avoid it. The blatant lack of it, coupled with the low foot-traffic on the sidewalk around the corner meant he hadn't been out for long. It was still early, before the rest of the city awakened in full force. A small relief.

Speaking of foot-traffic...one set of steps was growing more distance with a noticeable haste—clicking of cheap, hardened rubber. Heels, probably. A woman?

Sweetness clung to him. Another soft inhale brought the scent of perfume into his nostrils, a mix of citrus and floral. It clung to his clothing pleasantly. His head tilted, putting together what he knew and the vague words that he thought he recalled.

Almost out of reflex, he lifted a hand to his make-shift mask, feeling that it was in the same place he'd left it before. Nothing felt out of place, nor as if it had been removed and replaced by someone else. To his knowledge, his identity hadn't been compromised. Still, that left him with many questions.

He couldn't recall losing consciousness in the position he'd awakened in. You...you'd moved him over to the wall? Defended him, perhaps, if the clues were adding up like he thought they were.

The sound of your retreat was still audible from this distance, his anonymous protector no doubt hurrying home. Beneath the mask, Matt's brow raised with interest.

Who were you?

A/N -I guess I'm just testing the waters of Matt's characterization with this one and seeing how I wanna play with this world. If you'd like to see more, please let me know <3

[amorgansgal]

When Shall We Meet Again?

We're at part 4 of this ongoing fic and I am having a blast! If you've not read part 1 (Practice Makes Perfect), part 2 (A Bitter Pill to Swallow) and part 3 (Such Sweet Sorrow) I'd recommend it. We're now following the events of BG3 if you squint because obviously you and Gale have history and there'll be a lot of things he either won't hide from you or will reveal sooner, so I'm messing around with the timeline and dialogue just a little bit. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Gale x Fat Female Reader/Tav

The whirling vortex of what had been a sigil sparked and hummed with magic and it seemed that neither you, Astarion nor Shadowheart were particularly willing to touch it. Given all that had happened you could hardly blame anyone. 

“Perhaps we could poke it with a stick,” you suggested and Astarion chuckled drolly. 

“I doubt that would help matters much!”

“Look, why don’t you touch it, and I’ll heal you if you need it,” Shadowheart suggested.

“And if I get blasted to pieces?” you asked. 

“We’ll make sure to pick them all up and put you back together! Parasite tadpole and all!” Astarion said.

You rolled your eyes, but perhaps that age old Waterdeep Academy curiosity got the better of you and you gave it a tentative poke with one finger. The magic fizzled up your arm like a bolt of electricity, it sent both a rush of excitement and sharp needles of pain dancing through your skin and blood. You shook your hand to get rid of the sensation and then were all too surprised when someone else’s hand suddenly appeared from the deep black pit of the sigil. 

“A hand, anyone!” a disembodied voice called out. Strangely, their voice was oddly familiar, but you couldn’t quite place where you knew it from. You frowned, trying to think why it rang a bell. But nothing came to mind. You did your best to calm the magic first, trying to get a control of it before touching it.

“Whatever you’re doing is working wonders!” the stranger cried out in encouragement and you smiled a little at the praise. But now it was time to try and free said stranger, so you grabbed hold of the hand and pulled. The magic had a strong hold on them, but then like a plug being released from a sink, they suddenly came loose and you were bowled over backwards as said person landed on you with a heavy thud.

“Ooof!” you exclaimed. 

“Gods, I am sorry, I’m usually better at this,” he said, getting off you and offering you a hand. You managed to sit up and look at him, but it suddenly hit you where and why and how you knew him. Gale. Gale Dekarios. It felt unreal to see him again, but you’d recognise those brown eyes anywhere. He was still handsome, even with age lines around his eyes and mouth, and with a few grey hairs in his chestnut brown hair. Truth be told, you thought he looked better than when he had been a youth, somehow he had grown into his face more. You weren’t quite sure if the same could be said for you! You realised you were still sat on the ground, eyes fixed on him, while he awkwardly held out his hand. Did he not recognise you? Had he forgotten you?

“Hello,” he greeted you cheerfully, offering the hand again. “I’m Gale of Waterdeep.”

“Y/N are you going to get up or do you plan on making things as awkward as possible?” Astarion muttered.

Gale’s eyes suddenly filled with recognition, which was quickly followed by a tremulous mix of excitement and apprehension. “Did you attend Waterdeep Academy?” he asked, you managed a nod and he beamed. “Y/N! I never thought I’d see you again, but you look well. Very well… barring the tadpole in your head I imagine. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, of course I do, Gale.” You took hold of his hand, not wanting to leave him hanging any longer and he helped you to your feet. He was still holding your hand and gave you a warm smile as his eyes scanned your face. 

“How was Neverwinter?” he asked. “I did write to you, but I guess… I guess you were busy.”

“Good, good…” you said, then trailed off into silence. You didn’t know what to say. What you could talk about with Gale. It had been so long, but all the same complicated feelings had rushed back in a matter of seconds. You remembered the kisses you had shared, his head buried between your legs… Oh gods, the tadpole connection! You immediately tried to think about anything else.  

“We saw a lot of mountains!” you exclaimed. Astarion snorted with laughter and Gale smiled politely, though you could see there was just a little hint of pride and heat in his gaze.

“Sounds fascinating,” Gale said. 

“Not that I don’t love crashing a clearly messy and emotionally fraught reunion, but would you care to introduce us, Y/N?” Astarion prompted.

“Of course, sorry,” you muttered, your cheeks felt hot and you apprehensively tugged on your neckline. “This is Gale, he and I attended Waterdeep Academy together. Gale, this is Astarion and Shadowheart.”

“I thought it may be prudent to speak with you before any other awkward situations arise,” Gale said, when you finally made it back to camp and the others had gone on ahead to their own tents or bedrolls for the evening.

“I’m sorry Gale, I didn’t mean to think of the past and you in that way-”

He raised a hand. “Not at all, I don't mind. Hells, if anything I’m rather flattered I was memorable in that way! It’s just that… well… I know that I ruined what could’ve been a perfectly good friendship and made you feel that you had no choice but to run. I’m sorry, I was a young, stubbornly romantic fool that couldn’t see the harm in what he was doing. It was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable, but I did and I want you to know I’m a very different Gale to my stupid 20-something self.”

You smiled, a lot of time had passed and you knew what Gale had done was never done out of maliciousness. You held no il-will against him. “It’s alright Gale, we’ve both grown and changed, though I appreciate the apology. I’m sure we can still be friends.”

His eyes crinkled at the corner when he smiled and you felt your heart flutter. “I would like that,” he said.

“We’ve got a lot to catch up on,” you said and began walking with him towards the campfire. “Last I heard you had been chosen by Mystra and allowed to visit her hallowed halls, that must’ve been something! What was it like?”

You glanced over to Gale, but instead of seeing his usual excited expression and thrilled smile in getting to talk about something he was passionate about, his brow was furrowed, his eyes lost to the past and his mouth was a tight line. You felt tempted to reach out and touch his hand to bring him back to the present, but you stopped yourself.

“Oh it was something alright,” he muttered. He looked back up at you and gave a grim smile. “It is late and you are probably tired, I’ll find a spot to set up my bedroll and we’ll speak further in the morning.”

Honestly, the dismissal surprised you more than anything. He seemed so excited to find out you were someone he knew from his past, but now he was quickly scurrying away from you and being oddly secretive about what had occurred during the years you’d been apart. You frowned, you could guess it had something to do with Mystra, but you couldn’t imagine she was displeased with him. Gale had always worked so hard and been so dedicated to becoming the greatest archmage the world had ever seen. Why would Mystra not want him as her student? But you decided to not press matters further and instead took your spot by the fire.

You recognised the woman he had summoned in the palm of his hand. She glimmered beautifully, the magic sparkling in the low evening light and forming the easily recognisable face of the goddess Mystra. She had statues all over the Waterdeep Academy campus and many students carried pendants or medallions with her face or symbol carved into them. Gale was entranced, his eyes fixed on her, though you could see a glimmer of pain in his gaze as he looked upon her.

“Gale,” you murmured and he jumped, quickly dismissing the magic and putting his hand behind his back, as though he were a child caught sneaking biscuits from a jar.

“Oh! My! You startled me!” he said. “I…uh… I was miles away.”

“That was Mystra,” you pointed out.

“Yes… yes, it was.”

You waited to see if he would offer an explanation, but he only looked at you and the silence stretched on. The campsite was quiet, the only noises were the chirp of crickets, the gurgling of the nearby river and Scratch gnawing on a bone.

“What happened with her?” you finally asked.

Gale gave a nervous, sheepish laugh. “I… well, I’ve told you about the orb.”

“Yes,” you prompted. Your heart had bled for him when you realised what an awful secret he carried with him and how he had finally come to you, desperate for any magic item you might carry to soothe the dangerous magic that had lodged itself in his chest. You’d gladly parted with a necklace that gave the wearer the ability to misty step - given that was already a spell you could do, you saw no reason to keep it - but it had bothered you how Gale had been cursed by such magic. And it bothered you more by how guarded he was being with you when you just wanted to help figure out how to rid him of said curse.

“Well… I left out some details…” And with that he explained all, told you how much he idolised Mystra. How he had been her student, had been inspired by her and then become her lover. You flinched at that. Gale had said you two could be friends and you hadn’t pushed for anything beyond the occasional little flirtatious remarks you both partook in, but somehow… knowing he had shared the bed of a goddess… how could you compete with that? Whatever flicker of desire he had once held for you, must’ve surely been doused by Mystra’s grace and beauty. 

And he had wanted to impress her, to please her, to be everything to her. He wanted to show her that he could do anything, that he could handle more power and so he had pursued the fragmented, broken weave - thinking it would convince her and she would be so utterly amazed and impressed by him, that she would be swayed and give him more magic. His words sent a shiver down your spine, there was something dark and foreboding about the way Gale had greedily snatched for greatness, even if he had good intentions initially. You got the sense he had gone after the missing bit of weave more for his own benefit than Mystra’s.

“And then she left me, abandoned me, the orb lodged in my chest. She wouldn’t speak to me, she wouldn’t answer me when I called upon her. Tara was going here, there and everywhere to find magical items that it could feed upon. But I knew it was getting more and more impossible. I was determined to make my way to the Underdark and wait down there, wait for my end, away from civilisation, away from anyone I could hurt.”

You were left reeling, you knew Mystra could be harsh at times, downright cruel at others, but you hadn’t expected her to be so callous and to risk so many lives. You suddenly felt angry. Not only at Mystra abandoning Gale and leaving him to his fate. But how she had in effect risked the lives of everyone around Gale’s tower. He couldn’t know for sure when his orb might explode and what if he had wiped out the entirety of Waterdeep? Was Mystra perfectly fine with the idea that he could’ve killed thousands and destroyed one of her most beloved cities that dedicated itself to her worship and trained dozens of aspiring wizards, just because her previous chosen had made a mistake? A stupid mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.  That wasn’t to say Gale was entirely innocent in the situation. He’d been foolhardy and overly ambitious, but you still felt bad for him. Especially as he had locked himself away for years, pushing away all of his friends and colleagues. How lonely he must’ve been.

He sighed heavily, but then looked up at you and smiled. “But now… now I’m here and you’re here, and it does feel good to see you. I hadn’t realised it, but I missed you. Missed you so ardently. You have this lovely small smile that you do when you think no one is watching, but I see it. And it brings me such joy.”

Your cheeks flushed at Gale’s warm gaze and the sweet sentiment in his voice at noticing something you felt was rather insignificant about you, but it sent your heart racing. You exhaled slowly and tried your best to focus on what had been discussed prior.

“Why didn’t you tell me about all of this? Why didn’t you write to me?” you asked. You would’ve come to help, or at least keep him company or looked for magical items with Tara, maybe even tried to find a cure.

Gale managed a sad smile. “You’d ignored my previous letters. I didn’t exactly have the impression you would’ve dropped everything to come and help the foolish boy who got too excited at the very first glimmer of romance and love.”

“Gale, you were still my friend, I would’ve helped no matter what.”

He gave a shrug. “Not to mention I still had some hope that Mystra would forgive me and writing to an ex-flame didn’t seem the best way of winning her forgiveness.”

You scowled at the mention of Mystra again. Gale seemed so utterly convinced that she would be petty enough to not grant her forgiveness if he had anything to do with someone he’d had a previous relationship with. She had seemed intent on both abandoning him and leaving him without any source of comfort or aid from anyone else he knew.

“But, let us think on other things,” he said, suddenly enthusiastic and cheerful. “Do you remember how in one class we learnt to channel the weave all together?”

You thought back on that class. It had been an incredible class and your professor had told you to tread carefully, to not pry into someone else’s thoughts and be careful what you yourself transferred across to them. You’d been paired with Nira and even without any romantic feelings it had still been an intense experience, a feeling of being pulled together, the weave entwining around you, becoming a part of you, becoming you and the other person and every person in that room. You had looked over to Gale, who was with Hortense, to see the girl’s face redden and her furtive smile made you wonder what he had thought about. Only later did you figure it out. 

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, how about we do that again? Give us something else to think about than Mystra!”

“You want to channel the weave - something Mystra controls - in order to not think about Mystra?” you pointed out.

“I want to channel the weave to remember what channelling the weave felt like and also remember my happy school days with you.”

“We didn’t channel the weave together-”

“No, but we got on, didn’t we? You beat me at alchemy, remember? I sometimes made you laugh, if memory serves. I read to you at the beach.”

You hesitated. He had made you laugh, though he’d made a good many people laugh and you hadn’t thought he had wanted to make you laugh in particular. You remembered your days off, where your study group would all trek down to the beach, following the sandy cliff path through bracken and heather, dust covering your shoes and the gorse scratching your clothes or bare legs. When you arrived at the beach you would watch the others swim, too nervous to take off your clothes and see the scorn in your friends’ eyes. Gale had often kept you company during that time, though he had mostly read his books. You had just thought he hadn’t cared much for swimming, though you liked hearing him read bits of the books aloud to you and when he asked for your ideas on the topics, it was a good way to pass the time there. It had been nice to talk to him like that, though you had been very shy then and couldn’t quite believe Mystra’s chosen deigned to speak to you.

“Very well,” you said and gestured for him to begin the magic.

It was entrancing, the weave flowed around you both, a purple stream glimmering and shivering, merging and folding, expanding and withdrawing. You reached out to touch it, the edges fizzed with different colours - blues and greens and silver and little sparks of black and gold. As your eyes followed the ever moving river of magic, you finally looked back at Gale, his eyes were fixed on you and he smiled. The weave swirled within you. Had you always been so close to him? You felt him in the weave, connected to you, part of you. It felt like a dream and yet also, so real and present and here. He was here and you were here and the weave was pulling your souls together. Gale was looking at you, drinking you in, his eyes were soft and dreamy and his lips were parted, and you imagined kissing him, tasting him again, feeling the warm brush of his beard against your cheek, his hands drifting down your back and waist and holding you close to him again.

Gale’s eyes widened and you realised all too quickly that you had transferred that thought, that you had let him know you had dreamt about the last kiss he had given you and that you fantasised about him kissing you now. You felt his surprise, but it was swiftly followed by a rush of his elation. Did he want you to kiss him? You cut the connection, pulling away and the coldness of the night enveloped you, after the warmth and security of the weave it felt empty and hollow. He was still so close to you, if you wished you could have bridged the gap and kissed him, instead you looked down to your feet, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled. 

“Don’t be,” he said. “Like I said, I’m not the foolish youth you once knew. It was a pleasant image and I don’t resent you for sharing it with me. It was most pleasant in fact, most welcome. I had feared for a long time you still might resent me for what happened at the Waterdeep Academy and I wouldn’t blame you for it-”

“Resent you? Gale we were both young and silly and overwhelmed by every new emotion. You’ve apologised for what happened, more times than I can count and you’ve been nothing but good and kind and respectful now. I’d be a fool to resent you.”

“Well…” he gave a shrug, then looked at you, seemingly content to stay where he was. Then finally he asked, “Is it very bad I want to kiss you right now?”

You blinked in surprise and then pressed your lips tightly together, trying not to reveal your excitement at the thought. Your heart was pounding in your chest. “I wouldn’t have thought I could compare to a goddess. I certainly didn’t compare to most of the women at the academy.”

Gale’s expression flickered quickly from outrage to distress as though he was appalled you would think so little of yourself. “What do you…That’s insane… Have you seen yourself?” he demanded.

“Yes, if anything I’ve seen a little too much of myself and if you recall it was part of the reason why a good many of my classmates thought the idea of you courting someone like me was absurd!”

Gale’s frown remained and he exhaled slowly as though calming himself, but his hand balled into a fist. He was silent for a moment, until he said, “I think you beautiful, whether you see that or no, and I never cared what anyone else thought nor did I think it absurd I would fall for a woman who was gentle, sweet, kind, caring and so smart. So wondrously and impossibly smart.” 

You had to look away from his gaze, you were so touched by what he said and now your mind was racing with ‘what ifs’. What if you hadn’t rejected him at the Academy? What if you hadn’t run away to Neverwinter? What if you had pursued a relationship with him? Would he have become Mystra’s lover? Would he have got an orb lodged in his chest? Would you both be here now with tadpoles in your heads?

“Sorry, that was too much, wasn’t it? But you are all those things and there’s no expectation on my part for you to say or do anything-” Gale rambled on and you knew there wasn’t any point in denying how you felt about him, especially if still felt the same way about you. You closed the gap and pulled him into a kiss, your hand curled into his hair and he let out a little soft groan. His hands cupped your face and he met your kisses with the same intensity and passion as he had when you were younger.

When you finally broke apart he didn’t demand you come to his bed, just stroked your cheeks. “You are perfect, you’ve always been perfect. Anyway, best I head to bed, don’t want to excite the orb too much! Goodnight,’ he said and gave you one last kiss, before heading over to his tent.

[randomshenaniganery]

Mairon to Finrod (info dump time)

I am going to draw Oleander when im not busy but I did want to show why it took me three days to finish up everything

Me diving into the outfit design and slso Finrod's opinion on the boys its in the bottom tho skksks

ALSO ALSO if u make vespersonas i will be friends pls let us lore dump together

real name: ??? I haven't picked one akskkaskskaskas

Age: 29 (they pretend they're older as Vigil)

Height: 5'7 cm

Gender: enby

Sexuality: Asexual biromantic

Weight: 73 kg

Traits: Street smart, scrappy, observant, liar liar pants on fire

Skills: Swimming, sewing, sword fighting (shield user), puzzle solving, running,

Weaknesses: when they don't want to do something they'll be stubborn about it, can't jump very high,

Backstory timeline:

Has had Fractum Anima for at least 2 months now (same as all Vespers)

In the surface their job was being part of a group of private guards, they mainly escorted people or goods

Ran away from home due to domestic abuse at the age of 12 before joining the guard for training

Worked there for 17 yrs before they got diagnosed and went under

Met Cirrus they were like okay weird but whatever if there's a lunar ichor alternative we gotta try that, saw Cirrus punishing that dude went nope try again later, they did try again later and got the Cirrus grew bored of you route with Ark

Set the pleasure den on fire by using the lotions and oils that were left in the room. Fun fact if you dry lotion on fabric it's VERY flammable and since they don't have synthetic fibers in this game, plus considering what kind of ingredients they'd be using for lubrication, lotions and oil; it's really easy to set things on fire.

After running away and grabbing a new face, they broke into their old room and left their medallion before returning as 'Finrod'

met Oleander while avoiding the guards because they were feeling antsy

became Vigil and is balancing new work, how do I kill Cirrus thoughts and I might need to steal lunar ichor when it pops up in the market.

Habits & hobbies:

Whenever Finrod gets too overwhelmed they use pain to calm their mind, to them pain is clarity. So, sometimes when Finrod stews on bad memories they'll end up harming themselves in some way to force themselves to calm down

Really, really quiet when it comes to pain, crying or having a crisis, high pain tolerance basically which is good because of their flare ups

Sometimes Finrod doesn't really laugh even though something is funny so they learned to fake laugh as a way to show they find something funny

Whenever something is really funny to them they have the habit of covering their mouth

When they're unsure, nervous or feeling awkward they'll scratch their nose

Doesn't have a tell when they're lying cause they do it so much

Finrod has the habit of bringing everything they think they need with them at all times (matchsticks/lighter/strike-a-light/flint, knife, scissors, needle and thread, bandages, map, a magnifying glass, paper and ink) this is because of having to live on the go for their job. scouting behavior etc.

When Finrod is happy/relaxed/calm they'll start humming or singing this applies to games, when they have their plan all finished and they're confident they'll start singing to themselves

In a fight Finrod will throw themselves at people like a battering ram if needed, not that they're big but that they're good at knowing how to use their momentum and weight.

Likes massaging/caressing/tracing their friends' hands as a way to soothe themselves

Can finish dressing up and arranging all their things in under 4 minutes (habit from being a private guard on the go)

Name stuff:

Chose Mairon for their first half because I thought it would be appropriate since this is their first go at the mountain. Finrod is their second go because of how Finrod died and the betrayal stuff that happened to him.

Outfit Design:

Mairon's Clothes

Wanted it to come off as simple and formal more reminiscent of their time as a private guard. The most color you'll get from them is their belt and matching cuffs. Very neat appearance more npc looking since they want to blend in. They use the standard black mask in the game as well.

Finrod's Clothes

I gave it more color because Finrod had to ditch their old clothes due to the fire, it's a mix of things they grabbed or bought after the fire. They kept their belt and cuff because it's sentimental and also just useful to them. Although they wear more colors It's mostly dark shades so that they don't stand out in shadows. A lot of their body is bandaged and when they met Oleander half their face was bandaged under the mask too.

Opinions on the boys:

REaLLy wants Cirrus dead doesn't care if they get hurt in the process

Slowly growing an obsession over Oleander but they're very good at hiding it, their banter helps calm them down

Likes to mess with Kier otherwise neutral but i think storywise they haven't met

Francesco reminds them of a friend from the surface they bump into each other time to time

[silverskye13]

um now that you mention it, my own hands start hurting after drawing for too long ,,, do you know where I could learn those stretches you mentioned ???

If you find that your hand/wrist/arm/shoulder get painful when you're working on art set a timer for 1 hour [if you feel severe pain, you should rest, but in lieu of that, set your timer for every half hour.]

Every time that timer goes off, you can go through these stretches. They're the ones I do, anyway:

Do this thing with your arm extended, grab the fingertips in your other hand and pull back. You should feel a gentle stretch in your forearm. I will hold both of those positions for around 10 seconds. You can hold for longer if you want a better stretch. Some people hold it for 20-30 seconds.

Then I repeat those stretches but with my palm facing inwards like this:

I like to curl my fingers when I do it too. Wiggle em around a little.

After that, place your palm flat on the table and bend your elbow at a 90° angle, like you're doing your best impression of an alligator crawling out of the water. [Or if you're a nerd like me, you can pretend you're summoning the jaguar from Road to El Dorado:

[getting on the ground isn't necessary for your dramatic recreation, you can do it on your desk. Anyway.]

With your elbow bent at the angle, you're going to push down gently on your palm and roll your wrist in a circle. This loosens up your elbow and your shoulder, as well as rotates your wrist.

After that, roll your shoulders a few times. Shrug them a few more.

Then extend your arms out to your sides [T-pose for dominance] and make circles with your arms. Big and small. You can do 10 big and 10 small, or just make circles to your heart's content.

Finally, wiggle it out. Pretend you're in grade school and your teacher just told you to wiggle out your energy. Do your best impression of a limp loose rubber goose. Just get silly. This is just to shake out any remaining stiffness, and gives you an excuse to stand up, if you haven't done so already.

If you're incorporating these stretches into your art routine, now is also a good time to take a drink of water. Stay hydrated.

Important things to remember:

At no point in time should these stretches cause severe pain. If you feel shooting pains, pins and needles in your hand/fingertips, or burning in your muscles, stop what you're doing and rest. That is your body telling you something is wrong and it wants time to heal. Whatever you're doing, it will wait.

Also, if you find you are resting, but everything still hurts, one thing I've done in the past is sleep with a wrist brace. This keeps your wrist/hand from flopping around and getting into awkward positions at night. If you too would like to sleep with a wrist brace, remember to keep the brace firm but loose. It should be firm enough to keep you from bending your wrist all the way, not so tight that it cuts off blood flow, makes you sore, or makes your fingers tingle. Especially if your joints swell at night.

This is not a magic fix for your wrist/arm issues. I am not a medical professional or a personal trainer. Do get help if you have pain that lasts more than a week, or at a severity that it impacts your daily life, or makes it hard to pick up objects.

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk.

[minniethemoocherda]

You Are The Weapon I Choose: Chapter 2

A/N: I've seen Deadpool & Wolverine now and OMG??!!!! And thanks again to @pkmndaisuki for being my beta reader! Xxxxxxx

Ao3

The ride back in the blackbird was one of the most awkward of Morph's life.

The girl -Laura- still hadn't woken up yet from whatever had been forced into her body.

Outside of that tank, Morph noticed how the definition of her young muscles were sunken against skin that wad almost as grey as there's. Her body had been trained but it must have also rarely been allowed to see the sun.

It was no wonder why Logan refused to let go of her. That infamous animalistic urge to protect on full alert. Even as Beast clearly wanted to check her over. 

"We can't help her if we can't touch her." Morph remined Logan, as the only one currently being allowed to talk to him without getting stabbed. They placed a hand on his shoulder, and despite being over thirty thousand feet in the air, through the blood strained yellow of his costume they could feel themselves grounding him back to reality.

Logan jerked a nod. Although he still refused to let go of the girl.

Cautious yet curious Beast did his best to examine Laura, detecting no obvious wounds recent or otherwise leading further evidence to the theory that everyone had already come to.

Then Beast jammed a needle into her arm and all hell broke loose.

If Beast wasn’t so used to getting the fuck out of dodge when a previously unconsciousness Wolverine starts swiping at him, he'd have gotten his arm slashed off.

Laura sprung free of Logan's grasp. She crouched on the blackbird floor, claws drawn and teeth bared in a snarl.

For a moment nobody moved.

Then Laura leapt for the controls.

Storm was flying the plane. Scott's powers were useless on it. Rogue couldn't get close enough to use her powers without getting stabbed first. And Beast didn't fancy getting swiped again.

So Jean thrust Laura back towards Logan. He grabbed her around the middle. Her claws shredded through Logan's skin faster than he could heal. The blackbird's black floor was soon stained red as Laura screamed and thrashed at the group of strangers that taken her from the only concept of a home she had ever known.

Morph didn't want to cause Laura any more pain then she had already been through. But not everyone had a healing ability that would allow them to survive a crash. So they shifted into Luke Cage, their skin now impenetrable to her claws as they helped Logan to keep her from stabbing the plane's metal.

In the end Jean had to blast her brain to knock the girl out and Morph couldn't even be mad at her for it.

The blood sample Beast had nearly gotten them all killed over, revealed what they had all expected. That Laura was Logan's kid. Albeit as a clone as opposed to the traditional method.

Which raised a whole new bunch of questions on who these people were and what else they had done.

But that didn't matter right now.

The priority was Laura.

Who had made another escape attempt when they had arrived back at the mansion in the early hours of the morning. Thankfully a telepathic conversation with the professor had appeared to convince her that they weren't going to treat her however those previous people had.

Morph, along with the others had come to the collective conclusion to give Laura and Logan space for the rest of the day.

Morph heard the numerous crashes and yells from all areas of the mansion for the rest of the day but the place hadn't burnt down yet so they assumed the pair of them were doing alright.

It had also given them more time to come to terms with the fact that Logan had a kid now because holy shit Logan had a kid now!

Which given the fact that the guy was over a hundred years old the possibility of him having a kid wasn't exactly zero. But if Logan had ever previously impregnated someone, he didn't remember it. And Morph and Logan had only been dating for few weeks so the discussion of having kids hadn't exactly come up yet but Morph doubted Logan planned on doing so on purpose anytime soon.

Not that Morph had ever really given thought about having kids themselves. They did like kids and had been surprisingly popular with them when the X-Men has first made themselves known to the public. Theoretically they could have one with Logan the old fashioned way, but that would require having to consciously shift themselves a womb for nine months which would be a lot more difficult than Mystique giving herself a dick for a couple of rounds of sessions of love making with Destiny to create Nightcrawler. Not that they particularly wanted to force the pain of existing in this fucked up world onto a new life in the first place. They would rather bring joy and comfort to the unfortunately staggering number of children already out there who needed it. But no one in this day and age was ever going to a let a gay, non-binary, mutant adopt.

So the idea of them having children had always felt more like a fantasy, a break of happiness for them to daydream about as opposed to something that was actually possible.

Then again, they used to think the same when daydreaming about Logan so maybe it wasn't a complete impossibility after all.

They had gotten so lost in their thoughts all day that they hadn't realised how late it had gotten until they glanced at the newest alarm clock in Logan's room to discover that it was midnight.

Morph assumed that Logan must still be trying to settle Laura down for bed. Which given her earlier behaviour wasn't a total shock.

Looking for an excuse to check in on the pair, Morph grabbed the spare set of bedsheets from their room. Well technically they weren't exactly spare, but they hadn't exactly been used much since Morph had been spending most of their nights in Logan's room. Something that Morph could still scarcely believe, even though they had been in a relationship with the man for a while now.

Morph was startled out of their thoughts by the door of Laura new bedroom before they could even knock.

Logan stood on the other side of the doorway, purple shadows under his blue eyes and Laura dangling off his arm from where she was currently biting into his bicep.

"Everything alright?" Morph asked, unable to stop themselves from staring at the sight.

Logan groaned, grabbing Laura by the scruff of her neck from his other arm. He yanked her free, seemingly not caring when she took a chunk of his biceps with her.

"I said no biting!" Logan ordered, holding her by the scruff of the neck and pointing the finger of his free hand at her. She then tried to bite said finger.

"Alright that's it!" Logan growled marching over to the bed and dumping her on it. Laura growled back, crouching up against the pillows by the wall, claws drawn.

"Now go to sleep!" Logan demanded, exhaustion seeping into his voice. For once he actually sounded his over a hundred years of age.

Laura shook her head. Morph noticed that she was still wearing the medical gown that they'd found her in and that the old nightdress Jubilee had kindly donated was on the floor in shreds. Along with basically every other thing in the room. 

Well she was definitely Logan's kid, Morph couldn't help but think. Not that there was any doubt.

Morph shared a quick look with Logan. Whilst neither had telepathy, they had always been able to communicate without words.

Logan stiffened, his eyes darting to the still protruded edges of Laura's claws, even though they both knew that they couldn't hurt them. After a moment, he nodded.

With permission granted, Morph placed the sheets besides the remains of the nightdress before they slowly perched on the end of the bed. Laura quickly shifted her focus to them, for the first time properly taking in their presence.

It was strange to see the blue of Logan's eyes in one so young, especially when they held the same amount of trauma. And Laura may not have been Morph's kid but in that moment they knew that they would do anything if it meant that she would never have to feel that pain again.

"Not a fan of sleeping either huh?" Morph smiled. Laura made no outwards response that she had heard them. Regardless Morph kept on talking. "You know your Daddy rescued me too."

By the inquisitive tilt of her head, it was evident that she did not, which wasn't that surprising considering the fact that before the past twenty-four hours she didn't know that life existed outside of that hellhole of a compound. But Morph couldn't think about that without getting extremely pissed so they moved on.

"He promised that the bad man who had captured me would never take me again. And he was true to his word. Because your Daddy is the most over protective worry-wort I know." Logan snorted. They ignored him. "However, he can't stop any bad thing from ever happening. Sometimes, my nightmares hurt me too. But he can stop the bad man from hurting me. And I promise that he won't let the bad people hurt you again."

Morph felt a strong hand grasp their shoulder. They glanced up to see that over protective resolve on Logan's face and couldn't help but smile.

Out of the corner of their eye, they saw Laura take a curious look back and forth between them.

A minute later, she finally put her claws away. Although she made no move to actually get into bed.

Luckily, Morph had one idea left.

"One time, I was so scared of going to sleep, that your Daddy stayed up all night to protect me." They could still remember that night. The feeling of Logan's arm around them. Hands that had taken so many lives used to hold them close. They had never felt safer. "Nobody here will let anyone hurt you. But if you like, me and your Daddy can keep watch outside your door, just to sure?"

Morph watched as Laura thought their offer over. They released the breath they hadn't realised they'd been holding when she eventually nodded her head.

Laura didn't get under the covers but she did lie her head down on the pillow. Morph decided to take that as a win.

"Goodnight." Morph said as they collected the pile of sheets. They elbowed Logan who grunted out a 'Goodnight' too. "We'll be right outside if you need us."

Laura nodded and finally closed her eyes.

Morph took one long last look before they closed the door behind them.

As soon as it was shut, Logan collapsed against the door. Morph rolled their eyes. And Logan called them a drama-queen.

Still they arranged the bedsheets into a nest on the floor before sliding down the wall to sit next to him.

It was wild to think how much had changed since the last time the two of them had slept like this.

Time-travel. Resurrections. Not to mention the fact that they were actually dating.

And now there was Laura.

It was still the early days of their relationship with Logan. And Morph knew that the two of them would need a have a serious talk about the extent of their involvement in Laura's life sooner rather than later. But if Logan was willing, then Morph would be honoured to be a part of it.

"You're good with her." Logan said eventually. There wasn't any jealously in his tone, just resigned statement of relief, as though he never expected anything different.

"Well I do have experience in wrangling Wolverines." Morph teased, nudging him.

For once Logan didn't respond to their joke. He stewed in silence, those bright blue eyes refused to meet their empty grey ones.

Morph cupped his cheek, slowing turning his chin as they stroked their thumb through his soft sideburns. Logan finally looked them in the eye and Morph had never that shade of blue look so vulnerable.

"Hey," Morph whispered. "You've only been a parent for twenty-fours hours. Nobody is expecting you to be the perfect parent right away. For some people it takes eighteen years to learn. And some never do. Take my Dad for example. But you're trying, which is a hell of lot more than some people."

"I just I... I never thought I'd have ... this." Logan stammered, gesturing vaguely towards Morph and the door.

Morph knew what he meant. After the death of their mother and the rejection of their father, they never thought they'd have anything resembling a family again. Then they joined the X-Men, became best friends with then started dating Logan, and found Laura. And now they were finally letting themselves believe that they might have one again.

"Well you're stuck with us now so you're going to have to start getting used to it." Morph told him. It was smaller than expected but they finally got that smirk of a smile on Logan's face that they had been aiming for. "I'll take first watch. You get some sleep."

For once Logan was too tired to argue for stubbornness' sake and rested his head against their shoulder.

Within moments Morph heard the soft rumbling of snores. They smiled. Who would have thought that all it would take to tire out the great Wolverine was one little girl.

Well, a little girl with knives for knuckles and more trauma than anyone that small should ever have to contain.

But they had seen Logan comfort Jubilee, holding her close as she dealt with the horrors of the foster system. Or watched as he let some of the random kids they'd saved use his body as a climbing frame. And experienced first hand how he would go to the ends of the Earth to protect the people he cared about.

Morph knew that Logan would be an amazing father. They just hoped that one day soon, he would see that too.

[sp4ceboo]

Stay With Me: Din Djarin x Reader

A/N: we love us some whump

Warnings: injuries, blood, gore, swearing, angst, a helluva lot of crying, death, needles, idk what else lmfao,

Word count: <1200

Fuck, what had you been thinking?

Din himself had warned you against taking the job. He'd taken the time to explain to you all the ways you could get killed or kidnapped or left to die, and you'd taken it anyway, in hope that the money would get the dodgy engine of your ship fixed.

You should have known, Din is always right about this stuff.

Well, partially right, anyway. You did manage to get the bounty - you also managed to shove him in carbonite, although he's at a slightly awkward angle due to your current predicament. Gritting your teeth, you stumble towards the ladder leading to the cockpit and grab the top rung, heaving yourself up with pure arm strength - thank the Maker for the pull up bar Din helped you install. Your eyes water as the various slashes in your arms stretch open, and warm blood starts soaking into your ragged sleeves. Pulling yourself across the floor, grimacing at the red smear you leave behind you, you barely manage to sit up on your knees and stab the button which sets off the distress beacon. Flicking the switch to send a transmission, you wince and wave, aware of how your face must be smeared in blood.

'Hey, Din,' you stutter through your pain. 'I got the bounty, but I - ' You sway, just catching yourself on the pilot's chair. ' - I think I'm going to die.' Heaving yourself up a little, you lift up the hem of your shirt. 'I'm bleeding out, Din. If I - if I don't get to talk to you again, I - ' You wince as pain stabs through you. ' - I just want you to know, I care about you, a lot, and I'll miss it. Whatever we're calling it, I... I'll miss what we had, just between the two of us.'

Suddenly, black roils at the edges of your vision, and the world spins around you before you topple over, collapsing onto the floor.

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ───

Din's heart is pounding in his ears as he squeezes through the small space the ramp has made as it lowers, unwilling to wait for it to open fully. Sprinting across the landing bay, he catches sight of your ship and lengthens his stride, putting on a burst of speed at the memory of your words, forced out through your pain.

I think I'm going to die.

I think I'm going to die. I think I'm going to die. I think I'm -

He skids to a halt outside your ship, frantically typing your encrypted mish mash of letters and numbers into the panel by the ramp. Agonisingly slowly, it begins to hum open, and he reaches up and yanks it down, scrambling into your ship and almost tripping over a crate as he makes his way towards the cockpit, where he knows you'll be. There's drops of blood on the floor by the ladder, deep red dotting the metal, and two crimson handprints on the top rung. Fear shoots through him, cold and paralysing, but he doesn't let it delay him for long, not when your life is at stake.

He bursts into the cockpit.

You're lying on the floor, so still he almost thinks he's too late.

Dropping to his knees beside you, right into a pool of your own blood, he gently flips you over. His breath catches in his throat. Half of your torn tunic is soaked red, and his fingers tremble as he lifts it up, forcing himself to inspect the gaping wound for the sake of saving you. The skin around the edges is ragged, and he assumes it's got to be from some sort of jagged viroblade. Blood is still oozing from your wound, and he immediately applies pressure while he searches his memory for where the medkit is. Terror stabs at his heart; he can't let this happen, can't let you go, not when he could have prevented this by persuading you not to take the job.

'Stay with me,' he whispers, his voice cracking. 'Please. Please, I can't - '

Choking down a sob, almost unable to leave your side to get the medkit, he nearly falls down the ladder as he rips open the cupboard to his left and grabs it with shaking hands. Your name on his lips as he scrambles back up into the cockpit, he rips open the neat box of supplies and grabs the bacta shot, praying that he's not too late, that he can still save you.

Carefully, he steadies his shaking hands and lines the bacta shot up so the entry point will be just under your ribs. Biting back his panic, he pushes down the plunger, watching the bacta empty from the syringe. Once it's all gone, he pulls the needle out and drops it onto the ground beside him, desperately watching you for movement. He knows that he could still be too late - there's a certain period of time after a wound where you can apply a shot, but anything after that... well, you might as well be saying your goodbyes.

And he can't say his goodbyes, not with your sweet voice in his head, saying I'll miss it. Whatever we're calling it, I'll miss what we had, just between the two of us.

Not with your sweet voice saying, I care about you, a lot.

Not with his heart begging for you to live, because he needs to tell you how much he cares.

Needs to tell you he can't lose you.

Needs to tell you he loves you. So, so much.

You cough, weakly, and your eyes flutter open. Unable to make a coherent sound, he grabs you in his arms, cradling you to his chest and barely restraining himself from crushing you close to him. He leans the cold beskar of his helmet on your shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut underneath as salty tears drip down his face, shuddering sobs wracking his large frame as he clings onto you, revelling in how warm you are, how alive you are.

'Don't you ever fucking dare do that again,' he growls. 'You should have listened to me, you - you shouldn't have gone, don't ever, ever do that again. You scared me, you fucking scared me so much - '

One of your hands reaches up and presses against the cheek of his helmet. It doesn't matter that there's dried blood on your fingers, doesn't matter at all to Din, because you're alive. So he grabs your fingers and squeezes them, and with his head still buried in your shoulder, he tells you the truth, his voice ragged and broken.

'I love you,' he gasps. 'I love you, I love you, I love you.'

You close your eyes, one hand fisting in his cowl while you bury your face in his shoulder, engulfing yourself in his scent. 'Din, I'm sorry, I'm so s - sorry - ' You cut yourself off, arms locking around his neck as you stare right into his eyes as if the helmet isn't there. 'I love you too, Din. I love you.'

Din rests his forehead against yours, tears streaking down his cheeks, as he holds you in his arms, thanking the Maker that you're still with him.

[jamneuromain]

Wishful Thinking Epilogue

Andy Barber x You (Reader)

Alternate Universe - College AU

Summary: A new semester. A new task. A new boyfriend, your previous professor, Andy Barber. Everything seems to be going on the right track. So why didn't it?

Warning: Angst, inappropriate teacher-student relationship, age difference, cheating, explicit language, TW: Assault/Attempt murder

A/N: This fic has some disturbing themes, and discusses potentially upsetting topics. Please read through the warning before engaging with the fic. As I have said, the fic has mentioned a number of (potentially) triggering and heavy topics, you don't have to engage further if you feel uncomfortable about one or more topics.

Wishful Thinking M. List Dancing in the Daydream M. List

“Doctor Ashner, please come to Ward 507. Doctor Ashner, please come to Ward 507…”

The buzz of the overhead speakers startles you a little, but you quickly shake it behind you as you figure out which direction is the E.R. From there, it is fairly simple to ask a nurse where is the most recent Uni-stabbing victim.

The nurse points towards the end of the E.R. hall, “That one, with the curtains shut. We had just finished stitching him up.”

You reply with a “thank you” as you head in his direction, taking in a sharp inhale as the smell of blood and medical alcohol puts your nerves on edge.

Slipping through the blue surgical curtain, you see Andy Barber lying on the hospital bed, one of his arms bare, with a stitched-up wound that looks like a centipede carved onto his flesh.

He must have sensed you, for he opens his eyes, his gaze landing on you, and he manages a small smile, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Standing uncomfortably almost with needles under your feet, you point to the corner of the bed, “May I sit?”

“ ’course.” He moves his legs for you to make a bigger space to sit.

You both fall into a cloud of silence, suffocating you.

His other arm, the arm that is not stabbed, explores little by little, finally taking your hand in his.

Your gaze falls to your joined hands.

You did not move away.

An awkward silence fills the space. Though you are in a hospital with medical staff a curtain away, Andy feels like being in court, watched by thousands of eyes and awaiting the judge to deliver the sentence – awaiting you for your conclusion … or whatever it is that could define this relationship, and he firmly believes with a large percent of probability, that you would execute the bond between the two of you.

“I-uh,” you struggle with words, clearing your throat for good measure, “How are you feeling?”

Andy’s gaze lands on his arm. The wound looks hideous. But he barely felt a thing while being stitched up. “They gave me something, some anesthetic spray of sorts.” He explains carefully. It is bad enough you found out about Laurie and his lying, he doesn’t want you to add “junkie” to the list of “Things that Andy Barber might have done to irritate you”, “The nurse said adrenaline helped. But – um, the pain would come up when the chemicals start to fade.”

You let out a small “Oh”. Then silence dawns upon you again.

For you, you don’t know what to say; for Andy, he has his mind full of things to say, but he has no idea how to start.

But clearly, the silence bothers him more than you, because he could not stand a second more with this suffocating atmosphere. Andy sits up a little, before confessing to you, “I am sorry. I truly am. For this mess. I am divorcing Laurie, and she’s …” Realizing he’s speaking ill of his soon-to-be ex-wife again, Andy changes the subject, “We are both not really happy with this situation.”

“How long?” You choose not to look at him, but rather at your hands.

“Sorry?”

“How long-” You inhale deeply, preparing yourself for the harsh answer he is about to offer, “have you and Laurie been together?”

“… Ten years.”

You truly know how to grasp the key point of this conversation, Andy thinks to himself.

“Ten-” You sound both surprised and angry, which is fair. He probably deserves your anger. You stop yourself from bursting out the curse on the tip of your tongue, “And you’re divorcing her, why?”

“There are … several reasons.”

“Well, name one.” You snap at him. Quickly gathering your emotions together, you clench your teeth from bursting out again.

Andy nods. He definitely deserves it.

“She’s cheating on me.” Andy adds, “Twice.”

Good. Because he’s surely not a cheater. But you bite that back, “I see.”

He calls out your name, but that doesn’t bring your eyes towards him, only making your hand escape his grasp, “Give me a chance, please, I promise I’ll make it right.” He whispers, close to begging, “Please don’t leave me. I can’t bear the thought of losing you. The past weeks have been miserable...”

To which you would snort, but you try to be as expressionless as you can.

“… I need you. I haven’t felt …” His voice sounds broken, “happy, for a long time. I’m a terrible person and I know it. I shouldn't have started yelling the last time we met. I’ve said … vile things. They were mean. I apologize. I know I cannot say this enough, nor ask for your forgiveness because -” He smiles bitterly, “I deserve it.”

“I accept your apology.” You take great courage in saying this, “That doesn’t mean I forgive you for what you’ve done. I need time to process my feelings and you as well.”

He whispers your name under his breath.

“I don’t think we should see each other.” The name “Andy” gets stuck in your throat like a log, paining you to say the rest of your mind, “And don’t – not this time – don’t use tricks or whatever, trying to apologize again, or come knocking at my door, or say hello even if we bump into each other. Just…” You shake your head lightly, “I need you to give me space, and vice versa.”

“Okay.” He murmurs, “I promise.”

“Do, not promise, okay?” You can’t help but be reassured. Because you know, with one more look from his direction, or one more word, your heart would undoubtedly leap his way.

“Okay.” He looks up at you, carefully asking, “Can I still like your Instagram posts?”

A rush of laughter comes unexpectedly out of your throat.

You smile, “Yeah, you can like the posts, but … don’t comment.”

He speaks your name one last time, as you get up from where you were sitting, gaining your attention. The syllables escaped his perfectly full and pink lips, hooking your heart to beat for him again.

I love you. He manages a smile, “Take care.”

“You too.” You once wished him to get hit by a car, but getting stabbed is somewhat getting even from your side. And now you wish the best for him. Wish the best for whatever works out for him.

You run into him in the Starbucks near the Sackson House two months later. The semester is coming to an end, and you are reading a few dozen papers to write your research proposal, which you’ve settled on discussing a book of YA fantasies based on one of those boring literature theories.

You are sitting beside a small table in the back of the shop, relieving yourself from prying eyes and busy customers in the front. With music playing in your ears, your attention focuses on the dragging on criticism of fantasy novels in the pdf file, without noticing a man standing next to you and pulling a small notepad out of his pocket.

He scribbles something and puts the sticker on the table.

May I join you?

That captures your attention. That familiar writing with the y tilting towards the right.

Andy. You let out a soft sigh, inching your gaze higher to take in his warm radiant smile and the beard. The beard that you dreamt of chafing your skin even after your brief conversation in the hospital.

God, you miss him. In more ways than you could have imagined.

All sounds stop. All living beings cease to exist but him.

“Yeah, um, seat’s empty.” You gesture towards the other side of the table, stumbling on your own words.

“Hi.” He takes the seat, placing his coffee on the table, and his backpack near his feet, “Hope you don’t mind.”

You would prance on him. Just fall into his embrace that you know would be burning warm. Your fingers itching to connect themselves to his hand.

“I-uh,” Andy scratches the back of his head, “wanted to tell you I got what I deserved, really. It’s not – I was – I want to tell you that you won’t be seeing me anymore here.” He glances around the coffee shop.

You meet his eyes, silently encouraging him to continue.

“Due to the whole Laurie incident,” Andy sucks in a breath sharply, “the Uni held a panel for this … thing, and they could not tolerate – well, my situation.” He chuckled drily, “In short, we have come to terms with the mess and the university required me to resign by the end of this semester and I’ve found a job as an associate professor for Boston University. I’ll be working for BU by the start of the next semester, so…”

It goes without saying that you won’t be seeing him anymore.

“I’m sorry to hear this.” You chew on your lower lip, fidgeting with the straw in your cup, rather than focusing on his face and his sad smile.

“Yeah, no – um,” Andy shakes his head in the smallest of motions, “BU is closer to my house anyway, only about a five-minute drive.”

“Congratulations, then.”

“… Went on a court too.” Andy blurts out before you say anything else, “My lawyer filed for a restriction against Laurie from approaching me – she’s had … some sort of mental illness, taken to a nursing facility in Baltimore by her parents since the judge ruled for a divorce.”

“That’s … nice, I guess.” You murmur, unsure whether the twisted feeling at the bottom of your heart is supposed to be joy or sorrow.

Now that he’s a free and single man, it doesn’t make much sense if he would continue to dwindle on you or your failed relationship, does it? But you are happy for him, truly, for getting what he wanted and a better job offer – BU is more famous than the one you are studying at, which probably comes with better benefits and a greater chance if he one day wants to earn tenure.

“Well, this is it.“ He sighs.

“This is it.” You repeat what he says, almost mechanically, afraid to look into his eyes again.

Coward. You tell yourself, only a coward would be fearing a proper goodbye.

Because deep down, you know that when you look into the pool of blue, you would see nothing else than fierce, determined love, that insane obsession of gravitating you back towards him. Or the more devastating sight: the lack of it.

What’s worse, you can’t think of a reason to stop yourself from being pulled in his direction.

You should hate him, along with the horrible things he had done to you – you still do, but you can’t shake off the fact that even though the relationship had been toxic to some extent, you always forgive him easily. Because you love him.

“Speaking of,” Andy searched his bag, before placing a small velvety box on the table, “I have something for you, and I would like you to have it.”

He pops open the box and reveals its content to you: “It’s uh- something I wanted to give you two, three months ago when we were -” He stops dead in his tracks. Clearly, he meant that “when you were good”, but he skips this part of his speech, “I know that our relationship is over and it has most certainly gone beyond the point of salvaging, but I’d still like you to have it.”

Your gaze roams over the expensive diamonds that form a ring as a pendant of the necklace.

“Andy, this is…” You shake your head. It’s too much. The gift is too much. Too expensive. Too shiny. And too painful to remind you that Andy believes he needs to move on as well.

“It’s a day collar.” He interrupts your unfinished sentence, “And I want you to have it no matter what you decide, whether you want out or - ” The sad smile makes its way to his face again, “I guess it’s not quite possible that you still want me after all … this.”

“You know that this Laurie incident would be an eternal trust issue that lies between us if we, on a hypothesis, get back together, right?” Your jaw ticks, burying your face in your hands subtly.

“Yeah, I understand.” He replies in a low voice.

“And you also know that the stabbing – one of us is bound to feel guilty towards the other, and my conscience is eating me up?”

“Yes.” He whispers your name.

“This is really fucked up if we get back together.” You put down your hands, and push the box in his direction, emphasizing, “Really, really fucked up.”

“I know.” He could barely manage his smile without forcing it, “I’m the most fucked up factor.”

You close your eyes. You must be fucking loco after hours of reading papers in a small confined space. Fuck. Fuck! FUCK! Why do you have to like him? Why?! There are fucking 3.5 billion males on Earth and this is what you choose? This one is the one that your heart desires?

How can you be this stupid? How can your heart turn a blind eye to all the hurt and bruises, the tears and cries?

You can almost hear your heart sniggering in response.

Andy, however, interprets your sanity just fine.

“You don’t want to see me, I get it.” He slowly gets up from his seat, pushing the box back to you as he does so, and buttoning up his suit jacket.

“Sit.” The word leaps out of your clenched teeth like a fucking world-class Olympic gymnast. You are mad. Mad as hell, both at yourself and your traitorous heart that crushes itself onto your ribcage at every beat, “I’m not done.”

He lets out a quiet “Oh” and sits back down, hands over his knees like an irritatingly good pupil in class.

“You – ” You start, but words hide from your tongue faster than an alphabetical monster chasing them to the end of the world, “I - ” The sheer frustration of not being able to form a complete sentence in front of this man you both hate and love washes over you. For Christ’s sake, you have wanted to prepare a full speech when you meet him again to slam that into his face since you are living perfectly fine on your own, no man needed. Not a single male creature was needed in sight.

But you crave him.

And you were probably going to regret your decision decades from now, but hey – at least your heart wanted it that way.

“I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard…” You seethe, “I can’t – I can’t live without you. I don’t know how to deal with this, want you and hate you at the same time. I just can’t.”

His sane brain is urging him to leave, because that’s what’s best for you, for him, for you both. His sane brain is screaming not to bring you any trouble.

“If you betray me like that again, swear to fucking God I’d run you over with my car.” Your hand curls into a fist on the table, adding to your previous threat, “Twice.”

His emotions, on the other hand, lock the sane part of his brain up with heavy ropes and chains, throw the key over the fire and dance in triumph.

“We should start over. Get this past behind us.” A sincere smile makes its way to his lips. He leans forward, a flash of watery sweeps his eyes but just as quickly, he blinks it away, grinning, “Hi. I’m Andy. I’m working as a professor in English Literature. Pleased to meet you.”

You shoot a harmless glare in his direction, and an eye-roll, “I’m fucking pissed off and I’m going to work on my dissertation. Unless you have something that desperately needs to come out, don’t utter another word before I finish reading this one.”

Andy shrugs, “Well, since you’re working on your dissertation, you know I’ve still got some connections with my colleagues and we could surely put in a good word -”

“And for the thousandth time, I said no.”

You nearly growl this time. To which Andy smiles.

That smug bastard thinks he can shortcut the way to your heart by allowing a teensy bit of bias introduced to the grading of your work.

“You wish.” You murmur under your breath, ignoring the way how he not-so-subtly places his hand over yours, and enjoying his coffee with a dazzling grin.

A/N: Finally! The main story of Andy/Reader is finished! I'm so happy for all your support and love for this story. There are a few drabbles/one-shots that are still in progress for this series, but in general, it's complete and I hope I can see you in another story <3

Tag List: @geminiflanagansblog @wintasssoldier @sapphire-rogers @nouk1998 @sarahdonald87 @charmed-asylum

[birgittesilverbae]

okay okay but get this. three sentence prompt: beatrice & shannon; about ava

went off the rails a bit. not canon to tmtl

//

Shannon tosses her a staff. "For old time's sake, Bea?"

Beatrice lets it fall past her hand, kicks it up with her toe at the last moment, catches it with an unnecessary flourish. "Ready to lose?"

"Oh, cocky Beatrice is out today."

"It isn't cocky if I can back it up."

Shannon makes a noise that's half agreement and half bemused laughter. "Fair enough. First to three touches?"

"Are you going soft on me? First to the ground." She flicks her wrist, spins the staff across the back of her hand. 

"You're on."

They're more evenly matched, now, Shannon's speed and strength boosted by whatever had happened to her on the other side of the Arc, but Beatrice's skill is still superior. She lands a thrust to Shannon's ribs, a strike across her back, but Shannon always stays upright, staff raised between them, grinning. Always grinning.

(One must, after all, imagine Shannon happy.)

They strike, block, parry, a partnered dance, steps memorised in long hours spent sparring each other here at Cat's Cradle. They know each other's tendencies, strengths, weaknesses. How Shannon's knee will buckle if she puts her weight on it the wrong way. How an awkward shoulder movement can cause the old pain of Beatrice's broken collarbone to flood in anew, leaving her open for a fraction of a second before she schools herself back into picture-perfect form. 

Back and forth across the dirt, strike and match, block and match, parry and match, until they're both soaked with sweat and bubbling with laughter. Beatrice's lip is split in two places, and there's blood dripping from her eyebrow. Shannon's arm had hung disjointed for a brief moment when Beatrice had gotten inside her range and leveraged her staff against Shannon's, but she'd only shrugged her shoulder back into place with the smallest grimace, a faint blue glow just visible beneath her shirt sleeve.

They end up at one another's throats. Shannon laughs first, a sound that fills Beatrice with warmth, and she can't help but join in. 

"You're losing your touch," Shannon needles, grinning. "Spending too much time getting your Halo Bearer up to speed, hey? Not enough on your own skills?"

"I'd still thrash you on an even playing field," Beatrice replies, "if there were such a thing as an even playing field."

Shannon knocks against her shoulder. "Glad to hear that lesson got through to you." They're seated, now, on the slope alongside the training ground.

She doesn't mean to say it, but it slips out all the same. "I think I'd be able to remember every word you've ever said to me, if I were pressed."

Shannon reaches up to pinch her cheek. "Oh, I'd forgotten about that! Little Bea with her little crush."

Beatrice ducks her head, her cheeks burning. "Before I learned how deeply uncool you were."

"Of course." Shannon glances towards the sky and her face falls. "We don't have long now, Bea."

"Don't have long until what?" Beatrice's foot slips, knocking one of the roof tiles free. It slides off the edge of the chapel and smashes on the ground below.

"Until you tell me about her," Shannon says easily. "Can't keep dodging my questions forever."

"Your–"

"I met her once, your Ava. Very earnest, very sincere. She wanted so badly to be helpful."

"That's Ava." Beatrice pushes the coffee cup across the counter to Shannon. 

"Your Ava," Shannon prompts, raising the cup to her in a mock salute. 

"My Ava," Beatrice says, because she can, because by the lake there's no one to hear but Shannon. 

"Was she, in the end?" Shannon weighs a rock in her hand, cocks her wrist back and sends it flying. "Helpful?"

Beatrice watches as the rock skips on and on and on. "More than she could ever know. She was the best of us."

"You loved her."

The stone beneath her knees scalds her through her jeans. "I loved her," she confirms, "for all the good it did her."

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength," Shannon quotes, tugging Beatrice to her feet and into a hug, "while loving someone deeply gives you courage. Have courage, Bea." Her lips brush Beatrice's forehead.

Beatrice stands in front of the Cruciform Sword, interred as a memorial. "Shannon?" She twists, but all she sees are flashes, glimpses. "Shannon?"

"Have strength."

The Sword thins to wisps, fades to nothingness. 

Her vision goes grey at the edges, then black. 

Beatrice wakes up blood-soaked and screaming.

[pisupsala]

One for The History Books [Chapter 17] [Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw]

[Summary] You are an archivist at the Pentagon, sent on assignment to TOPGUN to catalog and report on a top-secret mission. In the days under the Californian sun, a certain naval aviator puts your once orderly life in a tailspin that you might never recover from.

[Pairing] Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc

[Warnings] Mature content: swearing, (explicit) smut. 18+ only.

[Words] 4k

[Index] All Chapters | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Epilogue

[Library]

Chapter 17 - Sinking

You’ve been on pins and needles all day: tapping your foot under your desk, shuffling in your seat, fidgeting with papers. Bradley is coming back today. Your boss shoots you an annoyed look from across the conference room.

Tucking your hands under your legs like you’re back in primary school, you will yourself to sit still and listen to the presentation. If only it wasn’t so boring. Your mind wanders of its own accord to places more interesting.

Emboldened by Bradley’s reaction to the lingerie set you bought last time, you picked up another set to welcome him back—this time in black. You even splurged on matching garter belt and stockings.

Ok, is it insane to wear a skirt and stockings in January in D.C when you’re taking public transport?

Very much so. But you are also very much convinced it’s going to be worth it.

You idly wonder if Bradley will change into regular clothes before he comes to pick you up, or if you get to see him in uniform again. God, you hope it’s the latter.

Sometimes you think back to that first time you saw him again, when he pretty much materialized in your office in that khaki uniform. God, you were so angry then, but now that you have distance from the situation, it’s Bradley in that uniform that still sticks out.

A little bit too much on some nights.

You rub your thighs together unconsciously.

“Miss Williams, what is your perspective?”

Eh?

Oh.

Uhm.

The presentation.

Right.

“I think…,” You pause for a second, licking your suddenly dry lips. “…I think it’s pretty solid, but it would benefit from more specific cases studies. It’s a little abstract in its current form.”

Goddammit Bradley. He’s causing you trouble when he hasn’t even made landfall yet. You seriously glance at your watch. Another hour at least until his ship comes in.

You see your boss nodding as he takes notes. Good, so it was the right things to say. Birch better not be onto you—the last thing you need at this point is another talking to about professional conduct.

Riks has been out of your hair mercifully, at least after you threatened to file an official complaint for his digging around into your personal life, through Seresin no less.

That meeting was… something else. You are usually not one to get nervous giggles, being well practiced at keeping a straight face. But Birch, strained, in a deadly serious tone told Riks:

“Whatever lieutenant Bradshaw and Miss Williams get up to in their free time is their business, and I would be incredibly grateful if it stays that way.”

He paused, face pained, before continuing: “It’s neither the purpose nor goal of this department to uncover every roll in the hay service men or women have.”

“We’d need to double the Pentagon budget for just that.” Birch concludes under his breath.

He probably didn’t mean for you to hear him. But you were so embarrassed you could barely contain your laughter, tears filling your eyes. It wasn’t a funny situation in the least.

Just so so awkward.

You check your watch again. It’s barely lunchtime. The discussion in the room is still ongoing. No, but for real, how much is there to discuss about ammo logistics in during the Civil War? You half expect you’d be bored to tears even if you weren’t passionately hoping time would hurry the fuck up already.

Ah, finally. As you gather your things from the table, one of the presenters comes up to you.

“Miss Williams—would you mind sharing your notes from the presentation? I’m sure it will be incredibly useful.”

“Ah, yeah -” You would mind, actually. You would mind on the account that you didn’t actually take any notes and that the page in your notebook you had in front of you is full of mindless squiggles and doodles.

“I’ve given you all my feedback verbally just now, my notes don’t really add more to that.” You smile apologetically.

Before the presenter opens his mouth again, you interject: “Also, I have terrible handwriting, sorry!”

Clutching your notebook to your chest, you leg it out of the room. Jesus. You really know how to embarrass yourself well. Mercifully, you can hide in your office for the rest of the day to work on the reports for the Senate committee. That should tide you over to the end of the day.

Hah.

It’s not even 4:30 yet, and you’re pacing around your office like a caged tiger. You cannot even pretend to focus on your work anymore. If you have another coffee, you are pretty sure your heart is going to explode out of your chest.

God. You should have driven down to Virginia Beach despite Bradley’s protests. At least you’d be doing something more useful with your time than… pacing and daydreaming.

Your bag is already packed, your winter coat hanging from your desk chair. Bradley texted you when he disembarked and let you know he was on his was. You know he’ll text you once he’s parked, but, ugh, everything is taking too long today.

When your phone buzzes, you have your coat already half-way on before you see it’s just an email. You sink back into your chair, the momentum sending your chair spinning. Letting it turn you around, you idly wonder how many turns would equal one minute.

Oh Christ, enough already. You are acting like a teenager. Not even when you had your first crush at 14 were this hopeless, and if you were, that memory has fortunately been lost to time. To you. Probably not your sister, though.

Shrugging your coat back off, you grab one of the folders on the pile at the corner of your desk. Tapping your pen against the paper with more force than strictly necessary, you will yourself to start reading.

You are a goddamn adult, and you get paid to do this shit.

The last vestiges of your self-discipline burn out in the 45 minutes before your phone buzzes again. The moment you spot Bradley’s name on the display, with the simple message you’ve been waiting for all day—just “here”—you practically fly out of your office, coat unbuttoned, scarf loosely hanging from your neck and bag still open, slamming the door loudly behind you in your hurry. At the elevator, you push the button in rapid succession, trying to speed up the machine.

Calm.

You can’t run through the fucking Pentagon like a crazed woman.

Be professional.

Vaulting yourself into the empty elevator, you feel like there’s electricity coursing through your veins. It’s a nervous energy that been building in you all week—every breath a little bit closer to this moment.

It’s misty outside today—the fog you saw that morning still hasn’t cleared up as you look over the throng of people leaving the Pentagon at the end of the day. You join the too slow for your liking moving mass, trying to peer over the heads to see the exit to no avail.

You can’t very well push through.

The glass door finally come into view. Between people dispersing towards the parking bays and public transport, you see one figure cut through the mist, walking towards the Pentagon.

Your heart knows it’s Bradley before your head catches up, launching you forward, your feet moving by their own accord as you burst through the exit. The heels of your shoes echo against the stone pavement as loudly as your heart is beating in your ears, while your still unbuttoned coat flies behind you.

Bradley, in his dress blues, navy wool overcoat and white cap on his head, is walking down the pathway head held high, gait purposeful, every bit a Naval officer.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He’s so close.

The moment your eyes lock, he comes to a standstill, reaching out to you. Your momentum propels you forward straight into his waiting arms, where he catches your body easily and lifts you straight off the ground in a twirl, your bag forgotten at your feet. Your arms lock around his neck as you let out a surprised yelp, which he easily cuts off with a heated kiss.

Bradley’s lips taste of the wonderful winter cold as you melt into him.

“God, I’ve missed everything about you.” You mumble against his lips. His warm skin through the biting cold, the smell of his cologne, the brush of his neat mustache against your face. Catching Bradley’s mouth in another searing kiss, telling him more than words ever could, his grip on you tightens.

Breathless, Bradley sets you back down on your feet. You drink in every part of him as your fingers skim through the short hair on the back of his head. His cap is askew on his head, as he breathes heavily, his eyes searching over you, like he can’t believe you are really here.

Slowly, you press another kiss on his lips, as if to assure him and yourself that this is actually real.

“I’ve missed you so much.” He breathes so softly, you feel it more against your skin than that you hear it.

You giggle as you run your hands down the front of his coat, the dark wool soft under your fingers. He grabs your hand and presses a quick kiss against your fingertips.

“Let me take you home, darlin’,” Bradley’s murmurs in your ear, his voice has a delicious raw edge to it. “I’ve had to miss you for far too long.”

Nodding eagerly, you pull away long enough to retrieve your bag from the ground. A shiver overtakes you as you suddenly notice how cold it is now you’re not pressed up against Bradley anymore. As sharp as ever, he is already a step ahead of you and buttons up your coat with nimble fingers, wrapping your scarf around your neck.

It’s only now, that you actually manage to get your bearings again a little bit, you hear the oohs and aaws from passerby’s. Normally you would want the ground to swallow you whole for making such a spectacle, but today? You cannot find it in yourself to care, too wrapped in Bradley.

“Son, you better fix that cover.” A gruff voice comes from your right. No, okay, maybe you do care a little bit about your boss witnessing this. Birch is determinedly starting in front of him as he passes you.

“You have an admiral incoming on my six.” He adds, not sparing you another look.

“Yes sir, right away, sir.” Bradley choruses with practiced ease, as he moves his cap back into a respectable position on his head. You chuckle an apology, but Bradley just shoots you that winning smile of his.

“Let’s go sweetheart.” He says simply, as he presses a kiss against your forehead and takes your hand.

His large hand is warm against your already cold fingers as you start making your way to the visitor’s parking bay. You wrap your free hand around Bradley’s arm, leaning against him as you walk.

As you arrive at his car, you automatically turn to the passenger’s seat. With a mischievous grin pulls Bradley, you back to face him, his lips ghosting over your jaw. You run your fingers over the lapels of his coat as you sigh at the sensation of his hot breath caressing the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“I’m kind of tired from the trip, darlin’,” He murmurs, sending shivers down your spine. With a soft jingle, Bradley pulls out his car keys from his pocket and presses them into your hand. “Why don’t you drive us?”

“Really?” You ask, strangely breathless. Bradley just hums in response as your fingers wrap around the keys.

“I’ll even let you play Taylor Swift.” He adds, and you can just hear the mirth in his voice.

“That—that -,” You splutter. “Was my sister’s music.” “Of course.” Bradley chuckles. “That’s why you know all the words so well.”

“I’ll make you regret that offer.”

“Try me, sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bradley’s brain has been in a state of short-circuit since you flew into his arms. No scenario he had imagined tasted quite as sweet as that first kiss when he saw you again. Climbing into the driver’s seat of his car and adjusting it made your skirt ride up, and Bradley caught sight of what he was pretty sure was the top of a stocking.

Fuck.

He strongly considered pulling you out of the driver’s seat into his lap and fuck you right there in the parking lot.

The drive home was torture, and Bradley couldn’t keep his hands off you for more than 10 seconds— tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, grabbing your hand as you reached for the gear shift, running his hand up your leg—bad idea.

Shit, he could feel the line of your garter belt through the fabric of your skirt, teasing against the palm of his hand as your leg moved, manipulating the gas pedal.

The small smirk gracing your lips betrayed that you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

It’s on your couch, with you straddling him, your fingers threaded deliciously painfully in his hair as you roll your hips at a tortuously slow pace, Bradley is pretty sure his brain is just completely giving out.

He runs his hands blindly over your body, squeezing your flesh and looking into your eyes. Your hair loose, face flushed, pupils blown by desire, you look back down on him as you ride him in that agonizing pace you’ve set.

From almost falling through the front door, pulling at each other’s clothes in a heated frenzy, and tripping over your shoes, the raging fire in you both was unstoppable. The lingerie set you had specially bought ended up somewhere in the maelstrom of clothes left in your path from the door. It doesn’t even matter.

You pushed him onto your couch as he was sliding your panties down your hips, eyes raking over your form. You drank him in. There was no need for words as you sank down on him, gasping in delight as you stretched around his length. Bradley threw his head back, eyes scrunched close, cursing under his breath.

It was like the raging fire spread into smoldering embers from the moment you connected.

Now you want to savor every moment and every touch. You need it. The intimacy you have been craving, the touch you have been missing, you want to drown yourself in him.

Bradley’s fingers skim down from your throat, over your collarbone, just ghosting over your nipple—tearing a moan from you—down your stomach, pressing his thumb against your clit, drawing slow circles.

Your hips stutter, desperately trying to increase the friction.

“Bradley - please-,” You plead incoherently between gasps and moans. His mouth is on your nipple, teeth sinking into the sensitive flesh. It’s sending your senses into overdrive, spurring your movements on, muscles tensing.

“Fuck darlin’, you’re so tight.” Bradley grinds out. He can feel your walls tightening around his cock—you are close. Just a bit more. Your movements are turning erratic. Bradley grabs your hip with his free hand, bucking against you.

“Don - don’t stop - please, Bradley…”

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over you moaning his name like that, with those eyes full of lust, riding him within an inch of his life. Selfishly, he doesn’t want you to look like that for anyone else ever again. He wants your eyes only on him.

Your lids start fluttering as your movements start stuttering more and more—Bradley can feel how close you are. He tightens his grip on you, setting a relentless pace, his thumb increasing the pressure on your clit.

“Cum for me darlin’,” He gasps. “Show me what I’ve missed.”

His words alone would be enough to have you come undone. His voice, so warm, so close after those cold months, feels like sliding into a hot bath, relaxing every nerve in your wound body. It pushes you to release, head lolling back in pure ecstasy, his name caught in your throat.

Bradley catches your body as it tips back, pulling you against his chest.

“Fuck.” You bring out weakly, breathing heavily. But Bradley doesn’t give you very long to restart your brain, effortlessly flipping you on your back and hitching your leg over his shoulder. Dazed, you squeal in delight, giggling as he presses kiss after kiss against your calf.

“How much did you miss me, darlin’?” He asks between kisses.

“So - so much.” You breathe.

“I can’t hear you, sweetheart.” He says with a devilish smirk on his face as he drags the tip of his cock along your slick pussy lips, teasing against your sensitive clit. You moan without abandon.

“I’ve missed you so fucking much,” You choke out. “Everything about you.”

“Tell me.” Bradley demands as his lips latch onto a ticklish spot in the hollow of your knee.

Words start falling from your mouth—you’re not even sure you’re making sense—it’s almost a stream of consciousness.

“I - I’ve missed you from the minute you left,” Your breath hitches as Bradley gently bites down on your thigh. “It feels empty without you here. The bed is cold. I want you to kiss me awake…”

“Just kiss?” Bradley asks, as he nudges the tip of his cock against your entrance. You suck in a breath before a giggle bursts from your lips.

“Do you really need a full report when you have me in this state already?”

“I happen to know you are very thorough, Miss Williams.” Bradley smirks.

“I’ll write you a list later if you so desire, lieutenant.” You shoot back, still half-dazed, grasping for him. “But you’re stalling—how much did you really miss m-”

Bradley laughs and finally fully slides into you in one fluid move, effectively cutting you off. Setting a punishing pace that makes you see stars, Bradley easily wipes every last thought from your brain. Suddenly slowing down and bending over to you, filling you to the hilt, he whispers:

“For the record, I missed you so much it hurt.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are moments when you actually stop and think, usually at a quiet moment at work. It’s actually insane how quickly you fall into a comfortable routine with Bradley, the relationship growing steadily. He has two weeks before he needs to report back on base, and in the meantime, he seems to revel in essentially playing house with you.

As you get ready for work in the morning, Bradley makes you coffee. When you tell him he should make most of his free time and sleep in more often, he just shrugs:

“Making most of my time is spending it with you.”

Some days he drives you to work and picks you up at the end of the day.

Without fail, your heart feels like it’s about to burst when you see his Bronco parked in the visitor’s bay.

Well, some aspects of your relationship are growing.

Bradley is still incredibly guarded when it comes to his family. When you ask about his trip to Nevada to see captain Mitchell, he talks about tinkering on Mitchell’s plane in the workshop, but never anything deeper about what they talked about.

Maybe it’s incredibly private—all Bradley has mentioned is that he’s known Mitchell since childhood. How or why? When you actually gather the courage to ask, Bradley just ignores the question and changes the subject.

You conceal how much that hurts you—because it shouldn’t. It’s none of your business. Selfishly, you want to know Bradley better than anyone in the world.

But you need to really accept that it’s his choice how much he really wants to share about himself. No matter how unfair it feels.

You start talking about your own family less, feeling like you’re oversharing. Again, Bradley probably is just not that family-oriented and might just be humoring you. There is no sense in dwelling on these things, you admonish yourself.

Realistically, how long have you been dating? You haven’t even broken the 6-month mark yet, and he was deployed for three of those. And there will be more deployments, more time spend apart. You need to stop your brain from spinning and take things as they come.

It’s another one of those winter days when the sun doesn’t even get up from bed, and from dawn till dusk there are just monochrome gray skies, like it’s perpetual twilight. The air is bitingly cold, stinging every bit of skin not covered. You practically skip to the parked Bronco, seeing Bradley’s silhouette through the driver’s side window.

Climbing into the passenger’s seat, he greets you with an immediate kiss.

“You spoil me.” You smile at him. “What am I going to do with myself once you’re back in Virginia Beach?”

“You’ll drive yourself, which you are perfectly capable off.” Bradley grins back. “But in the meantime, let me take care of you.”

“Can we stop by the store?” You ask as you buckle up and Bradley turns the engine on. “I think we’re running low on a few things.”

It’s not terribly busy on the road, and it’s a short trip to the store. Preoccupied with finding the right playlist on your phone with your cold fingers, you only spot the car in front of you suddenly swerve wildly in your periphery.

You snap your head up, but the words on your tongue die the second the back of the Bronco suddenly slips violently to the right. Black ice. Your head cracks against the door. A million curses fly through your scrambled brain, but there are more important things.

“Keep steady! Don’t counter-steer!” Your voice is high with panic. You’ve slipped on black ice before, just never in D.C and never when you weren’t the one driving.

Bradley is loudly cursing, trying to get the car under control. You are so full of adrenaline, time seems to have slowed down.

You see Bradley in hyper focus, knuckles white against the steering wheel as he shifts down, slowing the vehicle down. In reality, the slip takes only seconds and as the Bronco regains grip on the tarmac.

Your head is pounding from knocking against the window and sheer stress.

“Darlin’, are you ok?” Bradley looks at you from the corner of his eye—his voice is steady, like he’s completely unshaken. On the other hand, you look terrified—eyes wide, white as a sheet and breath coming out in short, panicked bursts. He pulls into a side street and parks.

Heart clenching, he reaches out to you. “Sweetheart, are you hurt?”

Mutely, you shake your head, biting your lip, trying to steady your breathing. Bradley simply reaches out to you, hand caressing your cheek.

“Are you sure?”

“Ye- yeah.” You force out, leaning your head into his palm, kissing it. “I… I don’t even know what came over me.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you continue words falling out of your mouth like a waterfall.

“It’s not the first time I’ve slipped on black ice in a vehicle, it just never happened to me as a passenger, but you’re a goddamn fighter pilot, of course your reflexes are amazing, and you keep your cool… like, what am I even worried about?”

You try to smile, but the corner of your mouth just shakes.

Bradley leans in and lightly kisses you.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll keep you safe.”

“I trust you.” You reply, voice still lightly shaking. “And sorry for backseat driving.” You add in attempt to joke.

Bradley just chuckles in response, but he is sure of one thing. He doesn’t want to ever want to see that terrified look on your face again. It has already burned itself in his brain along with your panicked voice.

That night when you are in bed, you already in deep sleep, Bradley wraps himself around your naked form, pressing light kisses against the column of your neck. Every time he closes his eyes, your face flashed before his mind’s eye. Smiling, blushing, frowning as you think, sleepy in the morning —but it always ends up morphing into wide-eyed terror.

He spent the evening trying to scrub the look from his mind, filling his vision with your blushing, love struck face, mouth open as he had you cum for him over and over again.

Bradley sighs dejectedly.

Another one for the collection.

[note]I have this problem that I think of all the plot beats I want to put in one chapter and then I always end up overwriting so much that I pretty much always have add another chapter to the plan. Again, this was supposed to be five chapters lmao.

[taglist] @ponyboys-sunsets | @thatchickwiththecamera | @littlewhiterose | @katieshook02 | @straightforwardly | @zazzysseoul | @rororo06 | @datingbtr | @notalxx | @fresh-new-yoik-watah | @gretagerwigsmuse  | @swthxrry | @joshkiskasbunion | @caelipartem | @blackbrownie | @yanak324 | @unluckymonaghan | @letusbewildflowers | @ticklish-leafy-plant | @alana4610 | @eg-dr3amer3 | @turningtoclown | @mell-bell | @mak-32 | @avis15

[leafnyx]

Whumptober Day 21: Body Horror - Kieran Duffy - Part 1

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: Eye horror, implied/referenced torture, cuts, bruises, depictions of gore

Setting: Chapter 4 - Shady Belle

A/n: I have literally no knowledge of medical stuff around the time of rdr so keep that in mind when reading the last few lines of this fic

Kieran can barely register what’s happening anymore. He hears voices around him, shouting? He thinks. But he doesn’t really know. Everything is fuzzy, his hearing especially. He can’t see, he’s tired, even though he’s spent most of his here unconscious.

He doesn’t remember much of the past few days, or weeks, he can’t tell how long he’s been here. The last thing he remembers is Jacks party. He finally let himself relax a bit, for the first time since joining the gang.

He’s always been awkward with parties, preferring to be on the sidelines. Especially in a party held by a bunch of people who hate his guts. But this time he decided to at least attempt to join in the festivities. Shockingly, it didn’t go all that bad. He drank some and actually managed to talk to some of the gang members.

He remembers talking the most with Sean. Although the man had been one of the first to throw insults at Kieran once he had been brought back to camp, Sean doesn’t seem to mind Kieran all that much.

But the good faith of the night had been destroyed for Kieran when he went out to the forest to take a piss. He hadn’t gone to far off from camp but a group of O’Driscolls found him and knocked him out.

They’ve been messing with Kieran the past few days. He knows they’ve beat him a shit ton, and they even stabbed his eye, with a needle he thinks. That’s about the only thing he can clearly remember.

It hurt like shit and he felt the eye itself slowly deflate. He can still feel the leftover liquid, which is already half-dry and sticky, on his cheek. He’s in so much pain, everywhere. He feels hot and cold at the same time.

The shouting and bangs get louder and closer. Kieran would be scared, but he has nothing left in him to fear, he’s fully out of it. Suddenly, the door of the cabin, room? Whatever it is, shoots open.

He hopes it’s the Van Der Linde’s coming to save him, but he doesn’t hope too hard because he doesn’t think any of them care enough to come for him.

He hears muffled words around him and sees blurred faces walking towards him but Kieran passes out before he’s able to tell who’s they are.

-

“Jesus Christ…” Arthur mumbles, being the first to step into the cabin Kieran is being kept in.

He sees the scrawny man on a chair, leaning forward since he’s not able to keep his body upright anymore. Kieran is covered in cuts and bruises on the skin that is visible and Arthur can’t even imagine what is under his clothes. The worst part, that makes Arthur grimace and look away, is one of Kieran’s eyes that is deflated in its socket, covered in blood and what seems like puss, or whatever liquid, streaming down from it.

Bill enters the room soon after, being the second to see Kieran’s body.

“Fuck.. is he alive?” He says, in an unusual tone, seemingly worried about Kieran.

“Dunno, haven’t checked yet,” Arthur replies, walking over to Kieran’s limp body and grabbing his wrist. “Barely, we need to get him to camp. Quick.”

Arthur begins to undo the ropes binding Kieran to the chair, Bill quickly scurrying over to help him.

Arthur picks Kieran up, not needing Bill to help because of how light the younger man is, and walks out of the cabin.

Charles, the only other man willing to join them in getting Kieran, is standing by his horse Taima and Branwen who he found off to the side. When he spots the two holding Kieran he moves towards them.

“They got him good huh.” Charles says, commenting on the body.

“You think he said anything?” Arthur asks.

“Doubt it, he didn’t seem to care much for the O’Driscolls.” Charles replies.

Bill stays quiet, watching Kieran intently as Arthur places him on the front of his horse, getting on behind so he can hold the man upright so he doesn’t fall off.

Bill and Charles mount their own horses, the latter leading Branwen along behind him, and the group begins their short ride back to camp.

The ride is quiet, it has an almost sad aura. They had begun warming up to Kieran the past few weeks, so it was hard seeing him like this.

As they make it to the front of camp, people begin noticing them. They hitch up their horses and Arthur gets off his own, holding Kieran.

“Mrs. Grimshaw!” He yells out. “We need help, he’s boutta die!”

“Holy hell, they fucked him up bad” Sean exclaims as he looks at the body.

Sadie quietly watches everything go down, feeling a bit bad for Kieran now that they’ve both gone through things due to the O’Driscolls.

“Well looks who’s back!” Dutch says, walking towards the group. “The O’Driscoll, went scurrying back to his own.”

“Dutch” Arthur says, wearily.

“Looks like they don’t want him no more, I bet he talked all about us.”

“Dutch. Lay off on him”

“Once an O’Driscoll, always an O’Driscoll , don’t tell me you’ve softened up on him Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t reply, walking to his tent still carrying Kieran, followed by Mrs. Grimshaw and Reverend Swanson.

Arthur places Kieran on his cot, Grimshaw closing the tent flap behind them for some sort of privacy.

Reverend prays over the body quietly, clearly horrified by the sight of it.

Reverend and Grimshaw quickly get to work trying to keep Kieran alive while Arthur stands off to the side silently watching.

They take the top layer of his clothes off, assessing the damages, bruises littering Kieran’s body, along with cuts, some deeper like one across his side, and some just scratches.

Deeming the eye injury the most important problem for now, they get to trying to fix that.

Mrs. Grimshaw pours gin on her hand and begins moving to Kieran’s eye socket to get the deflated eye out. As she touches it Kieran wakes up, screaming.

“Jesus Christ! Arthur! Hold him down!” Mrs. Grimshaw exclaims as Arthur rushes over to hold Kieran down to the cot.

Revered quickly moves to get morphine, injecting Kieran with it who passes out again, quickly.

The rest of the procedure goes well enough, Kieran now lying on cot, still unconscious, with almost all of his body bandaged up.

“He might not make it” Reverend says to Arthur and Mrs. Grimshaw who are still in the tent, just having finished.

“We’ll make sure he does, he’s useful around camp” Grimshaw replies, trying to not show too much care for Kieran.

[professional-benaddict]

my part 24🖤 - link to work on AO3

part 23 in the reblog by @winterspiderpurrs 🖤🖤

tw: more drugs and dubcon

Peter decides to go for a walk to clear his head. He promises Stephen to be back in half an hour, and the doctor tells him to dress warmly and enjoy himself. The nurse hurries out while saying his thanks. A guard by the gate lets Peter through, and he starts running as soon as his feet touch the sidewalk.

Peter’s not sure why he is running, but it feels right. It feels good. Now his body matches his mind, running at what feeling like hundreds of miles an hour.

He’s reached the nearest big road now, and Peter slows down as he meets more people. He feels awkward running in normal clothes, so he slows his pace down. His head feels clearer now, so he can think.

But, after ten minutes Peter cannot really find a reason to be upset. Rather, he feels cherished, sought after, like someone who is worth fighting for. Tony’s flirting feels more like just flirting now. The shattered memories from the day before are like cotton candy, airy and faded, but oh so sweet.

Peter wants more. But, he will have to test something out first. After all, he’s a nurse and there are ways to get some proper answers.

——

The next day, when he is alone in the main bedroom, Peter heads to the locked drawer he saw Stephen lock two days ago. His guess is that whatever drug he was given is in there.

But, to Peter’s big surprise, the drawer is not locked and inside is one little glass bottle of a liquid. It is clear and colourless, like most drugs. Peter does not recognise the name on the label, but a quick Google search reveals it’s abilities.

Euphoria, lapses in memory, pain relief. Little to no side effects after intake.

Sounds like a lot what happened to him last night.

Peter makes a quick decision. He finds an syringe in sterile packaging, opens it and stabs the needle through the cap of the bottle. He draws up 2 mg, having checked the dosage and cutting it by half. Best to be safe. After capping the needle, he pockets the syringe carefully and puts the bottle back where he found it.

The nurse will do a little self medicating when he finds the time to test out it’s effects without anyone disturbing him.

If only Peter knew that this was all going to Stephen and Tony’s plan, and then had been watching him through a camera in the room the whole time.

[thegutterguard]

A Little Taste

Ch 3 - I'll be gentle

V is standing in front of you with his hand held up above him as if he were snapping his fingers. his now stark white hair flourishes around his face as you feel the ground began to shake and see what appears to be a flaming sphere falling from the sky aiming right in front of him. "What the hell is that?" you mumble to yourself as the ball lands on the ground like a blob of dough being slammed against a countertop and begins to morph into an oily looking substance spewing from where it had landed. As a nightmarish beastly form began to take shape, you note that the cat like familiar had turned into needled blades and impaled one of the 4 shield wielding demons while the bird starts to make its way towards you. The bird lifts you up from the ground buy the shoulder of your jacket and carries you away from where the others are fighting.

"Hey! What are you doing?!" you shout up towards the bird trying to shake out of it's tight grasp. "Stop all of that whining woman! I'm getting you to safety" the bird said annoyingly as you looked up at it with wide eyes.

"YOU CAN TALK?!" you exclaim in a shill voice as you stop struggling against it's grip. "Why are you so surprised? As if this is the weirdest thing that's happening to you today…" the bird says matter of factly. hmm it has a point… you thought to yourself as you are placed on the ground. "Stay here while we go handle these nobodies okay?" it says as it's leaving, giving you no time for a rebuttal.

You take the moment of calm to look over you wound. Shrugging off your jacket and lifting up your shirt causes you to wince and freeze up as a stinging pain shoots through your chest. you try to peek at it though the hole that the sword left on your side but the blood that is drying around it makes that impossible too. Huffing with frustration you slump over to the side trying your best to not aggravate the cut so that you can grab a vial out of the other side of your jacket pocket. Just as your awkward fidgeting with your pocket comes to an end, you hear a gentle huff coming from the right as you look up and see V standing there looking down at your form.

"Need a hand?" he says with a small smirk on his lips.

You hesitate for a moment before caving in "Sure" you say, not even wanting to put up a fight. You typically hate asking let alone needing help from anyone but seeing as though you made the mistake of letting your guard down got you in this situation, you figured why fight it.

V uses his cane to aid him in kneeling down in front of you. He reaches his hand out to grab the top of your jacket that is leisurely hanging below your elbow of your injured side and and pulls it off of your arm being extra careful of how he moved the limb. "I called for Nico" he mentions as he grabs the bottom hem of your shirt, rolling it up so that he can get a good look at the cut. "she shouldn't be too long. I figured since we've basically cleared out this area we can get a little closer" he says before reaching out to ask for the vial you had been subconsciously death gripping since he arrived. You straighten up a little to hand him the vial. when you release it into his hands you notice he doesn't immediately grasp it and you look up to meet his gaze and for a split second you sense an unknown emotion bubbling up from within your chest and you see that he seems to be puzzled by something as well. Just as fast as that feeling came, it left like a random gust of wind on a cloudy day.

He moves to refocus on your injured side and you turn your head away all of the sudden feeling embarrassed by whatever that was. "Can you lay on your side? I promise I'll be gentle" he states in an almost sing song tone. You lean over to lay completely on your side turning your head so that you face is covered hoping he doesn't notice your cheeks heating up at his proximity and that comment. He lifts your top up and you can feel his warm hand laying gently on the upper side of your ribs as he pops open the vail to pour a little bit of its contents into the open wound. Your body instinctively flinches and you suck in a sharp breath as you can feel the liquid stinging momentarily before the injured area starts to heat up as if someone is laying a warm towel no top of it. You sigh a breath of relief as all of the pain is easing up and you can finally start to move without feeling like you're about to rip your side open.

"Thank you for helping me earlier (y/n)" he says as he gets into a standing position with the aid of his cane. He holds his hand out to help you get up as well.

"And thank you for helping me too. I guess we're even now huh?" you respond as he helps you stand up. Right as you were about to open your mouth to ask him something, you hear tires screeching from afar and you see Nico's van burst through a buildings wall and come to a stop not far behind you two. "You rang? oh… Oh!! (y/n)?! Did.. I just interrupt you two from something? I can leave!" Nico stutters out with her thick southern accent while hanging out of the driver's side window.

You look at her puzzled then turn to look back at V that had one of his hands on your side to stabilize you from when you stood up and you had one hand griping his arm for balance. realizing in this moment that it could look like you two were about to suck each other's faces you let go of his arm and take a step back "Nico really!? He was just helping me up!" you protest. He lets out a deep chuckle and starts walking towards the van while shaking his head "HA! Helping you up into his lap maybe?" she replies at you as you start walking towards the van too. "No No don't stop on my accord, you two love birds to crazy, there's no fire or anything to put out at all nooo." Nico shouts out jokingly as she leans back into the van and comes around to open the door for you two.

Ch 2

[beast-in-moon-shadow]

I occasionally write but I never post it anyway, so on a whim I'll just drop something that I wrote a few months ago but never ended up finishing.

Barely edited and there's no real ending so bear with me (sorry for weird formatting)

One foot in front of the other. John put one foot in front of the other under that winter sunrise. Breathe billowing to fog, dissipating in the cold air as he marched next to the dozen or so other upstanding citizens on their way to work to keep the city running.

He gripped his coffee in his hand, its warmth was comforting, he stopped at the same cafe every day for as long as his adult memory went. They were the best he told himself.

“You need to go to a hospital,” John heard the man standing over the bench say.

The man spoke louder and slower leaning in, “that’s going to kill you man, you need a doctor,” he said to a mass on the bench.

John found himself lingering, he watched the man throw up his hands and huff a breath, throwing a “whatever” over his shoulder as he skulked off.

John watched him until he turned a corner before looking back at the man on the bench.

“Man” maybe wasn’t the right word here John thought. He approached the pile of soiled and tattered cloth on the bench. That caught his eye first, the dark stains seemed to be the only thing keeping what might be an old blanket or jacket together.

Threadbare, barely able to keep the cold air out. Pitiful. Disgusting.

Next he saw a face, not much older than him, had a patchy beard over pale clammy skin.

A beanie kept the greasy hair poking out from under it plastered to a greasier forehead.

John saw wild fever-yellow eyes lazily tracking nothing in particular.

John found himself standing over the man, some magnetism or voyeuristic urge pulling him closer.

He had no idea what to he planned to do and began to feel awkward at that realisation.

He had always heard about the homeless, he lived in a city. The homeless or unhoused or whatever-they-were-called-now were simply a fact of life. You know to avoid them, never knowing when they might snap and attack you, clawing at your eyes with dirty, ragged fingernails, grasping to rip away the fruits of your labour to waste on whatever vices they acquired through poor choices they made.

There was a sense of indignation bubbling in his chest.

The smell hit John then, urine and waste, body odour on body odour, and something else strange but familiar, rotting meat and human misery. The rot stayed with him, catapulting that indignation across the emotional spectrum. Sympathy or pity.

The heavy blanket of winter air smothered the smell, it would have been a lot worse on a warmer day.

Maybe John could spare some change for the man he thought, maybe the man would enjoy that little surprise when he came out of whatever chemical stupor, he found himself in.

John stopped when he noticed the purple-black hand sticking out from under the pile of cloth.

Sickeningly bloated and discoloured, it threw back the yellow light from the streetlight across thin stretched skin.

Thick, swollen fingers looked like five worms digging into hand flesh and gorging themselves.

From this ballooned limb, this mockery of human form came the smell of rot.

The edges of John’s vision darkened; he felt a prickle travel through his body. Cold needles breaking skin as bile tickled the back of his throat.

It was disgusting of course, vile.

There was a fight in John’s mind, how could a human rot?

Just rot like that? Was the man even alive?

Yes, his eyes still rolled around their sockets. On a technical level the man was alive.

But how could something living rot?

Sounds of the city came first, cars and footsteps muffled in winter air, then sensation.

Numbness in his fingers turned to pins and needles John shook off. Had he caught the rot? No, you don’t just catch rot. Feeling came back rolling over him and John realised his teeth had sawed through his lip when he bit them. The pain and trickle of blood were odd non-sensations. Distant as it rolled down his chin to drip on his shirt. Shit a stain.

John felt guilty for that almost-thought, but the man rotting in front of him couldn’t even care enough to be offended.

John felt something bitter crawl into his mind anyway.

John was wasting time here he thought, how long had he been standing there anyway?

As horrific as it was, he had a job to get to, he had to buy food and pay rent.

Should I just leave? He thought, embarrassed he almost felt like a pervert watching the man on the bench in some private misery on a public bench.

Feeling in his feet returning, John turned to the sound of the city.

He looked around and nobody seemed to notice them together there outside of a few curious glances before they were dismissed as unimportant.

John would have been humiliated in the man’s position. Small mercy to barely being alive.

John felt frustration at himself for walking over, for his curiosity, because now his heart

wouldn’t let him simply walk away. His mother raised him better than that.

What could this man use? What could John give him?

Well it’s cold thought John, warm coffee might help.

So he bent over to leave his little cup next to the bench for the man to find when he woke up.

John didn’t know when he had started shaking but he was, tremors travelling up and down his body from sole to crown.

John found his eyes glued to that horrible hand and forced himself to look at the man’s face.

He found those eyes swimming and oddly dry.

For a brief moment he saw something ugly turn in that unfocused gaze.

John steadied himself with a shaky breath and a decisive step back.

He walked, legs unsteady, to work in the shadows of tall grey buildings that the rising sun threw onto the street.

“Hello, I’d like to report an emergency,” he told the voice on the other end of the phone; forcing himself to look forward. He’d call an ambulance, that’s the right thing to do.

He did what he could, all he could. He wasn’t in charge of that man’s life and wasn’t responsible, he told the unearned guilt that rested on his shoulders.

Guilt for what exactly? He wasn’t sure. Why would he feel guilt?

He hadn’t rotted the man’s hand; he wasn’t the reason the man lived on the streets just waiting to pick up whatever disease did this to him.

Disease? Was that it, John admitted he felt dirty standing close to the man. It was odd, John felt, that another person could be ‘dirty’.

As if the act of being homeless stained them somehow and that they could give that same sickness to you.

But that was true, they were dirty, in the very literal sense, and they were diseased.

That was a fact, proven time and time again.

Disease spread fast among the poor, John thought, it’s not wrong to err on the side of caution.

They couldn’t afford a doctor, and the homeless were likely too scared to go to what was available for the public with how many drugs they had in their system.

John couldn’t be wrong for caring about his own health, he had to take care of himself, that’s how it was.

But John was taught by school and his parents and cartoons on a Saturday morning that all people deserve respect and empathy, they were human just like everyone else was.

But you’d always read or hear about somebody getting mugged or having their home burgled or being murdered, God forbid, for their phone or a watch or their shoes. You must grow up and admit the world you learned as a kid simply wasn’t possible, kindness gets punished.

But that could change, couldn’t it? Talking heads argued about that on the news, argued that crime was just a symptom of poverty and other boring politics.

They’d argue with words you need a dictionary and a minor degree to understand.

They’d argue until their feet left the ground, and they forget that they’re trying to convince you at home what to think.

You really could only trust yourself to care for yourself.

John thought in circles like that all day, one topic to another and another, always finding another layer to doubt.

He found himself thinking about the act of thinking at around lunch but found himself still feeling sick and decided not to eat.

Skipping lunch made John wonder what hunger really felt like, the type of hunger he never felt before.

That desperate hunger that comes from not knowing where your next meal would come from, that drove you to idealise people who abuse what little power they had but didn’t suffer an empty belly.

John supposed wanting a better life, safety, power, wealth, what-have-you was a type of hunger also.

John sighed, the spiral of his thoughts started moving again and the memory of that hand in the middle of it.

When the sun tipped over its zenith and the shadows crossed the road John walked home.

He was tired, work was grinding, and his thoughts kept spiralling, questions he couldn’t answer popped up.

He barely felt like a person, some vital part of him ripped out leaving him a ghost or wisp floating on cold air.

John wanted a shower and felt the odd urge just lie down on the floor in nothing but his underwear and stare at the ceiling.

He rounded a corner and saw an ambulance. Paramedics loaded a gurney with a covered form into the back. A crowd of lookers-on gathered a respectful distance around them.

Around the bench. When had he called them?

How many hours ago? He asked himself as he wandered over to the crowd.

“What happened?” he asked, he was drifting.

“I dunno,” somebody answered, “some guy died.”

“Hmm,” was all John heard leaving his throat, a small sound, as he looked at the crowd taking pictures. A part of him wondered at what point in history people discovered the polite distance to crowd around a tragedy.

Yes that was what this was, a tragedy. A man, a person, had died.

John watched them load the man into the sterile van, he could almost see that black-purple hand and those feverish eyes through the clean white shroud they threw over him.

Much nicer than anything he had in a long time.

“Some hobo dies and our tax money gets spent,” the person beside him said, elbowing John in the side. What an odd thing to say but John could imagine himself agreeing.

John put one foot in front of the other and found his thoughts spiralling again, round and round again. A whirlpool of consciousness but he didn’t feel himself drowning. He floated over them, he floated home, at some point it hit him that he had basically seen somebody die.

That was new to him.

That means he was alive, that’s what people said sometimes, that life is experiencing new things, seeing new sights.

This counts right? He had never seen somebody rot to death before, he’d never called the ambulance before either.

He was alive and another man was dead.

What was death? Was John dead?

Well no, he had just decided he was alive but that man, the one who just died, when did he die? John hadn’t seen it actually, just something very close but when did he die? When his heart stopped? When he laid down to sleep last night in some haze? When the rot set in? When he first slept on a park bench at some point in the past without knowing that at some point in the future his arm would rot and he wouldn't go to the hospital just to die on a park bench?

It just goes around and around again.

John was certain he was overreacting, it was just a man he didn’t know, he didn’t mean anything to John, but then again all human life was precious, that's what he was taught. It wouldn’t be overreacting then.

When John crossed the door to his flat he didn’t leave it for another four days.

He’d called in suddenly sick to work the next day and the day after that.

He hadn’t shaved and he barely ate, he didn’t even take the shower he wanted. He sat by his window and stared out his window watching people go about their lives, thinking about circles when he saw the same people going to work and then going home and then going to work again.

He counted pecks of dust, and scratches, and little imperfections in the glass when his brain got tired of running in circles until it caught its breath and started again.