#probably more than it should be but the nightmares are still fresh in his head and hes having to make himself focus and ignore them

[bitchfitch]

For all the teething I've been doing on Pavo and Esti i haven't been able to like, actually write any thing for them recently mostly because I've been Busy.

But also because I'm snapping between like 3 ideas for them at terminal velocity and haven't been able to actually get anything written for them and it's like having pumas bouncing around my skull at mach fuck as though theyre house cats at 2 am when you're trying to sleep,

[djarindroid]

Nightmares

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: You can't make it through the night without the terrors from your past haunting you, will Daryl be able to help you? (setting: early Alexandria)

Warnings: minor description of blood and violence

Word Count: 1,564

Terror flowed through your entire body, you had to get out, had to find the rest of your group. Your heart pounded in your chest as you desperately searched for a way out of this hell. Panic flooded your mind as you ran, you could hear the voices of your captors just behind you. 

Your clothes were covered in so much blood that they stuck to your skin. You couldn’t even recall whose blood it was. Tears streaked down your face as you felt the ominous presence behind you getting ever closer. A hand gripped your shoulder, spinning you around and…

You bolted upright, drenched in sweat and heaving in air as you took in your surroundings. The fog on your mind began to clear as you looked around. You were in your bed, in your room, safe. Although your brain hadn’t realised that. You needed to get fresh air, and space. 

On unsteady legs you climbed out of bed. Going as quickly and quietly as possible, so as to not wake anyone else up, you made your way through the house. Rushing out of the front door, you halted and folded over with your hands on your knees. Gulping down as much air as you could manage, trying to ignore the way it burned your lungs. 

You squeezed your eyes shut to try and stop the way your head was spinning. You clutched at your chest, willing your heart rate to slow down. 

‘Ya good?’ The gruff voice made you jump, not expecting to see anyone at this time of night. But you should have known that Daryl would be out here. You carefully turned over to where he sat, perched on the edge of the porch seat leaning towards you. 

Your alert brain quickly scanned him for any injuries. You wouldn’t find any, you were safe here, hidden behind these walls. Your breathing steadied as you continued to stare unblinkingly at him.

He gently called your name, leaning further forward, slight concern etched on his face at the fact you hadn’t spoken yet. 

‘Yeah... bad dream,’ you managed to get out. You looked around, taking in the quiet peaceful surroundings. Your thundering heart began to slow, as your brain finally began to accept there was no immediate threat.

‘Wanna talk about it?’ Daryl asked, his eyes still on you, taking in your panicked state. You almost felt small under his gaze, knowing you probably looked like a deer caught in headlights. 

Silently you made your way over and took a seat next to him. Your body relaxed slightly at Daryl’s closeness, his familiar smell grounding you. 

‘Do you think we’re safe here?’ You hesitantly asked, instead of answering his question.

He stayed quiet for a moment, pondering your question. You watched him slowly exhale as he said ‘safer than we were out there.’ 

You nodded, looking down to your hands that rested in your lap. You knew he was right, there wasn’t a risk of walkers pounding at your door, not much risk of bad people around here either. But why couldn’t you relax? Why couldn’t you just forget and start anew? 

Silent tears began to make their way down your face, you hadn’t even registered you were crying until Daryl gently placed his red cloth into your hand. 

You muttered a quiet thanks as you quickly wiped your face, willing the tears to go away. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Terminus,’ you admitted quietly. 

Daryl didn’t say a word, but you felt his eyes shift to you. You kept your own eyes down as you worked up to telling him more. Every night since you’d escaped that place had been filled with visions of the terrible things those people did.

‘That was meant to be a safe place, we were meant to be ok there and look how that worked out.’ Your mind flashed with the memory of you and the people you’d come to call your family all on your knees as other people’s throats were being sliced. You shoved the heels of your hands into your eyes in an attempt to try and erase the vision. 

‘I can’t stop thinking that this,’ you gestured around you, ‘is all fake, and we’re gonna end up worse than before.’ You couldn’t stop the tears now, they were running freely down your cheeks.

Daryl remained silent beside you, he could understand the weight of your fears. It was one of the reasons he had barely slept himself, and opted to stay out keeping watch on the porch. 

He turned, to fully face you before speaking ‘think Terminus messed with all our heads.’ After another moment of consideration he added, ‘but I don’ think this place is the same. There’s decent people here. Ain’t no one gonna let it go that way again.’

You nodded, his words easing your fears. The shadows of doubt in your mind began to shrink. You sniffed, once again looking out at the empty street in front of the porch. He was right, you did all have each other’s backs, and no one here had given you reason to think they had other intentions.

‘Ya know I’d never let anything happen to you,’ he spoke quietly, almost a whisper. That caused you to finally look over to him, meeting his blue eyes. The sincerity in them soothed the part of you that had been damaged by fear. ‘C’mere’ he murmured as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you gently into his side.

Your body instantly melted into him, comforted by the way he held you so softly. Your head came down to rest on his shoulder as he spoke again. ‘I won’ let that happen to you ever again.’ 

Your tears slowed as his words wrapped around you in a protective embrace that shielded you from the lingering shadows. You turned, curling further into his side and wrapped your arm around his middle. Daryl’s arm held you tighter and the gentle squeeze of his hand on your arm cemented everything he had just said.

You trusted Daryl, more than you thought was even possible. The tears had completely stopped now, replaced with a quiet acceptance. The acceptance that no matter what, you would do everything you could to also protect the man holding you. 

After a while Daryl murmured ‘you should go back to bed, try and get some proper sleep.’ You knew he was right, but you didn’t think you could handle going to lay in bed by yourself. Knowing the nightmares could start again as soon as you let your eyes close. 

‘I can’t,’ you muttered, almost embarrassed. Daryl had just completely eased you, yet the thought of going upstairs alone was too much for you to do. Daryl’s presence was an anchor to you and the thought of leaving his side brought your fears back to the surface. 

His hand, still wrapped around your arm, squeezed you lightly in reassurance. ‘I’ll come with…if it’d make ya feel better.’ His words caught you off guard, Daryl hadn’t spent a night inside since your group had arrived in Alexandria. You sat up again, not shifting too far away from his warmth but enough so you could peer up to his face.

‘I couldn’t ask you to do that Daryl,’ you said. You kept eye contact, how could you ask him to spend the night inside, giving up his own comfort just so you could hopefully spend a night not scared.

‘Ya ain’t asking, I’m telling you I’m happy to do it,’ you knew he wouldn’t lie to you. He really would come and spend the night inside if it meant you’d be okay. A small smile spread across your face. Gratitude swelled as you gazed into his caring eyes. 

Unable to form the words to truly show your appreciation you simply nodded to him. The two of you rose from the bench and made your way inside. The quiet of the house wrapped around you both as Daryl placed his hand on your lower back, gently guiding you up the stairs.

Inside your room the shadows seemed less ominous with Daryl at your side. His presence made you feel the safest you’d felt in weeks. Silently you slipped back into your bed, watching as Daryl began to make his way to the chair positioned by your window.

‘You can stay next to me if you want,’ you quickly said before he could take a seat. You didn’t want to overstep, but the thought of Daryl’s arm holding you again fueled your confidence to suggest sharing the bed.

Daryl paused, his eyes meeting yours from across the room with a hint of surprise. The subtle shift in your dynamics hung in the air. Without a word, he nodded, abandoning the idea of staying in the chair.

The mattress dipped slightly as he lay down next to you. The boundaries around you blurred as you both found a comfortable position to lie in. You felt his steady breaths sync with your own as his arm draped protectively around you, whilst you settled into his side. 

For once you weren’t scared to close your eyes and succumb to sleep. You found solace from the terrors plaguing your mind in Daryl’s arms. The intimacy of sharing a bed transformed your room into a sanctuary where you could both finally rest.

[dullgecko]

One time Riz managed to have a gun in one Baron Nightmare™ and managed to shoot Baron in the face.

Now it's a nightmare, Baron can totally fix themself, but they are basically a porcelain doll so their face shattered immediately. So now Riz is screaming in pure horror because currently this creature formed from his self-consciousness is staggering toward him, their face now nothing but a giant jagged-edged hole that lead to pure inky abyss.

Baron is so taken aback by it that they can't even manage to properly scare Riz anymore than they already have. They basically pull a "What the fuck, Richard" before Riz is bolting up from his desk and throwing up on important case files.

Riz had activated his emergency text to Fabian in a panic before he was even completely awake, the rogue dropping his crystal back onto the desk when he realised what he'd done and pulling himself to his feet to at least try to clean up before the half elf inevitibly barged his way in. He usually tried not to eat before going to sleep, used to the nightmares and his own bodies reaction to extreme fear (it was a natural reaction, designed to dump excess weight so he could escape faster but BOY was it ever inconveniant when it was in response to something less than a creature trying to eat him) but sleep had crept up on him this time.

Riz made his way to the kitchenette, digging in his cleaning supplies for what he needed. He had a couple scrolls of prestidigitation that Adaine had given him, she had dozens leftover from her wizarding classes where they'd been taught how to make them, and used it to clean off his case files. He'd need a proper shower himself though so he stripped off his clothes, dumped them in a pile in the bathroom, and set about cleaning himself up. Even going so far as to brush his teeth to remove the lingering taste from his mouth.

He heard Fabian nearly bust the door of its hinges while he was pulling on a fresh shirt, the goblin trudging tiredly out of the bathroom when his name was called and flapping a hand at the paniced fighter.

"Sorry false alarm. Nightmare."

"What the fuck The Ball? You couldn't have sent a follow up text then?" Fabian crouched, checking the goblin over properly and wrinkling his nose at the fading smell of sick and bile still lingering in the room. "Eugh... are you ill?"

"Yes... No... just... very badly startled I guess." Riz rubbed at his face with his hands, taking a deep breath and leaning forwards to thunk his forehead against Fabians shoulder. He hadn't realised how tense he'd been since waking up until his friend placed a reassuring hand on his back, shoulders sagging as he finally relaxed.

"So no one is attacking?" Fabian rubbed up and down the goblins spine, still scanning the room over his shoulder just in case for a moment before putting down his sword so he could hug him with both arms.

"Ugh, only Baron and only in my head. Sorry for waking you up I know it's late."

"I wasn't really sleeping." Fabian lied, smoothing a hand down Riz's spine and continuing all the way along his tail to the tuft at the end. The goblins breath hitching slightly when he skirted over the point where the tail met his back but not saying anything else. "If you're still working I can stay a bit if you need me to. Your couch is plenty comfortable enough for me to sleep on... though if you're sleeping without meaning to you should probably also get a proper rest yourself."

"Yeah.... can you? I'm really tired but at least I don't get the nightmares if someone is around." Riz flicked his tail, going rigid when Fabian gripped him tighter and stood with him trapped against his front. The half elf flopping heavily onto the old yet still comfortable couch before releasing the rogue so he could make himself more comfortable. Riz snorting and skootching around to wedge himself between the back of the couch and Fabian side where it was most comfortable.

"Thanks."

"Anytime." Fabian placed his hand on top of Riz's head, absently scratching behind one of his friends ears until he purred and relaxed completely. His other arm getting thrown over his face to block any light from hitting his eye as he tried to drift off to sleep himself.

[xcerizex]

"interest"

Take care, and good night. Make sure to hold me tight and never let go.

"I said not to let go of me...didn't I?"

(doll(?)!cael, cael x little painter, little painter in 2nd pov, tragedy, slight yandere cael????, simple, word vomit idk what happened, inspired by Rope's "Interest Meme", 1.2k words)

You are happy everyday, and it's all thanks to the pretty doll your mother gave you.

"Happy birthday!"

In her hands, a silver fox doll sits obediently within her palms. As if saying hi, you see its ears rustle.

"Thank you, mom!"

You take the doll from her hands and hold it tight to your chest, saying;

"I'll be sure to take good care of it."

You don't ask her where she got it from.

Whatever the case is, you'll be sure to play with it. Holding it up to the sky, you make your future plans, one tea party a day, and a new coat to be sewn by your hand every week, so that this doll may never be bored.

"I think I'll name you...Cael!"

You press your cheek against the doll, breathing in the scent of fresh fabric and flowers, and you giggle.

"Let's have lots of fun together no matter what okay?"

"Hey Cael, today was awful."

You pout, lying over the table as you set him up facing towards you. He sits there silently, listening to your woes without a sound.

"Two of my closest friends fought with each other, I couldn't take it and started crying. Then they started blaming each other again."

You've never liked conflict, and thinking about how your friends are probably never going to talk to each other again, you tear up.

"What if they ask me to pick a side?"

You lament to him without reservation, and the mere presence of him is more than comforting so you continue to talk with no signs of stopping.

"What if I lose all of my friends?"

The side of your head is pressed against the table and you look up to see vaguely see his button eyes shine and gleam. Maybe it's a trick of the light, you think, and don't give it another thought.

"But everything should be fine!"

You stand up energetically, balling your fists and lifting your head to the sky.

"Because no matter what, I'll still have you!"

'No matter what, I'll always be your friend.'

You don't stop talking to him just yet.

"I'm afraid of nightmares."

You hold Cael close to your chest, and your voice is the most despondent that it has ever been, as you express your greatest worry.

"Mom hasn't been feeling well. She says that she'll be fine, but I saw her coughing up blood the other day."

You tighten your grip on him, asking him for comfort as you always have.

"What if she dies in my dreams? My classmates like to say that dreams can make the future come true so if that really happens..."

You can't stop the tears from flowing down your cheeks. So you sniffle, trying to hold everything in but you can't and start sobbing.

"I don't want to lose her, she's my only family. I have no one else."

Your tears stream down in waves for hours and by the time you're done, your pillow is soaked.

But for some reason the silver fox doll remains dry.

"You'll always stay with me, right?"

You're tired, and finally doze off as you ask him a question you know you won't hear him answer for the nth time, but as your eyes close, you hear something.

"Yes."

You wake up tomorrow not remembering a thing.

Every day, you have tea time with Cael and prepare strawberry scones and jasmine tea, before every tea party, you dress yourself up and bow in a curtsy, greeting him like the princess of a castle.

Every week, you sew him new suits and coats of all colours, and most of your favourite combinations often include white and purple. You think it makes him look elegant, and spare no effort in each design.

But soon, those coats and suits will gather dust, and the tablecloth over the tea table shall be replaced with a new pattern to accommodate your new toy.

You are happy every day, and it's all thanks to the pretty doll your mother gave you.

"Happy Birthday."

Your mother presents to you your 13th doll with a weary smile. Her youthful vigor had long been replaced by the wrinkles of time, but even that doesn't explain the exhaustion and effort in which she speaks with.

"Thank you, mom."

You try your best not to cry as you take the new doll from her arms, and toss your old one into a box filled with forgotten friends.

At the very least, you shouldn't worry her and put on a smile.

"Do you want to know why your mother died?"

You stare up at the mysterious man in front of you, his white hair and amethyst eyes contrasting the gloomy scene drenched in black, rain, and white flowers scattered over a coffin. He is beautiful, ethereally so, reminding you of a fairy from the storybooks you'd read aloud to your dolls every night.

"It was because she invoked my curse."

He bends down to look you in the eye at an even level, speaking gently and softly, and you think it is the sweetest sounding curse you have ever heard.

"It is as the old legends say, those who betray the fae are sentenced to have their lives cut short, and your mother–no matter how powerful she was–is no exception."

He lifts your chin up with one finger, treating you as gently as you did with him.

"I'm sorry."

Your voice is hoarse from crying, and you sincerely apologize to him. But he shakes his head.

"I'm grateful to your mother. Even though I had spent many years trapped inside that doll, meeting you was the greatest thing in my life."

His eyes are filled with affection, and he strokes your hair in warm, comforting movements, expressing his adoration for you.

"So it's my turn to make you happy."

"Good night."

You are happy everyday, and it's all thanks to the old doll your deceased mother gave you.

"Happy birthday."

He brings you over to a tea table filled with fresh scones and your favourite drinks. You sit down wearing a gown he designed specially for you–white with purple laces, his colour. As tea time starts, Cael bows to you like a prince from a fairytale. He takes a seat.

"Did you know that faes mate for life?"

He smiles at you from across the table, resting his chin on his folded hands as he stares at you endearingly.

"So please be assured, I have no intentions of ever leaving you. But even then..."

He leans forward to hold your hand.

"You're still afraid of me aren't you? That I'll abandon you the same way you did to me."

Finally, you show signs of life and flinch imperceptibly. Guilt bears down on you like a heavy chain of sin, and you lower your head even further.

"I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have treated you like that."

"What are you talking about?"

He comes over to you and holds you close, presses his cheek against yours the same way you did to him when you first met.

"Well, you shouldn't think about that right now, you must still be in grief." And when he brings up your mother, tears well up in your eyes again as he hugs you, trying to comfort you.

"You can hold me tight, and dream a nice dream."

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Duff 18/End

Warnings: groping, insecurity, food and body issues, manipulation, and the usual. Proceed with caution.

Feedback is always welcome. Love you and thanks for the wonderful responses so far. ♥♥♥♥

Image credit (I want to give dues where due but don’t want the creator to keep getting tagged in my posts as I have been approached by some before that they don’t want me in their notifs)

You wake up in still silence. The chirping of birds wafts in with the scent of grass. You must’ve left your window open. The city doesn’t usually smell this fresh.

You roll over and stretch, an odd weight clinging to your ankle. Your alarm hasn’t even gone off yet. You could probably get a few more minutes in before–

You bend your leg. The pressure on your ankle becomes more obvious. You rub your eyes and let your vision clear. You stare at the ceiling, the wooden slats only vaguely familiar. You’re not in your apartment.

Slowly, the memory seeps in. Oh, shit.

You turn your head and look around the room. The cottage, once quaint and homey, is now a cell. Were anyone else to walk in, they would see it as cozy and welcoming. To you it is a trap.

The bedframe groans as you sit up. You pull back the blanket to examine the cuff around your ankle. The chain clinks against the wooden leg of the bed and you sigh. Fuck. This is fucked. This can’t be happening. It’s not real!

You’re sleeping. This is a nightmare. This isn’t true. It can’t be.

You smell maple and hear stirring in the next room. You face the door as he enters. Oh god, wake up, please. He smiles, unbothered by the twisted scene of you with a chain at your ankle. That’s how you know it must be a dream.

“Good morning,” Curtis greets fondly.

He sets down the plate on the small armchair in the corner. He takes his time in setting up a metal TV tray with flowers painted on it before you. He places the stack of french toast in front of you, syrup dripping around the crust.

You stare at the powdered sugar and don’t move. You close your eyes. Wake up, wake up, wake up.

“Bunny, are you okay?”

No.

Not okay.

This is all very not okay.

“Bunny?”

Your eyes snap open, “this isn’t real. It can’t be…”

“Aw, baby,” he coos and bends his knees, meeting your eye line as he squats, “I can hardly believe it either. We can be together, just you and me. No work, no creepy bosses…” he sneers past you, “just us.”

Your lips part as you pinch your leg. Once, twice, three times. Each harder than the last. You are very much lucid. This is real.

“Now,” he stands and takes the knife and fork. “You should eat. I made these special for you. With my secret ingredient,” he speaks chipperly as he cuts into the stack, “I know you’ll love them.”

Your eyes glisten and you watch his hands. You’re stunned silent. You tingle all over. You feel like you could combust. He can’t be serious. He can’t think this is okay. How can he pretend this is normal?

He pokes a forkful towards you and you shut your mouth. He prods at your lips but you refuse to open. He sighs and growls, “bunny…”

You part your lips and let him place the small piece of toast into your mouth. You chew the sweet sponge bread, just once and hold it in your mouth.

“Good, isn’t it?” He asks.

Your eyes flick up to his face as he rescinds the fork. You scrunch your lips and shove the tray over as you stand. You spit your mouthful in his face and run around the bed to the window. You lean on the window and stick your head out.

“HELP! Somebody! PLEASE! HELP! Help me!” You cry out into the sprawling forest.

You hear him behind you. He hooks his arm around your middle and wrenches your inside. You narrowly keep from cracking your head on the frame. He hauls you back as you writhe.

“Let me go! Curtis, please– you’re crazy! You can’t do this. You can’t keep me here!”

“I’m not crazy,” he snarls as you struggle against him, “I love you!”

“No, no, you don’t. You barely know me!” You whine as you claw at his wrists, “I– I don’t love you back. Please, please, I’m scared. Let me go–”

He spins you and tosses you at the bed. You hit it, the impact causing you to bite your tongue. You roll over as he approaches, cupping your mouth as you kick out, trying to keep him away. He catches the chain and stills your ankle. You throw out your other foot and he slaps it down.

“You do,” he grits out, “I know you do–”

“Please, please,” you reach above you, trying to drag yourself away from him.

“No!” He climbs up between your legs, “you do! You love me, baby. I know you do,” he bends over you, bringing his hand to your throat as he pets your cheek with the other, “You do, bunny, you do. I know you’re scared. I know. No one’s ever treated you right, but I will.”

You sniffle as you continue to feel along the other edge of the bed. The pressure of his hand on your neck terrifies you. You touch his knuckles gently as your tears bead song the brims of your eyes and roll out.

“You’re scaring me. You’re… hurting me,” you whine.

“No, no, I wouldn’t,” he eases up, stroking your chin instead, “I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Curtis,” you lay paralysed, adrenaline coursing and flooding your heart, “Curtis, please, this isn’t love. It– You– You kidnapped me–”

“What? No. I saved you.”

“Saved me? Curtis, no, no, this isn’t–”

“Shhhh,” he hushes you and covers your mouth with his hand, “I know I was your first, baby, and it’s new and confusing. This is how it’s supposed to be. It’s meant to be…” He brushes his lips against his hand, “you and me. Forever.”

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 26 - Nightmares

title: almost unintentionally

fandom: hermitcraft smp

continuation of days 8 and 23, the sleep cycle au!

~

They’re holding him down.

They’re always holding him down, tying him up, hurting him—

They snap a muzzle around his face and he thrashes, he can’t he won’t, they can do anything to him but not this—

He can’t see, blinded by fear, but he knows, somehow, that he’s in the room with the burning floor. He gets a moment’s respite, a moment to claw at his face with mittened hands, before he feels the floor begin to heat up beneath his bare feet—

Ren wakes with a gasp.

For a moment, he thinks he’s still back there, on that stupid folding table with those idiots coming for him, ready to hurt him and restrain him and for what?

He snarls, and snaps his teeth, and raises his hands to defend himself—

But there’s no one there.

He’s alone in his bed, the sheets wrapped tightly around his body. The shadows around his bedroom are innocuous, and none of them hold the faces of his tormentors.

That’s . . . what, the sixth nightmare in six days? He needs to get a grip.

Ren kicks his legs free of the sheets and sits up, pushes his sweaty hair out of his face. It’s still dark, which means he should probably try to get back to sleep, but he feels sticky and overstimulated and a shower sounds really nice right about now.

He strips quickly, his soft pajama pants dragging like sandpaper against his legs. Really overstimulated, then. He might need to break out the weighted pillow for this one.

He picks up his communicator, but doesn’t check it. He just carries it with him, in case someone needs to reach him in an emergency.

Ren leaves the light off in the restroom when he limps in (his feet are still recovering from their burns, curse them, and each step is less than pleasant), just turns the shower on and waits for the water to heat up until standing is uncomfortable, then steps into the tub, settling into the shower chair that he’d borrowed from Scar.

The hot water falling onto his shoulders and head feels heavenly, switched to the highest pressure possible so that it practically drums into his skin. Ren sighs and melts under it, runs one clawed hand through his hair.

They hadn’t even wanted him. Not really. He was just bait, bait for Doc and Tango to follow.

Bait.

Ren’s fingers clench in his hair.

He’d gotten off easy, all things considered. Some bumps and bruises. Scratches on his face. A broken rib, quickly healed by a potion. Some burns on his feet that kept him on bed rest for a couple of days, but nothing major.

(Nightmares, every night, reliving the captivity.)

Better than Tango, who hasn’t spoken to anyone since.

Better than Impulse, who had been tortured the entire week and forced to stay awake.

Better than Mumbo, malnourished and trembling, left there for two months, no one searching for him.

Better than Doc, his entire goshdarn arm missing, his horns shaved down to nubs, his mechanical eye mangled, his molars pulled and more.

Xisuma wants them all to go to therapy. Probably for the best, but Ren feels a little like a baby, pulling up with his tiny problems compared to the others. So what, he’s got a couple of lousy nightmares. That isn’t the end of the world. That isn’t worth wasting some professional’s time.

Cleaning himself would probably be a good thing to do in the shower, so Ren grabs some shampoo and squeezes it into his hand, massaging his scalp aggressively. He didn’t check the bottle, but when he smells roses he realizes that he grabbed Bdubs’s shampoo. Good, it’s better for his thick hair.

He likes the smell, too. It makes him think of Bdubs, of his tight hugs and chipper smile. It smells fresh, not too overwhelming.

It’s calming.

He rinses it out, eyes closed to allow for the suds dripping down his face.

He hadn't bathed during his captivity. His body had grown grimier and grimier, sweat staining his days-old clothes, his usually well-trimmed beard getting scratchy and stubbly. He'd hated it, hated the feeling of his clothes against his sticky skin, hated that he couldn't do anything about it.

He rubs a bar of soap along his skin now, as if cleansing himself of the memories. The shower chair makes it a bit awkward to wash everything, honestly. He should get around to returning it to Scar soon, now that he's no longer in the phase of needing to wrap his feet in plastic to keep the wounds dry for every shower. He's pretty much recovered, six days after the ordeal.

He spent longer there than it took for him to heal.

Isn't that weird?

Isn't it weird that this whole thing elapsed two weeks, and nothing more?

Ren shakes himself—physically, even, his hair slapping against the wall of the shower. For him it lasted two weeks. Impulse is still having trouble sleeping, Tango hasn’t been seen by anyone. Doc won't be alone. Mumbo doesn't talk.

He doesn't even have it bad.

He wishes he could fall asleep under the spray of the shower. He feels calmer here than he has in days, worried over nothing serious.

But he can’t hide in the shower forever.

Even so, he takes a couple more minutes, just sitting there and basking in it, before he reluctantly switches off the shower, the last couple drops bouncing off his chest. Then he stands, grimacing at the wet seat against his bare skin—fine while the shower was on, unbearable now that it’s off.

He rubs his wrists while he towels off. There’d been divots in the skin there when he was first rescued, but they’ve filled back out with a health potion and time. They’re still a bit bruised, but no longer tender to the touch.

Barely anything.

He limps back to his bedroom, grabs a fresh pair of boxers out of his dresser. It’s the last pair—he’ll have to do laundry. Might as well do it now, seeing as he doesn’t exactly plan on going back to sleep. Heck, then he’d have a nice, toasty, good-smelling pile of laundry to flop onto. That might lull him into sleep.

Knock-knock-knock-knock.

Ren scrunches his eyes closed for a moment. What time is it? Is it still early enough to reasonably ignore visitors?

He squints at the wall clock—three in the morning. Yeah, it is.

But he won’t do that.

He grabs a t-shirt out of his dresser and pulls it on over his head, clumsily sticking his arms through the holes. It’s a little bit small—probably belongs to Scar. Then he makes his slow way out of his room and to his front door, which he opens without checking to see who might be there.

It’s Doc.

Doc, his horns missing, his arm unfinished, shadows of bruises still painting his face.

Doc offers him a half-smile. “Hello.”

“How’d you know I was up?” Ren rasps, and he suddenly realizes he hasn’t drunk any water since getting up, making his voice still heavy with sleep. 

Doc lifts his communicator (in his organic hand, his mechanical arm not entirely reconstructed). “You stopped being AFK. Did you move your communicator?”

Ren doesn’t think about how that means Doc was already awake, watching the server list. He just shrugs, turns around to head back to his room, leaving the door open in his wake.

Doc follows him in, his footsteps heavier than Ren’s, all the way back to his bedroom, where Ren starts grabbing the various articles of dirty clothing strewn about his room and throwing them into the half-full laundry basket in his closet. Doc doesn’t move from the doorway, simply observing.

“Did you just shower?”

“Mhm.”

“Mind if I use your shower? Scar said you have his chair.”

Is that what Doc came over for? Ren shrugs.

“Go for it, dude.”

Doc leaves, and a few moments later Ren hears the sound of the shower running again, so he finishes gathering up the clothes and throws them all into the washer.

It’s too early to be doing chores, but Ren’s already started, so he picks up the dirty dishes in his room and takes them all to his kitchen sink, where he starts scrubbing methodically.

There aren’t too many. He finishes it quickly (though not quickly enough, his feet aching where he stands) and finds himself sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the dark floor.

He’s tired.

He’s been tired since they got out, and it doesn’t seem to be letting up any time soon.

The shower turns off.

Ren sighs, runs a hand down his face. He needs to shave. It can wait until morning proper, but he doesn’t like the stubble on his cheeks.

How long will the laundry take? Probably thirty minutes. Have thirty minutes passed? No, it would beep its freaking head off to let him know.

He’s so tired.

After a couple of minutes of staring at the floor, he hears the restroom door open. He listens idly to the rustling of Doc making his way back to the room, then the way the floorboards creak under his weight as he crosses the bedroom.

Doc rummages through Ren’s dresser without asking, pulling out a shirt and throwing it on awkwardly, his half-completed robotic arm still wrapped in dripping plastic. The shirt is one of Doc’s own, and he growls frustratedly as he shoves his arm through the sleeve, then tears off the plastic and balls it up.

Doc misses the trash can when he tosses the plastic, but he doesn’t try again. He just comes round to the other side of Ren’s bed and rolls in, shoving the blankets away.

“You need to sleep,” Doc grumbles. “Lie down.”

Ren sighs.

Then he complies, slumping back against the pillows. He only resists a moment before leaning into Doc’s slightly damp shirt.

Doc takes it one step further, wrapping his good arm around Ren and holding him there. The heavy weight of his arm feels nice, and Ren buries his face into Doc’s shoulder where the neckline of the shirt has slipped slightly, letting him shove his nose into Doc’s fur. It smells like citrus, orange and lemon, good and clean.

“Keralis,” Ren mumbles.

Doc hums. “Couldn’t find my bodywash.”

“Probably just as good. He’s always bragging about how expensive it is.”

“Rich bastard.”

Doc’s chest rumbling against him is comfortable, homey. Ren’s eyes droop; he yawns.

“Haven’t been able to sleep so well,” Doc admits quietly, in the darkness of Ren’s room. The washer whirs somewhere in the distant background. “Nightmares.”

Ren’s been having nightmares, too, but he can’t help but feel guilty. They can’t be anything compared to Doc’s.

“About what they did to you,” Doc continues, and Ren freezes.

What?

“What?” he says aloud, pushing back a bit to see Doc’s face. “I—but I was fine!”

Doc’s eyes are closed, his brows furrowed. “I saw you,” he says, after a long moment. “They showed me you. With—with that muzzle on. I know you hate those things.”

“I—”

“What they did to me hurt,” Doc says. “What they did to you hurt, too.”

“It’s . . . it’s different,” Ren says weakly.

“I don’t think so.”

Ren sighs. “I don’t want to argue about it, dude. I’m too tired.”

Doc shrugs. “Okay. We’ll talk in the morning. But you went through hell, too, dude. You don’t have to feel bad for us just because you think we had it worse.”

Typical. Typical Doc, always guessing exactly what he was thinking.

Ren doesn’t respond to that.

He just snuggles back up against Doc and lets himself fall asleep.

When he wakes up a couple hours later from another nightmare, terrified and ashamed, he’s still in Doc’s warm hold.

So Ren lets himself doze. They both deserve a lie-in, he thinks.

The laundry can wait until later.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

chronic pain buck not telling anybody (tommy!)

This ask has been sitting in my inbox for a while, because I already had this WIP and initially wanted it to become a multi-chapter-thing. But, you know, life (and ideas)... so here's, finally, my humble offering of chronic pain Buck.

A Little Bit Off

Buck wakes up two hours before the alarm clock goes off, and he immediately knows what kind of day it's going to be. 

The world is still dim, a black veil of silence covering the loft. Buck squints at the ceiling until his eyes have adjusted to the darkness. There was a dream, what was it? It’s already slipping away from him, becoming transparent like a faded piece of fabric. It was at night, in a forest, I was running away from something, constantly looking back. Tripping over a root, I fell, I fell so hard – it was just a dream, but when I hit the ground my leg exploded. It wasn't the dream that had woken him, just a nightmare like many. It was the pain. In the past, Buck would have never believed that you can feel pain in a dream, so fresh and strong as if it wasn't just a memory, but had just happened. 

Now it's just a dull, throbbing pain, nothing like the tons of weight that crushed his leg back then. He has lost the actual memory of the fire truck on his leg, even though he knows exactly what happened, even though he was conscious. But those few minutes are missing from his memory, which is probably why he keeps hurting his leg in different, creative ways in his dreams. The pain, however, is real, both in his dreams and now. Not as bad as back then, no, but constant. This throbbing deep in his bones, it will stay with him all day. 

Buck has consulted three different doctors, he has googled his fingers to the bone, but there is no simple solution. This pain is chronic, and it doesn't really matter whether it's a nerve malfunction or a change in the weather. It comes and goes, flares up like a bush fire: quickly, without warning. And it’s just as difficult to extinguish. Buck debates with himself whether he should get up and take a pill, but painkillers often don't help, and he still has a shift. If he's going to gamble on his luck, he'd better do it later. 

All three physicians he visited are not LAFD contract doctors, for one simple reason: nobody must know about his problem. The days when he has no pain, when he can forget that he ever had it, it's easy to convince himself that it's not really a problem. It comes and goes, maybe at some point it will go forever. That’s a deceptive hope, and he knows it. But there’s a fear in Buck, deep down in his guts, that a permanent condition will destroy his career. 

He sighs into the darkness only to quickly turn his head. Did he wake Tommy? No. The sight next to him fills his heart, much more than the pain fills his thoughts, at least for a moment. A few tousled curls poke out of the blanket; they'll be gone in at dawn. Tommy is lying on the very edge of the bed – it's not necessarily too small, but for two such tall men, it kind of is. He has wrapped himself completely in the duvet. It would be nice if that was the real reason Buck woke up so early, wouldn't it? The guy keeps pulling the covers off him at night. He sighs again, quieter this time. 

Swinging his long legs out of bed, the treacherous mattress squeaks, and now Tommy is stirring, after all. 

"Evan?" 

He turns, squinting, but he can't keep his eyes open yet.

"S’it time yet?"

Tommy's sleepy voice causes a warmth to spread inside Buck, flowing through his whole body, lifting the corners of his mouth to a soft smile. 

"No, babe. Go back to sleep."

Was there something in his voice? Tommy blinks again, obviously not quite convinced. He pushes a strand of hair out of his face, opening his eyes. 

"Something wrong?" he asks.

How well he already knows him. Half a year of bliss, and this man notices nuances in Buck’s voice even when he’s not quite conscious. 

"I'm just going for a pee," he claims.

In the bathroom, Buck leans on the sink and looks at his reflection in the mirror. It’s strange that he looks so normal. A little disheveled, a little tired, but certainly not like a man whose leg feels like it's slowly being hollowed out from the inside. Thump, thump, thump, maybe there are little miners inside him, digging for gold. Buck grins at his reflection, but a smile that doesn't reach his eyes is just creepy. 

Thoughtfully, he runs his forefinger over the edge of the medicine cabinet. Should he take one now? Should he take it later? He feels like a drug addict, and that's an amazingly cold thought. Almost analytical. Because even if he only needs the pills sometimes, what if it gets worse? What if he needs them so regularly that he becomes really dependent on them? 

There is a whole spiral of thoughts that have just been waiting for Buck to let them surface. What if the pain gets so bad that he starts to limp? What if he deliberately doesn't put any weight on that leg and people start questioning his movement? What if he can no longer think straight because of the pain, ending up making a mistake?

Knuckles white, he clutches the sink again, gritting his teeth until his cheeks ache. Tommy, he thinks. If it has to start somewhere with nobody noticing, then it has to start with Tommy. The thought feels right and wrong at the same time. Buck lets the toilet flush, then runs cold water over his wrists. 

He returns with the vague hope that Tommy has simply fallen asleep again. Instead, the man sits upright in bed and says, "I've been thinking."

"It's like... 4:30 in the morning," Buck replies with a glance on the clock. "And you've got the whole blanket again." 

Snuggling up next to him, he tugs at the comforter until Tommy finally gives up a piece of it. 

"Yes, but I'm awake now," says Tommy. 

"Shit, I'm sorry."

"Never mind," Tommy returns good-naturedly, "your shift starts much earlier than mine, I'm sure I can sleep a little longer."

Well, I won’t, thinks Buck, but he’s careful to not let his thoughts show. He buries his face in Tommys side, breathing in his scent. It's something he would much rather become addicted to, that peculiarly stimulating smell of sleep and masculinity. 

"And what were you thinking about?" he mumbles. 

"That we should move in together."

Now Buck is also wide awake, even more so than before, and for a brief moment, the pain is actually irrelevant. He sits up, looking inquisitively into Tommy's face. It's still dark in the apartment, the sunrise can only be glimpsed behind the blinds. So whatever he sees now, it may be easy to misinterpret. 

In fact, Tommy's sharp features are soft in these pale surroundings. He almost appears… insecure. Buck doesn’t even know why he’s suddenly kind of shaken, after all he’s moved in with some of his partners before, and earlier, even. They've just never talked about it, maybe because it wasn't necessary, maybe because Tommy still thinks they should be taking it slow. Every time Tommy's supposed confidence crumbles when they're together, in such small, very tender moments, Buck feels like his heart is about to jump out of his chest. 

"Your place or mine?" he asks, and the smile he causes on Tommy’s lips is worth it. 

"Actually," Tommy returns, stroking Buck's hair, lost in thought,  "I thought we'd look for something new. Together."

"It's a big deal," Buck opines.

"Right, it's probably too soon."

There’s not even a hint of disappointment in Tommy's voice, he’s far too composed for that. Buck recognizes himself so much in this answer that it hurts, in a completely different way to his leg. It's easier to withdraw than to live with the disappointment of having your wishes ignored over and over again. Tommy knows this as well as himself, but it only seems to have made him stronger, while it made Buck sadder. At least until he met Tommy. And he doesn't want him to feel like that. 

"It's not," he says, leaning forward to brush Tommy's lips with his. "I'd like that."

"Really?"

"Really."

The sun rises, less outside the blinds but in Tommy's face. His kiss is unexpected and impetuous, regardless of the fact that they should both brush their teeth first. A second later, Tommy's lips graze Buck's earlobe, breathing a "This is going to be great" that sets his skin on fire. Tommy seems to sense this, he starts nibbling on the sensitive spot on Buck's neck.

"I thought you wanted to go back to sleep," Buck mumbles, but his hands are already kneading Tommy's muscular back.

"Hmm," returns Tommy, shifting to manhandle Buck on his back. "If you’re not sleeping, I’m not sleeping."

Tommy’s beautiful face above him, his hands all over his body, Buck knows that this will successfully ease his pain. For a few minutes, at least, he will no longer be able to distinguish between pain and passion. He will forget that he hurts, and it will be easy not to show.

Maybe, one day, he’ll be ready to tell Tommy about it. 

[ofduskanddreams]

Pierce The Clouds

for @elucienweekofficial day 2: magic

A/N: I say this is "from the vault" because it's based on part of an old (no longer public) fic that I plan to rewrite if I ever have the time. I wasn't planning on posting anything today, but I couldn't get this idea out of my head so here we are :)

READ ON AO3 | RATED: E | CANON-TYPICAL VIOLENCE | 8.3k WORDS

When Lucien encounters trouble in the mortal lands, the bond draws Elain's shuttered power to the surface. Everyone knows that getting between a Fae and their injured mate is a death wish, but no one, not even Elain, knows just how far her magic is willing to go.

Lucien

He winnowed directly from the entrance of the Hewn City into his apartment in Velaris. He kicked off his shoes and fell back onto his bed, ignoring the slight cloud of dust that puffed up from the duvet on impact. 

Two minutes, he told himself. Two minutes to close his eyes and soak in the blissful silence.

Lucien didn’t want to think about that meeting, it all made him too uneasy. Eris had mentioned nothing about a plan to kill Beron, he’d simply thanked Rhys again for hosting him for Winter Solstice again and made a snide comment about how unfortunate it was that Cassian—“that Illyrian brute” as Eris called him—didn’t let him within twenty feet of Nesta this year. 

Rhys, looking as bored as ever, had signed his approval on a trade agreement between the Nightmares and Eris’s territory in Autumn: ore for agricultural products. Lucien and Rhys spoke mind-to-mind about how it was suspiciously mutually beneficial, but on paper, he could make no objections.

Dealing with Eris always left him unsettled, and waiting for the other shoe to drop. Growing up with his brothers, it was second nature to expect every good deed to have an equally bad counterpart. But with Eris, the shoe hadn’t dropped. Yet. That was the most unnerving thing, what would be the cost of centuries of Eris’s so-called generosity towards him?

With a groan, Lucien forced himself to get up and change. He grabbed the second bag in the line of pre-packed leather duffels lining the wall near the door. It was a system he had developed while working as Tamlin’s emissary. A bag of necessities and appropriate clothing for each of Prythian’s courts, spelled with simple enchantments to keep everything fresh and wrinkle-free. The bag in his hand, for the human lands, was newer than the others yet still worn and marked by a small white leather tag.

Rhys had suggested that Lucien take Eris’s news that all was quiet with Beron and Koschei to Vassa sooner rather than later. The knowing look in Rhys’s eyes made it clear he was offering Lucien an out from family dinner should he want it. 

With a wave of his hand, Lucien put out the fire in his fireplace and winnowed to the woods outside the wards he’d placed on Vassa’s manor. The near evening light lacked any sparkle as it filtered through the dull green canopy above him. He was grateful to Rhys; he didn’t want to think about trying to face Elain right now, unsettled as he was. It was hard enough to play that politely distanced courtier for her on a good day. 

Lucien was a patient male, he prided himself on his self-control but even he had his limits. Elain wasn’t happy. He felt it through their dulled bond, and his instincts screamed at him to do something about it but he couldn’t. Being around her made it even more obvious and equally more difficult to ignore. Elain acted like she was happy, and was probably unaware that he knew her true feelings. It wasn’t his place to say anything so he’d been distancing himself. It seemed to be what she wanted.

Lucien walked through the manor’s gates and immediately came face-to-face with a flustered Jurian.

Jurian braced a hand on his shoulder as he caught his breath. “Impeccable…timing,” Jurian wheezed.

Lucien’s metal eye whirred in its socket, examining. The wards were fine. Nothing was on fire. There were no screams or clashing blades ringing through the air.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Jurian.

“I was just about to send for you,” Jurian began, leading him towards the manor doors. “A few minutes ago, I had a runner come saying that there was a fight on the border. Apparently some of Nolan’s men got into it with a unit of your Prythian Guard.”

“Fuck,” Lucien exhaled, dread simmering in his veins. “Any injuries? Casualties?”

Jurian shook his head as they entered the manor hall. “The poor kid only said one injury before passing out on my office floor.”

“We don’t know if they were human or Fae?” Lucien inquired, dropping his bag and taking out the spare dagger he kept there. He sheathed it next to the short sword he always carried on his right hip.

“No,” Jurian sighed. “Since it could be either, I think it’s best if we both go.”

Lucien nodded in grim agreement.

It took them half an hour’s hard riding to reach the second garrison of the Prythian Guard. The Guard had been one of Lucien’s better ideas, endorsed by Rhys to address Tamlin’s non-existent border security. It was a peacekeeping force made up of Fae representing every court to monitor the border where the wall once stood.

It would have been easy for Lucien to winnow himself and Jurian, but riding in alongside the former human general sent a better message in this situation that and outcomes, could easily escalate into a greater conflict. Riding was also a thrill Lucien had enjoyed for as long as he could remember. He didn’t understand why most High Fae avoided it.

The sun was setting when Lucien dismounted at the wooden gate and nodded to Jurian. He would continue on to Nolan’s outpost and figure out what he could. With both sides of the story, maybe the two of them could piece together what actually happened.

The guard standing watch—Winter Court if his fair hair, skin, and frosty eyes were a sign—opened the gate for Lucien with a deferential nod.

“They’re all in the main hall,” he said, taking the reins from Lucien.

As he crossed the dirt courtyard, Lucien tried his best not to jump to morbid conclusions. The likelihood of this sparking another human-fae war was slim. If he was being honest, he’d poured so much of himself into maintaining peace since the war with Hybern ended that any breach of it felt like a personal attack. He was glad that his magic was still drained from all the winnowing he’d done in the last day and a half. If it hadn’t been, sparks would fly from his fingertips.

The sight that met Lucien in the chamber was far from encouraging. The assembled grave-faced guards stepped aside in a wave of pewter gray to reveal a male laying on a table. For a sickening heartbeat the male’s golden hair looked like Tamlin’s, but as Lucien stepped closer, he saw gray hairs mingled with gold and speckled with blood.

Lucien had to grip the table to keep from falling to his knees, because the male taking wet, ragged breaths was Valin.

“Lucien,” a voice addressed him. 

Lucien looked up from the table to find Bron, one of Tamlin’s former sentries standing beside him, the crest of a commander on his gray uniform.

“What happened?” Lucien seethed behind gritted teeth.

“Valin had his unit on their regular patrol when they came across a bunch of Nolan’s men, drunk. They were aggressive, trying to cross the border and hoping for revenge from the sound of it. The unit followed protocol and was working to disarm the group with minimal injury when Valin took a scatter-ash arrow to the chest. Under Valin’s orders, they didn’t retaliate and half of them escorted Nolan’s men back to their outpost while the rest brough Valin here.”

“I should have known the prospect of ordering people around would have drawn Valin out of retirement.” Lucien and Bron exchanged sad smiles. Valin was Andras’s older brother, had been the captain of Tamlin’s sentries since his father had ruled Spring. He retired a few decades after Lucien arrived in the court, to start a family when he found his mate. But they’d stayed friends, Lucien had visited often and written when he couldn’t.

“Talia should be here soon, I sent a winnower to her as soon as I saw him,” Bron spoke quietly.

“He won’t make it?”

Bron closed his eyes and shook his head. “Scatter-ash, it’s Nolan’s latest invention. The arrow heads and lower shafts are made of ash chips somehow melded together so they break into pieces if the arrow hits bone or is removed.”

Lucien’s elbows hit the table as he rested his head in his hands. The sound of running footsteps made him snap upright, just in time to see Talia burst through the doors. She froze, nostrils flaring as she scented her mate’s blood.

“Everybody back to your posts,” Lucien ordered softly, and the room cleared save for himself, Talia and Bron.

In the blink of an eye, Talia was standing beside her mate clutching his hand to her chest. Her translucent wings shivered as tears fell silently down her face.

The room was quiet, save for Valin’s jagged breaths that were slowing by the minute. Lucien and Bron stood together in mute vigil for their fallen friend and mentor as the sun sank beneath the horizon, coloring the room a somber shadow-blue. Lucien would never forget the moment Valin’s heart stopped and his soul crossed the Veil. Talia froze before she began shaking. Then she fell to her knees, hands clasped over her heart and screamed.

That scream of unearthly sorrow and rage and grief hit Lucien like a serrated blade to the gut. He saw Bron stagger as well under the weight of Talia’s pain as half of her soul was ripped out and cast to the void. Lucien had only read about what could happen following the death of one’s mate. He couldn’t stop himself from picturing Elain on that table, dead. The thought of that golden light in his chest winking out threatened the stability of Lucien’s knees.

The wail turned to a choked-off sob. He wished he could go to her, but there was no comfort he could give that would ease the force of her grief. Eventually the sobbing stopped and Talia slowly turned to them.

“Who?” she growled, rage blazing in her eyes.

“Talia, an off-duty human guard shot him,” Lucien spoke carefully with his hands outstretched, palms up in a gesture of peace. “I will meet with Lord Nolan in the morning and demand he turn over the man responsible. His judgment will be yours to give.”

Lucien looked to the side at Bron who gave an imperceptible nod before he stepped forward slowly. 

Bron approached her as one might a spooked horse. All Fae knew there were few things as dangerous as a mate seeking retribution—instinct could spark a bloodlust in the most peaceful of souls. Once Lucien felt relatively sure that Talia would allow Bron to help her prepare her mate’s body for the pyre without killing him, he slipped out of the room and down a narrow hall to the guest officer’s quarters. 

He wasn’t able to shake the smothering, bone-rending sadness he felt. He couldn’t bear the thought of what Talia must be going through; couldn’t stop his mind from reliving the night Jesminda’s life was stolen by his folly.

Lucien collapsed onto the small bed in the dark, cold room. He couldn’t staunch that gut-wrenching grief he’d buried so deep. He closed his eyes but immediately saw the light leaving Jes’s walnut eyes. When he heard the wet slice of a blade meeting bone, of her head hitting the stone, Lucien’s eyes flew open. He was drowning in grief too long ignored.

He jolted when there was a sharp tug behind his ribs, hard enough that his breath hitched.

Then there was a bright warmth blooming. 

Lucien sat up, but no—he hadn’t accidentally started a fire. It happened rarely, when the nightmares were at their worst and he would wake to the acrid scent of burning fabrics.

An image of small hands buried in a white mane flying flashed in front of his mind's eye.

And then he was a youngling hiding in the kitchens while his mother baked apple crumble and he stole as many bites as he could.

Lucien lay back and let his head hit the pillow as he was surrounded by the colors of autumn, shrouded in a blanket of sunset and he felt peace.

It was Elain; he realized with no small amount of wonder. Elain must have sensed him. 

All the hollow sadness was suddenly filled with a nervous amount of hope dashed with embarrassment. He was careful to keep his emotions to himself, had never slipped up like this before. Cauldron, she must have felt everything. The hope was a soft glow, Elain had never touched their bond before.

Jurian met him at the Garrison at dawn. From what he heard at Nolan’s outpost, it was exactly as Bron described. Nolan’s men claimed the fault lay with the Fae, but Jurian believed the guard had done everything by the parameters of the treaty.

Jurian agreed with Lucien’s plan to deliver Valin’s assailant to Talia. Then again, Jurian was one of the few humans with firsthand experience of what mates were capable of when truly motivated.

Lucien didn’t waste time setting out for the Nolan’s manor, assured that Jurian would inform Vassa of everything that had occurred. His magic was still somewhat drained so Lucien opted to ride again.

Recalling the memory from the previous night, Lucien smiled to himself. If Elain enjoyed riding, maybe he could ask her to accompany him some time. 

Lucien dismounted when the manor’s gates were in sight, leaving the horse to graze on dew-dampened grass. He’d only come to Nolan’s manor on foot before, better to lessen the chances of aggravating anyone. The guards posted on the gate were two Lucien didn’t recognize. He stopped some twenty paces back, their loaded crossbows trained on him. 

“Stay right where you are, Fae filth,” the shorter of the two guards called out. “Your kind isn’t welcome here.”

Lucien held both of his hands up, showing that he would make no move for his weapon.

“My name is Lucien Vanserra. I am an emissary, I mean no harm.” He choked on his family name but that was how the humans did it and he was here for the sake of peace. “I’ve been here several times before,” Lucien took a careful step forward. His gaze flicked between the short one and the one whose eyes were wide with fear. “Your commander knows me, he can verify my identity.”

“How do we know this isn’t just some magic trick?” the short one sneered.

Lucien took a calming breath, “I am here under the terms of the treaty between our peoples, that includes not using glamours to deceive you.” He took another careful step forward.

Only to be knocked back by a blinding pain near his heart. His ears rang, but he could hear the cadence of conversation. 

“You idiot. Set the lord’s hounds on him, leave no evidence.”

Then there was a riot of barking. For half a second Lucien found himself back in Eris’s kennels, the hounds greeting him. But these were not those hounds. 

Lucien felt several sets of teeth sink into his limbs. He couldn’t just stay here and die. That wasn’t right. It would hurt her. Elain. 

Elain, the name clanged through him. 

He needed a chance with Elain, with his mate.

Lucien reached deeply for whatever threads of dwindling magic he could grab and threw himself into the darkness, thinking of the first place that sprang into his mind. 

He didn’t remember how he crawled up the steps and through the off-kilter door, but his eyes opened to stare down at the familiar black-and-white checkered marble floors. His eyes closed at the sound of talons clicking against the cracked stone that shifted to familiar footsteps as every thought eddied out of his head and the world bled black.

Tamlin

He scented Lucien long before he saw the male. Tamlin cursed the spark of hope that warmed him at the thought that Lucien might give him another chance. But then he neared the manor and scented Lucien's blood and red stained his vision. He ran.

There was too much blood—the wounds weren’t closing. Cauldron, were those bite marks? Tamlin’s heart was beating too quickly, his hands crimson-slicked as he gently turned Lucien onto his back to reveal the splintered shaft of an ash arrow embedded not a finger’s width from his heart. Tamlin quickly dragged a talon across his ankle; it stung and bled a drop before closing—not a nightmare then.

Fuck.

Tamlin forced himself to breathe. To think. He would lose no one else. There were no healers here anymore. No one was here. So he had to go where healers were. Where there were people who were better for Lucien than he was.

Never again, he told himself. I won’t lose him again.

Tamlin summoned the strength he often tried to forget and, with enough force that the ground rumbled, he spoke from his mind, projecting it far north.

Rhysand. I’m bringing Lucien to you. I mean no harm. He’s dying, he needs a Healer.

Tamlin gathered Lucien into his arms and winnowed. Lucien was the only thing he had left to lose.

Time seemed to slow as the darkness pressed upon him. The first rule of winnowing is to have a clear picture of your destination. Lucien had told him about Velaris before Tamlin had banned him from his court in anger. Centuries before that, lifetimes ago really, the heir of Night and the son of Spring had gotten drunk together. The memory of Rhys’s description was faded but better than nothing, so Tamlin held that image close. 

Another image flashed before him, star-tinged—from Rhysand. A wrought-iron fence before the small yard of a home on a quiet street. 

Then he was there, shoving aside that gate and bounding up the steps. The door opened for him and Tamlin barely noted the towering Illyrian wings he brushed past as he moved to lay Lucien down on the table. A gray-haired female stepped towards Lucien’s prone form and Tamlin bit back a snarl, at the same time the High Lord of Night’s hand came down on his shoulder.

Madja’s our best healer, she’ll do all she can, Rhysand spoke into his mind.

“It's a new kind of ash arrow. It breaks into shards when disturbed,” Tamlin explained, his long unused voice rasping. “He winnowed from the mortal lands to my manor with that much ash in him. I would have said it’s not possible, but he did it.” 

Madja nodded to him and turned back to Lucien. “Sons of fire don’t burn out easily, this one still has a chance.”

Tamlin sagged with relief, then quickly straightened his spine. He’d already let these males see too much of him.

“Here,” Cassian grunted and shoved a glass of whiskey into Tamlin’s faintly trembling hands.

The reality of his situation came into sharp focus as the instinctive drive to protect his closest friend faded. He was in the Night Court. He didn’t exactly ask to come. They had every valid reason to hate him, especially Rhys and Feyre. Cauldron, they were the same reasons he hated himself. He could see Rhysand and Cassian exchanging a look that meant they were mind-speaking. Cassian… Rhysand’s General.

The gears turned. He was a High Lord who winnowed uninvited into another court’s territory. An action any laws of Prythian could construe as an act of war that. Tamlin swallowed the rest of his drink painfully. 

There was only one way to guarantee this didn’t turn that direction. 

So, Tamlin set down his glass and crossed the room to where Rhys stood. Pride be damned, he had already lost everything at this point. Tamlin took a deep breath and placed his right fist over his heart, speaking the ancient words: “I, Tamlin, High Lord of Spring, thank you for offering me aid in my time of need. As payment for this debt I will grant you, Rhysand, High Lord of Night, a boon. Please accept my gratitude.”

Faint clinks made by ash splinters landing in a metal basin punctuated the silence. Tamlin kept his eyes downcast at the red patterned rug until Rhysand held out a tattooed hand.

Tamlin clasped it with his own. 

“I accept,” Rhysand responded, his expression guarded.

A shockwave of magic radiated through Velaris as the bargain inked itself across the High Lords’ wrists, setting the glasses rattling.

Then, the door to the townhouse swung open with such force that the little window in it shattered. 

Elain Archeron burst into the room. Her half-feral eyes stopped on Lucien, then flitted to Tamlin as he stood and turned towards her. Her brown eyes turned to silver as she took in the blood staining Tamlin’s clothes. 

Her rage was an aura shimmering at the edges of her. She winnowed across the room in a blink, appearing in front of Tamlin and slamming him back into the wall. Her forearm pushed into his throat. She growled, each word dripping with the promise of blood: “What. Happened. To. My. Mate.”

Elain

This wasn’t right. Elain looked around at the bare-boned trees shivering dark against a faded sky.

She was in Velaris. She was staring at a rosebush. There were clippers in her hand.

But when Elain looked down, there were no clippers, and the air was colder and dulled. It took a moment for recognition to set in—she recognized these woods, that far-off stone wall with its grotesque iron gate.

She shouldn’t be here. 

Couldn’t be. 

That was Lord Nolan’s manor, but she was in Velaris. Feyre and Nyx and Cerridwen were playing on the other side of the gardens. She was listening to them moments ago.

But this world was silent.

She realized it was a vision when her feet began moving against her will.

Suddenly, she stood before the gates staring at two guards in Graysen’s father’s colors. But the vision shattered, cracking and falling like the shards of a mirror. 

And then Elain was curled up on the grass of her garden with a searing white pain in her chest. Feyre was screaming.

The world was shaking—no, that was her, shaking. Being shook.

“...lain. Elain, please open your eyes,” Feyre’s voice pleaded.

Elain slowly obeyed, squinting and blinking and trying to adjust to the brightness of the sun above her. It was hard to do anything with the memory of that pain echoing across her skin.

“I…” Elain’s voice cracked, her mind still reeling. “I had a vision, I’m fine,” she said weakly as she let Feyre help her sit up.

Elain realized her mistake when she saw how wide Feyre’s eyes had grown. 

“You had… a vision?” Feyre parsed out the words on her tongue, piecing together her elder sister’s lies of the past year and a half. “Elain,” Feyre said with an equal amount of shame and reproach. She took a deep breath, then said more gently, “Let’s get you inside, okay?” 

Was this the moment when the world crashed down around her feet? This lie, her secret, no doubt already reaching the minds of the inner circle via Rhys. Because this changed everything. That was part of the reason Elain had hidden it.

Elain nodded and let Feyre tug her to her feet.

She wasn’t dumb, though it made life easier when people thought she was. While the others thought she only read books on flowers or the romances Nesta pawned off on her, Elain had done her research. She knew Clotho had a personal weakness for lemon tarts and that the female was happy to offer her the sanctuary of the Library beneath the House of the Wind regardless of the unseemly times of day she showed up. 

Elain knew how rare Seers were. She knew how they were coveted by High Lords and Kings, wooed and worshiped until they were locked up or literally chained to a wall in one case. It was a terrible power, she’d never understood….

Why, in those frozen depths of the Cauldron, when the Mother had examined her soul and somehow found her ‘worthy,’ had she cursed Elain with this ‘gift’ that often drove its bearers to madness? 

Yes, the Mother’s gift included many other things Elain didn’t understand, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be a Seer, didn’t want to live with the constant threat of her mind being violated by the past or future. She didn’t want to deal with the burden of trying to unravel all those damned riddles her sight enjoyed laying at her feet.

Swallowing her anxiety down, Elain let Feyre lead her into the house and press a cup of tea into her hands. But that pain was still throbbing—enough to make her feel lightheaded. Elain couldn’t shake off the small voice screaming “something is wrong.” 

And then it clicked into place. Lucien. She’d been sensing him through the bond more recently. That must have been his pain. Which meant something had gone terribly wrong… Nolan’s manor. That vision had been of Lucien, or at least what had happened to him.

“Elain, what can I do?” Feyre’s question broke the clamor of her thoughts.

Mate. Protect him. Save him. That inner voice commanded with so much dominance Elain almost leapt off of the settee despite herself.

She couldn’t deny what she saw, what she was feeling. But something stopped her from voicing all of it to her sister. 

“I… I think I would like to lie down for a while, if that’s alright,” she answered Feyre in that soft small voice everyone thought was her only one.

Elain lost herself in thought while she allowed Feyre to lead her up to her room. She didn’t understand this thing writhing within her, this bond. Lucien was a stranger. Yet, even as a stranger Elain didn’t wish that kind of pain on anyone—she wanted to help, to soothe, to heal. Those had always been her core intentions. Even before she nearly drowned in the Cauldron and somehow emerged with the gifts of the Mother that made those instincts stronger. 

She hadn’t realized it until that fateful day, nearly a year ago when Nesta had sacrificed her magic to save Nyx, Feyre and Rhys. That was when that shimmering well of power sparked. While Nesta had laid herself across Feyre’s ashen form, Elain had dived into that inner abyss—had begged the Mother to let Nesta stay, to see that Nesta’s heart wasn’t owned by the Cauldron’s icy void, that Nesta was just trying to protect everyone, that Nesta deserved to live.  

Thankfully, the Mother had listened. Elain had mentioned nothing about that day. She scarcely dared think about it. Nesta would have died if the Mother hadn’t intervened. It was only the second time Elain had ever let that power fill her veins, to sever the Cauldron’s grip of Nesta’s soul—to keep it from killing her. The first had been during the war when she’d somehow winnowed and found her hand clenched tight around Truth-Teller, buried in the King of Hybern’s neck. 

Feyre drew the curtains shut while Elain sat on the edge of her bed. 

 Please leave, Elain hoped as Feyre turned towards her in the dim faelight.

“Do you want to be alone?” her sister asked.

“I think I’ll sleep for a while.” Elain pasted on an encouraging smile.

Save him. Save him. Don’t let it fade. The voice chanted.

As soon as the door shut behind Feyre, Elain moved: out to the balcony, down the trellis of ivy. She knew the way with her eyes closed. She’d spent many sleepless nights watching the Sidra drift by or scanning dusty tomes for answers that didn’t exist.

Elain’s slippered feet hit the frostbitten earth, the voice growing louder. She was tired of fighting it so, for the third time, Elain gave up. She let that shimmering light rise to the surface, allowed that voice to guide her steps. When she reached inside for that golden ribbon she knew would lead her to Lucien, she fell to her knees in the dead grass. 

No.

There wasn’t a ribbon. There were only ragged threads. Elain focused her hearing, no matter where he went she could hear it. His heartbeat was there, but it was too slow.

No.

Save him. Save him. Protect. Defend.

Elain let that unknown power force her shaking legs to stand. She could question all of this when she knew Lucien was safe. She’d already broken character, let Feyre see the truth. Pretense was irrelevant now. It was the least she could do after all, for the male whom had saved her countless times without knowing it.

She took a step forward, letting that power fill her vision as darkness pressed in on all sides and then she was standing outside of the townhouse. She’d winnowed again, somehow. Elain would worry about that another time. 

The air smelled strange. She could scent Lucien, closely mingled with another of stale flowers and rain and… blood. Icy dread sluiced through her veins at the realization it was Lucien’s blood. All Elain saw was red and light. She felt a pulse of magic, heard a faint shatter of glass.

Mate. Save him. Protect him.

There was Madja, staring blankly at her, bent over Lucien’s body—he was unconscious and covered in drying blood.

“Mate. Protect,” was the last thing Elain remembered hearing before her power consumed her completely.

Elain woke to the sound of hushed voices. She was lying on a hard surface.

“Was knocking her out really necessary?” Nesta quietly snarled.

“I didn’t ‘knock her out,’ I put her to sleep,” Rhys’s voice was calm yet equally hushed. “She wasn’t herself, Nesta. I didn’t want her to hurt anyone or hurt herself.”

“I thought she didn’t have magic anymore,” Cassian said.

“Well, I knew something was still there,” Amren sounded smug.

Elain cracked an eye open, just enough to get a blurry image of the scene. Feyre was slowly shaking her head, looking at the floor. They were still in the townhouse. Her head felt like someone had split her skull with a hammer and chisel.

“I found her unconscious in the garden this afternoon. I couldn’t get into her mind but when she woke up, she said she’d had a vision. I don’t know if it’s happened before, or if she’s aware of this power,” Feyre murmured.

“How long will she be asleep?” Nesta asked, concerned.

“She’s already awake,” a deep voice like honey rumbled from directly behind her, though it sounded strained.

Elain bolted upright, scrambled off the table and nearly head-butted the wall as the room swayed beneath her feet. Her fingertips dug into the molded oak paneling but then Nesta’s hands gripped her shoulders and steadied her. One of those hands moved to her cheek as Nesta turned her face to examine it. Elain shook off Nesta’s hand and turned back to look at the wide dining table where Lucien lay, his hair a sanguine red against a blue pillow.

She took a shaky step toward him before she stopped herself, ignoring that voice demanding she run to him and make sure he’s okay.

“Lucien,” she breathed. Her throat felt raw, like she had been screaming. She swallowed, painfully. “Are… are you going to be alright?”

“Right as rain, Lady,” he said with a smirk that twisted into a grimace as he coughed

Liar.

“He’ll be perfectly healed in a few days,” Madja explained from a chair by the fire. “He’s lucky he got here when he did, a few more minutes and some of those splinters would have reached his heart.”

“How do you feel, Elain?” Nesta asked softly, holding Elain’s elbow.

“I’m fine Nesta.” Elain’s words were clipped. She hated this feeling, that dark gap in her memory. 

Lucien coughed again, “She’s about thirty seconds from passing out if her heartbeat—cough—doesn’t slow and she has one of the worst burnout headaches I’ve ever felt.” His voice grew progressively quieter as he spoke. 

Elain rapidly snapped up her mental shields, but the exertion made her stumble.

Nesta gently shoved her down into an overstuffed armchair and forced a cup of water into her hand, gray eyes gleaming like daggers as she demanded Elain to drink.

Madja shuffled over and placed a wrinkled hand on Elain’s shoulder, the pounding in her head subsided but didn’t disappear. 

Feyre sat down on the ottoman in front of her chair. “Elain, can you tell me what happened? Do you remember?” 

Elain looked around the room. Lucien was now half sitting, propped up on a bunch of pillows. Nesta stood behind her chair, Cassian close to her side. Amren perched on an arm of the sofa where Rhys and Madja sat, behind Feyre. Azriel stood near the arched opening to the dining room, his shadows blending into the darkness behind him. What did she remember? What did she want to remember?

Elain knew she should handle this carefully, that she could play it right and keep things mostly the way they were before. But her head was so foggy, everything about her felt sluggish. What she remembered after she left her room were flashes, nothing coherent. Elain remembered the pain on Feyre’s face in the garden, when she’d suspected Elain had been lying.

Pain. She was in pain. Lucien was in pain. There was too much of it. Elain was tired. So very, very tired of pain. Elain took a deep breath and spoke.

“Earlier, I had a… vision.” She tucked her hand beneath her thighs to stop herself from wringing her fingers. “I saw the gates of Lord Nolan’s manor.” She forced her gaze to meet Lucien’s, “I felt those guards shoot you.”

Her eyes closed as her voice cracked. She couldn’t look at him without that voice chanting all the things she should do to those guards. Elain took a deep breath, “I felt your pain, that’s how I knew it was you. I feel nothing in my visions.” Unless they are about you, she finished in her head.

“I remember Feyre taking me up to my room. I remember leaving as soon as she left. I… I just couldn’t let anyone be in that kind of pain when I knew there was something I could do to help. When I tried to find you the bond—it was fading. I panicked, I could sense you were close to death.” Elain swiped an errant tear from her cheek. She shouldn’t be crying over a stranger. 

“That thing, that voice panicked and I could feel a sort of light, a power inside me and it wanted to get out. I could barely think straight so I let it—it felt like my best chance to find him. After that, it's just fragments. I remember standing outside of the townhouse. I remember it smelled wrong, like rain and dying flowers and Lucien’s blood.”

Elain noticed Feyre’s nostrils flare, then her whole body went rigid and her face paled. She stiffly nodded for Elain to continue but her eyes glazed over slightly.

“That’s really all I can remember.” Elain looked to the dancing flames behind the grate.

The silence in the room was broken when Rhys spoke a name, “Mor?”

Morrigan winced as she stepped out of Azriel’s shadows. “That's all she remembers,” she said Rhys.

Fuck. They used Mor? Was their distrust in her truly so immense? It hurt, more than Elain expected it would. Not that she could really blame them. Lucien looked shocked, but it seemed the others were aware. Mor, at least, had the decency to look apologetic.

Feyre moved off of the ottoman to sit on Rhys’s lap. Her color was better, whatever they’d spoken about mind-to-mind had worked. Rhys cleared his throat, “Well, let me show you all what I remember.”

Elain was grateful she was sitting down or she might have fainted as Rhys’s experience of events played through everyone’s minds, stopping on an image of her pinning Tamlin against the wall by his throat. 

“Fascinating,” Amren mused. She cocked her head, those unholy steel eyes flitting between Elain and Nesta, analyzing them as if they were one of her many puzzles. 

Elain’s mind was still trying to catch up with everything Rhys had revealed when she felt a sharp spike of self-loathing. She looked over to Lucien who wore a haunted expression.

“Stop that!” Elain hissed at him. 

Lucien’s russet and gold gaze turned sharply on her and Elain clapped a hand over her mouth, felt her eyes widen.

“Sorry I just… none of this was your fault Lucien,” she stammered, warmth rising to her cheeks.

“No, that’s not… never mind. You’re right,” his words were stilted. 

Elain noticed the others glancing between them, their faces betraying an odd mix of confusion and amusement. 

Before she had time to respond, Nesta snickered “You—you really…. Honestly, I’m jealous.”

Elain was confused. 

Nesta sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “Just—the next time you nail Tamlin’s balls to the wall—wait for me.”

Feyre snorted softly. 

Slowly, Elain turned to Rhys. “I…. Oh Gods… I attacked a High Lord… did I start a war?”

She held no sympathy for Tamlin, but Prythian was still recovering from the last war.

Rhys shook his head with a gentle smile. He asked Lucien, “Are you feeling well enough to head to the River House?”

Lucien nodded once.

“Right then, we will continue this discussion after we’ve all had something to eat,” Rhys concluded.

Cassian mumbled “about damn time,” as he and Nesta made their way outside.

Amren held her hand out expectantly to Azriel who rolled his eyes before winnowing away with the tiny ancient one in tow.

Rhys slung and arm around Lucien’s broad shoulders as he helped him stand. Elain was momentarily stunned because Lucien was taller than Rhys when she saw them side by side. No, that was a dumb thing to realize and why now…. Elain blinked a few times to clear her head.

Feyre and Mor were looking at her, waiting. Elain looked back at Lucien and Rhys, the latter now looking at her in silent question. 

She slowly rose to her feet, pleasantly surprised to find her legs steady. Elain took a step towards Feyre but the disquiet in her gut increased and she hesitated. 

“I’ll go with Lucien and Rhys,” she found herself saying. The nervous energy settled a bit more with each step towards them.

She didn’t even attempt to decipher the meaning in Rhys’s knowing gaze. Elain took his arm, and they winnowed to the lawn of the River House. Cassian was waiting for them by the door, taking over as Lucien’s support and disappearing into the house. Elain made to follow them but Rhys gently stopped her. 

“What?” Elain cocked her head at the High Lord of Night. For that definitely was not the expression of her smartass brother-in-law.

“I will allow you into this house if you swear to do no harm to my mate, my son, or any other members of my inner circle or guests of my household.” Rhys’s voice was the deep cold of a midwinter’s night.

Elain took a step back, eyes stinging. Did Rhys really think she would hurt her sisters, hurt Nyx?

His expression softened slightly, “The vow is a formality, Elain. I don’t think you would intentionally harm anyone but you… you weren’t yourself this morning. It will give you peace of mind as well, a guarantee that no one you care about would get hurt if you lost control again.”

That would be true, she supposed.

A part of her bristled at the ultimatum, that Rhys—the champion of choices—didn’t give her one. Another part of her was grateful, she didn’t trust herself. Hadn’t since she’d come out of the Cauldron. She’d buried her powers so deep because they scared her—that potential loss of control was absolutely terrifying. 

“I swear to do no harm to my sisters, my nephew, or any members of the inner circle or guests of your household,” Elain repeated as she held out her hand. 

Elain didn’t realize she was freezing until Rhys’s hand wrapped around hers, the warmth and the zing of magic pulsing through the air gave her goosebumps. She looked at their clasped hands and saw a tiny star tattooed on the inside of her right wrist. It was… cute.

Elain paid little attention to anything during dinner. Thankfully, everyone seemed happy to carry on their conversations without her. She wasn’t surprised, they normally were. She downed her first glass of wine and spent an hour picking at her food. Elain was grateful to be sitting next to Mor. In quiet solidarity, Mor kept pace with Elain. When the meal ended the two of them had finished a bottle.

She followed the others through to the sitting room, every sense softer—and she was delightfully warm. The events of the day felt less world-shattering. Elain’s mind was still drifting when Rhys called for everyone’s attention. Only then did the room come into focus. Amren, Feyre, and Nesta were giving her odd looks. She glanced down to see if she’d accidentally spilled wine on her dress only to meet Lucien’s russet-gold stare, not a foot below her.

Elain wished the floors would open up and swallow her. Apparently while her mind had wandered, her feet had carried her to stand halfway behind the chair where Lucien sat near the fire.

Good. He is still healing, watch over him, the voice said. 

Elain almost jumped at the sound, it hadn't spoken in hours.

To move away now, after everyone else had settled would be even more awkward, so Elain stayed. 

It’s just the bond. Just my instincts — it means nothing. They all know that, she talked herself down before she could feel too flustered.

“Alright Amren,” Rhys said coolly, holding his palm out in an invitation to speak.

Elain’s heart jumped into her throat. She felt like a child again, waiting for her mother’s tongue-lashing.

Would they ship her away like Nesta, or worse? At least Nesta hadn’t tricked everyone. She’d lied, but the lies were obvious. Elain had manipulated her family’s goodwill against them, for her own selfish comfort. She knew her powers could make a profound difference in the world… if she could bear to face them. 

She wasn’t like her sisters. She wasn’t a warrior; she didn’t want to lead people; she didn’t even want to be here half of the time. Elain missed being human, she missed the life Hybern and the Cauldron had stolen from her. She didn’t want this power in her veins so she’d done her best to ignore its existence.

Amren looked at Elain, her bobbed hair swaying as her head again tilted to the side, assessing. “This isn’t the first time. Is it, girl?”

“No,” Elain hated how meek her voice sounded.

“Well?” Amren motioned for her to elaborate. 

Elain took a deep breath that did nothing to steady her so she gripped the back of the chair, low enough that no one could see how weak she was. Feyre had no trouble commanding a room of faeries who hated her, but Elain was not her sister.

“I… um.” Elain stuttered.

Lucien shifted in front of her, crossing his arms and her breath hitched when she felt warm fingers brush against hers. The contact grounded her.

She swallowed and spoke. “The first time was during the war. I was pacing in camp when I saw Nesta’s blast. Felt it. I could sense something beneath my skin, like I was burning from the inside.” 

“I knew something bad was happening, could feel it in my bones. And then I heard a voice, your voice.” Elain looked at her little sister. “You begged me to save them.”

“I begged the Cauldron to save them,” Feyre explained. “How did you hear that?”

“The Cauldron and its power answer to ultimately to her, at least in this world. She knew you needed help,” Elain replied.

“Her?” Feyre asked.

“This world?” Rhys spoke at the same moment as his mate.

Elain blushed, she definitely said too much.

“Don’t get distracted, girl,” Amren chided.

Elain nodded and continued, “Well, I don’t know what I did. I just… let go. Let the light burn. And the next thing I can remember is my hand covered in blood holding Truth-Teller’s hilt in that King’s neck. I don’t know how I got there. I panicked when I realized what was happening—what I did. And well, Nesta took over then.”

Lucien’s fingers twitched against hers, the slight touch doing more to comfort her than was logical.

“The second time was different, internal. It was when Nyx was born,” Elain explained. Everyone in the room sat up a little straighter at that. 

“What I saw,” Cassian blurted out, “that was you? You stopped the Cauldron from taking all of Nesta’s power.”

“Not exactly me, but yes. I… well, it’s hard to explain since I don’t really understand it.” Elain paused, she really didn’t know if this would make any sense. 

“Just tell us as best as you can,” Lucien spoke for the first time since they’d gathered. 

“Well Nesta, remember the terms of your bargain? I’d seen what would happen, only I didn’t realize what the vision meant until you first said ‘I give it all back.’ The vision was a phrase: one life for three, moonlit death, what a bargain.” 

Elain saw Cassian stiffen as the meaning of the words hit him, he drew his wing closer around Nesta.

“Nesta, when you told the Cauldron you would ‘give it all back,’ you bargained away your life. I couldn’t let that happen so I reached out—reached down maybe, into the power. It’s kind of like a well right, so I dove to the bottom—to the heart, the source.”

“The source?” Amren prompted skeptically. 

“The Mother,” Elain replied.

Amren’s gray eyes went wide. 

“The Mother,” Elain continued, her voice more confident now, “is the only thing who can truly influence the Cauldron. She gave the Cauldron purpose when she created this world, the Cauldron loves her because of it.”

“What does the Mother have to do with Nesta’s bargain? How do you have a connection to her?” Feyre asked.

“Well,” Elain swallowed, trying to ignore terror brought on by the memories of that day in Hybern. She hadn’t realized her eyes had squeezed shut until another faint brush of Lucien’s fingers made her open them.

“When I went into the Cauldron,” Elain stared into the fire, “I was drifting for a long time until the Mother’s hand took hold of me. She said something about being pure of heart and told me the Cauldron would bless me with great gifts. And that she would always walk beside me.

“When I met her again, trying to save Nesta’s life from that bargain, I offered her anything she wanted as long as she made the Cauldron alter your bargain to let you live, to let you all live. She made me vow I would never seek to rid myself of my powers. I don’t know how much you all know about Seers, but it’s usually a cursed gift. They lose their sanity or become slaves and prisoners, often both. The Mother knew I didn’t want that. She knew it would be harder to keep the gifts than trade them for you. And well, here we are.”

The typically loud group of Fae were silent.  

“If you don’t believe me, that bargain is inked in gold on my spine,” Elain shrugged, trying to lighten the mood, her gaze still fixed on the fire. She could have sworn she saw a forest in the flames, a fox running between the trees. Then again, she’d had a lot of wine.

This world was bizarre, magic didn’t follow logic or reason. Compared to some stories she’d heard from this group—this might not even be the strangest. She felt light. Freer than she had felt for many years.

“Elain—” Nesta’s cracking voice drew Elain’s gaze. “You saved me. Twice. You saved Cassian’s life, too.”

“Considering how many times you’ve saved me over the years, Nesta, it was the least I could do to pay you back.”

Elain took a deep breath and addressed the room, breaking contact with Lucien and stepping away from the chair. “I’m sorry for keeping this all to myself. What I’ve told you all tonight is just a fraction. I was terrified—am terrified by all of this. It was too overwhelming, so I shut it all out. I know it was selfish. I’m sorry that I lied to you all, that I abused your kindness to shield myself from having to deal with any of it.”

Elain kept her eyes on the floor, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure.

Nesta’s arms wrapped around her, squeezing. Feyre’s arms wound around both of them a second later. Warm tears tracked down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t talk to me about any of this,” Feyre mumbled into Elain’s shoulder. “I hate that you’ve been dealing with this by yourself.”

“If anyone was selfish, it was me,” Nesta sniffed. “You were right that time at the River House. I was too consumed by my shit to realize you were going through it too, that you needed someone just as much as I did.”

Elain pulled away when it got hard to breathe, wiping the tears from her eyes and grinning at her sisters. Rhys cleared his throat. Elain saw Cassian wipe away a few tears of his own. She didn’t know why but she turned back toward Lucien.

He was smiling at her, his russet eye held a mix of wonder and pride. It was like Elain had spent the last three years under the clouds. Finally explaining part of what had been haunting her had revealed scraps of blue sky, but that one look from Lucien banished the rest. Like that smile was the sweetest ray of sunlight to ever shine. And maybe it would be okay.

tagging: @ablogofbipanic @damedechance @octobers-veryown @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus @vulpes-fennec @krem-does-stuff @areyoudreaminof @spell-cleavers @fieldofdaisiies @foundress0fnothing @kingofsummer93

[cuddlepilefics]

I don’t see it

Fandom: Enhypen

Sickie: Sunoo

Caregivers: Enhypen

Prompts: Fever dreams / “It’s just a nightmare. You’re safe.”

@whumperless-whump-event

No one’s POV.:

Sunoo had already been down with the sniffles for a week and the members had tried their very best to convince him to take some time off to recover. He was adamant though, he could keep going, it was just a cold. Jay already made a point of serving him a glass of orange juice every morning to hopefully boost his immune system, while Jake secretly slipped a fresh travel pack of tissues into their dongsaeng’s backpack every day, chuckling to himself that the boy never remembered to refill them. Sunoo always complained that he could take care of himself perfectly fine and that they shouldn’t go out of their way to help him out but would they listen?

Niki had decreased his teasing significantly, the more he watched Sunoo’s energy fade, though he did occasionally throw cough drops at the older. Jungwon had notified their manager of Sunoo’s condition in case they could make adjustments to his schedule to make it less straining on him without him having to sit out. Watching Sunoo struggle for air during one of their dance practices, the manager ordered him to sit out of dance entirely for the time being but agreed to allowed him to participate in every other part of the groups schedule, requesting the vocal teacher to reevaluate and decide on a daily basis. Initially, Sunoo was upset but he soon found himself too sore and fatigued to dance.

With him having been tired and out of it for multiple days, it went completely unnoticed when he eventually started to run a fever. None of them had really gotten much sleep that night, Sunoo’s cough getting worse at night, keeping him up for hours. His roommates weren’t spared from the disruptions either, so they were all still a little hazy when they were collected for their schedule. Heeseung quietly walked beside Sunoo, occasionally resting his hand on the younger’s arm to steer him into the right direction.

“Should we get you some tea when we stop for coffee?”, Jay asked softly, “Sunghoon-ah said you probably had a sore throat, that you didn’t have too great of a night.” Feeling guilty for keeping his friends up, Sunoo rasped: “Tea sounds awesome. My throat hurts.” – “I can hear that”, the older winced sympathetically, “I’ll ask for extra honey. Anything else we can get you?” Sunoo shook his head and mumbled a shy ‘thanks’. “Has it been that bad?” Heeseung whispered when Jay had gone back to Jake and Sunghoon, “I only heard you cough a couple of times.” Nodding, the younger admitted: “Been coughing through most of the night. I’m really sorry for the others. Though I tried to be quiet and muffle it into my pillow, they didn’t sleep much either.”

Aside from Sunoo himself, Jungwon seemed to be the worst off. Turns out having to lead a team while being sleep-deprived was a challenge but it also helped him relate to Sunghoon and Niki. Aware of the groups situation, their managers tried to take away as much of the stress as possible, providing breaks for coffee and snacks to help everyone function to the best of their abilities. They didn’t like what they saw in Sunoo though. Sure, he had already had a cold but he seemed a lot more out of it than he had been the past few days. That could be explained away by the sleep-deprivation but there was something about the glossy look in the boy’s eyes that gave them pause.

While everyone else filed into the studio, Sunoo was taken aside by one of the managers. He was hesitant to admit that his condition had declined over the course of the night, feeling insecure about his health, but there was no point in lying to their manager. It was easy to figure out why he was feeling worse, a quick temperature check confirmed a fever. Truly upset at his body, Sunoo joined the group in the studio, his expression resembling that of a kicked puppy. “Noo, why so sad?”, Jake frowned, pulling his dongsaeng into a hug. Holding back tears, Sunoo sniffled: “Manager-nim said I have a fever.” For a moment, his breath hitched before he managed to get it back under control. “Can’t my body just function for once?”, he pouted, resting his head on Jake’s shoulder, “This sucks.”

“Come on, you wanna lay down, Sunoo-yah?”, Jay hummed, patting his lap. Him, Jungwon and Niki were sharing one of the couches and gladly let their friend stretch out across their laps. Lightly scratching Sunoo’s head, Jay felt his forehead and winced. Why had they even taken him along today? If only the younger had said something earlier, he could’ve stayed home. Taking off his hat, Heeseung instructed: “Try to sleep. There’s little use in having you try to record with how hoarse you are and you’ll need some energy for our meeting later.” – “Good thing you can leave after the meeting”, Jungwon smiled, “No need to sit through dance practice and watch the rest of us.”

“’m sorry for being an empty weight needing to be dragged around”, Sunoo mumbled, tears stinging his eyes. Firmly cupping the boy’s flushed cheeks, Jay wiped away the tears and scolded: “That’s not a way I wanna hear you talk about yourself. You hear me? You’re not an empty weight but you’re right, we shouldn’t be dragging you around. You should be in bed and nowhere else.” – “We’re glad to have you with us, Sunoo-yah. We love you but we’d much rather know you’re resting”, Jake shushed, squeezing the boy’s hand, “It hurts my heart to see you spreading yourself so thin and still push yourself while you’re not okay.” – “Sleep, so you can get better for us, ‘kay?”, Heeseung smiled, covering Sunoo’s eyes with his hat to shield him from the light. Hopefully, he’d get some shut-eye before their meeting.

Despite his friends’ reassurances, going to sleep with so much self doubt in his mind proved to be a bad idea, no matter how badly Sunoo needed the rest. He should’ve known better. Hell, he had been sick frequently enough to know he didn’t cope well with fevers. They always messed with his emotions and he also had a tendency to get vivid fever dreams and nightmares. It was easy to be fooled by these illusions his fever muddled brain conjured up and they never failed to break Sunoo’s heart. How did he even make it through i-land? If he was so obviously unfit to be an idol, how did he manage to become one and why did the members still lie to him and tell him they wanted him in their group, despite him only holding them back?

He was all alone, which shouldn’t have come as that much of a surprise. It had only been a matter of time till the members would leave him behind, heading for a much brighter future without him. Still, it hurt, knowing to not be enough for them, despite always giving it his all. What else could he do?

Sitting up with a gasp, Sunoo doubled over coughing. His heart thumped in his chest, making it difficult to notice anything else. Like, the hands on his arms for example. Supporting his dongsaeng’s shoulders with one hand, Jay patted his back with the other but tensed when the younger choked on a sob. Jake offered Sunoo a hand, which the other desperately clutched onto, finally realizing that he wasn’t alone.

“It’s just a nightmare. You’re safe”, Jake promised, giving his dongsaeng’s hand a gentle squeeze, “Look around, Sunoo-yah. Where are we, hm?” Sniffing back tears, Sunoo glanced around the room. Looking up at Jake, he pouted: “We’re at the studio. You guys are here…. I thought you had left me.” – “You know we wouldn’t do that, hyung”, Niki denied, hugging the older. Uncapping Sunoo’s water bottle, Jungwon encouraged him to have a few sips and confirmed: “We wouldn’t leave you, we want you here with us but I’m not sure that is actually a good idea right now.” Sunoo looked at the leader with tears in his eyes. “You’re doing worse every day, hyung. Maybe you should take a couple of days off to recover. It’s not gonna get better if you don’t give yourself that time”, Jungwon elaborated.

“Wonnie isn’t wrong”, Heeseung broke the tense silence, “The decision is up to you and no matter how you choose, we’ll support you, just know that you don’t have to force yourself to attend that meeting for our sake. We won’t think any less of you if you decided you’d rather go home and lay down.” Sitting up a little straighter, Sunoo accepted the tissue Sunghoon handed him and cleaned himself up. He sniffled back the thick congestion in his sinuses before rasping: “I can sit through a meeting, hyung. Not gonna lie though, I’m really glad to go back to the dorm afterwards. As much as I’d want to be included in all our schedules, I accept that I’m not well enough to dance right now. My bed really sounds like heaven.” – “As hyung said, however you choose, we’ll try to support you to the best of our abilities, so how about I get more tea and we get you medicated”, Jake offered, already turning to leave the studio.

“Let’s try to get you as comfortable as possible to sit through the meeting and if you want, we can watch a drama for some quality time tonight”, Jay smiled softly, stroking Sunoo’s hair, “I hope you’ll one day be able to see yourself the way we see you.”

[hawkinsmethlab]

Part One

Read on AO3

They want to throw him a party whenever he gets released from the hospital.

“You know,” Dustin says with a shrug, “before the world goes tits up, or whatever.”

“Dude!” Steve smacks him across the back of the head, knocking off his hat.

Dustin gapes at him. “What?”

“You can’t just say stuff like that!” His eyes flash over to Wayne, who knows the whole story because Eddie’s been on the good drugs and tells his uncle fucking everything, especially when he’s high. He’s got a raised brow and a half-smile, which is basically a laugh.

Dustin smacks his hat on his knee before putting it back on. “What, I can’t say ‘tits up?’ We’re all adults here.”

“You’re fourteen.”

“Excuse you, I’ll be fifteen in three weeks, you know this.”

“Still not an adult.”

“Oh, bite me.”

“Ladies, please.” Eddie holds up a still-shaking hand to get them to shut up for a second. “You’re both pretty. And as much as I would love any chance to let loose and live young… I’m not too sure now’s the best time for it.”

His hospital room has a window that Wayne keeps the blinds drawn for, no matter what time it is, but Eddie knows what’s on the other side all the same. He sees it in his nightmares plenty. A red, cloudy sky that crackles with lightning, the chokes the light out of the daytime and turns nighttime into one of the seven rings of hell.

Eleven says that Vecna is getting stronger. That it’ll be a while before he’s back up to full fighting strength, but that she thinks he’ll be more powerful than ever when he is. And Will’s been having visions of what he thinks are glimpses into the Upside Down, into the stuff that hasn’t already leaked into Hawkins. Will says they’ve been both unhelpful and just generally bad.

Not to mention that Max is still asleep, and that’s a whole other can of worms that everyone is trying to be optimistic about, but Eddie can see their hope draining by the day.

“That’s exactly why we need something to celebrate,” Dustin says. “Everything sucks right now, and it’s probably gonna keep sucking for a while—”

“Like a while,” Steve chimes in.

“—so we should take every chance we get to, as you said, let loose and live young. For morale.”

Which is great, and a part of Eddie agrees, but that’s the part from before. Where something like facing off against an alternate-dimension-evil-bad-guy was from out of a board game. Before this was real, where it’s outside and under his skin and those bats stole like, half of his tattoos and his nipple.

He nearly died, and all of them still could.

“I’m just not sure it’s the best time,” Eddie says.

Dustin rolls his eyes. “Okay, well when exactly—”

It’s Steve’s hand on his shoulder than cuts him off and a shake of his head that has Dustin slumping back in his seat. Eddie hates to see the kid put down like this, hates that he was the one to do it, but when he tries to say something to apologize, anything, the words get stuck.

Then it’s Wayne’s hand on Eddie’s arm and his uncle’s eyes are familiar and gentle. For someone who everyone thinks is such a gruff guy, Eddie’s always though it was obvious how much of a wuss Wayne is. Or, maybe wuss isn’t the best word. What do you call someone who’s lived through what he has and come out kinder for it?

Wayne gives him a squeeze and says, “Dustin, I need some fresh air but my knee’s been acting up with all this…not-rain. I hate to ask, but do you think—”

The kid practically jumps to his feet. “Oh, sure, Mr. Munson, I’d be happy to help out! Y’know, my granny says that I have an intuitive touch for the older generations.”

“Well, I think that’s just what I need. What else does your granny say about you?”

“Oh man, where do I even start? There was this one time, in first grade—”

Then they’re both out the door, shutting it behind them, and Eddie lets his head fall back with a sigh. “Jesus Christ, that kid.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, moving to sit in Wayne’s now-empty chair. “My mom would say that he grows on you like a fungus, but he’s just trying to help.”

“Yeah, I know.” Eddie can’t look at him, so he looks at the ceiling instead, at those corkboard-y panels that seem to always have stains on them. Anywhere else you go, those stains would usually just be water from leaky pipes or rain, but here they’re all sorts of different things. Water, blood, vomit, medicine. Whatever’s managed to get high enough.

(There’s a weed joke in there somewhere, Eddie thinks, but he doesn’t have the will to make it. How sad is that)?

“It’s weird, though,” Steve says, and Eddie feels him lean forward. Feels the heat of him on his arm, crawling up his neck. “Eddie Munson, dodging the spotlight. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Well, here it is.” It comes out a little bitter. “Thought it was time for a change of pace.”

“I don’t know. I kind of liked the old pace.”

When Eddie looks over, Steve’s already looking back. He’s smiling, just a small one, like he’s teasing him. Because he does that now. Teases Eddie like they’re real friends, makes him feel like he’s going insane, like maybe he actually did die back in the Upside Down and everything that’s happened after has just been some crazy, fucked up version of the afterlife.

Except, Steve saved him. He doesn’t remember who told him, but someone must have, because the first day Eddie woke up (or really, the first day he remembers) that had been his first full thought.

Harrington gave me the goddamn kiss of life.

Followed immediately by:

He’s gonna lord this over me forever.

But Steve hasn’t even mentioned it. Eddie has some vague sort-of memory of one of them saying it probably tasted gross, but beyond that it just hasn’t come up, and it’s leaving him feeling kind of off balance. Like he’s forgotten the chords to his favorite song. His fingers are hovering over the strings, ready to play, but he doesn’t know what kind of sound is going to come out.

It was easy when they were both in school. Jock Harrington and Freak Munson, two opposite ends of the spectrum, never to collide past some classic teenage bullying and the occasional drug deal.

Now, they’re Steve and Eddie. Harrington and Munson, the savior and the saved. Two maybe-friends who apparently swapped spit, but in a totally I-had-to-do-it kind of way and the worst part is that Eddie doesn’t remember a single second of it.

He wonders, if he were to start flatlining, if Steve would do it again.

(But of course he wouldn’t. There are doctors and nurses around for that now, because that’s the only reason he did it in the first place, right? He was the only one who could, and Eddie’s grateful, but maybe also a little bit…ashamed? Stupid, for sure. He knows that it was last resort only, that he wouldn’t even think about doing it again unless he really had to, but here Eddie is, praying he might anyway).

“You just want an excuse to get drunk,” Eddie tells him, because he has to say something. Steve is looking at him like that, and he has to say something.

But then Steve’s smile goes a little wider, almost cocky, and he says, “Munson, I don’t need an excuse to get drunk, thank you very much.” Then, quieter, “Although, I’ve gotta admit, it’d be nice to get drunk because someone’s alive for a change.”

Eddie shouldn’t get it, but he does. He realizes it like a slap to the face, a big ohhhhhh. Steve Harrington, of the big house and the new money and the nice car, gets drunk for the same reason Eddie Munson gets high: to forget. The people they’ve let down, the ones who’ve left, to the ones who keep leaving. To the fact that maybe it’s never gonna get better and their entire lives are gonna be a big ol’ circle of finding and losing and regretting.

Finding people, losing them, regretting all the rest.

Steve is sitting next to him, staring at Eddie like he’s someone else, someone better, and Eddie thinks that he wants to break the cycle.

So, he groans and rolls his eyes. “Fine. Damn it, alright. We can have your little party.”

“Not my party.” Steve’s close to beaming, smug.

“Dustin’s party then.” Eddie bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh at how stupid this is. “He’s got big shoes to fill, though, I want a party that’s gonna put all of King Steve’s ragers to shame. I never got to actually have fun at one, y’know. Always too busy handing out the party favors.”

Steve snorts. “I’ll make sure it’s nothing but the best for you. Want me to roll out the red carpet, too?”

“Like it’s the goddamn Oscars.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

And then he winks, and Eddie realizes just how close they are. Steve’s leaning on the bed, their arms brushing, their faces close enough that Eddie could count every single one of Steve’s moles, pick out every individual shade of brown in his eyes and the smell of his body wash. The way his lips are parted and curved and Eddie has never wished more desperately that he remembered what they felt like. The taste of him, the amount of pressure and give, if he would bite and lick better.

It's a dangerous fantasy.

But Steve is looking at him like it’s real.

Before he can say anything, do anything, Steve leans back and says, “Once you’re out, I’ll show you what you’ve been missing.”

And Eddie, hopelessly fucked, can only say, “Can’t wait.”

[ab4eva]

‘Tomorrow Will Be Too Late’

Part 4

Summary: Elvis Presley x Reader / For as long as you can remember, you’ve loved two things - Elvis Presley and time travel. After seeing the 1968 Comeback Special for the first time, you decide to try and get back to him for one incredible night, by any means necessary.

Author’s note: I’m not even sure if anyone is still interested in this story or not but the next part is finally here. It was an absolute nightmare to write, I was stuck for so long. I honestly didn’t even know if I was going to keep writing it but I surprised even myself. Very special thanks to Ally (@elvisabutler) who helped me get over the hump when I was incredibly blocked. You probably wouldn’t be reading this chapter if not for her. And my Lovely Ladies of Graceland for the encouragement, help, wisdom, friendship and motivation. The boot scene idea and one line is courtesy of the lovely Marina, so thank her for that hotness.

Warnings: NSFW - 18+ only. Language, infidelity, oral (f. receiving), boot riding (yes really), daddy kink, angst, mention of death, a scary episode that might be considered close to something like a seizure.

Word count: 7,401

TWBTL Masterlist

-

The thing no one ever mentions about time travel - in movies, in books - is just how lonely and isolating it really is. It doesn’t matter if you’re in a crowd of people, or one other person, you’re still alone. You can’t ever be your true self because who you are doesn’t exist in that world, in that particular time and place. You’ve come from your own time, where you belong, to another world entirely, where your existence is an anomaly. A disruption. Wrong. And you feel it. The wrongness of it all. It pushes on the back of your head and the sides of your temples and the backs of your knees. Almost like an invisible force is trying to knock you down. You feel off balance, as if you could fall into an abyss at any moment. It sets your teeth on edge and makes your bones ache. You didn’t think you’d feel a physical toll on your body but you do. The longer you stay, the stronger it becomes. You can no longer ignore the pull towards home, your own place in the universe.

-

The sharp ding of a text message startles you out of your reverie and you pull your eyes away from the window you’ve been staring out of. Looking down, you see it’s your mom…again. You really should give her a call but you just can’t manage to bring yourself to, not yet. You’ve been back home a week now and so far you’ve managed to shower, once. Order in groceries. Cry. Watch a little bit of TV. Cry. Stare out the window for long periods of time. Cry some more. You know your family is probably worried but you’ve been able to hold them off by telling them you’ve been sick and will call when you’re feeling up to it. You thought maybe you’d be in a little bit of a better place than you were a week ago, but no. You’re still just as destroyed as when you left 1968. When you left him. A fresh wave of tears crashes over you as you think about that last morning…

Scattered thoughts pull you from a peaceful slumber at Elvis’s side. You’re not ready to wake up, not yet, but before your eyes are even open they take hold like a wildfire burning through your brain and won’t let go. Not ready to contemplate everything but knowing you’ve already stayed here longer than you should. Your heart seizes at the thought of leaving Elvis and suddenly your body is ice, the blood running cold in your veins, and you lay there a moment, almost paralyzed. You look over at his still sleeping form and it gives you a moment to study him. Face relaxed in rest, all of the cares and worries he’s been holding onto this week have slipped away. He looks peaceful, like a little boy. No, not just any little boy, but the boy he was, the pictures you’ve seen of him from Humes Junior High School. You wonder at how this man before you can change so quickly from one thing to another, how he can hold both things in him at the same time. His face is leaner, baby fat gone from his cheeks and chin, nose ever so slightly thinner, but it’s the same face. Plush, pink lips curved gently into a smile, even now, long, dark eyelashes splayed across his cheeks, straight eyebrows framing it all. You're tempted to kiss him awake, to start a fire that can’t be quenched. But you stop yourself. If you start now, you’ll never stop. You’ll never leave. And you have to leave. It’s already breaking your heart but your time is up. You feel it in your bones, deep inside. That fragile line you followed all the way back here, to him, is now pulled taut, and it’s tugging you back, inch by inch. You think it might break if you’re not careful and then where would you be? No, you have to go. The sooner the better.

You carefully disentangle yourself from the sheets, mindful not to disturb Elvis, your eyes lingering a moment too long on his sleeping form, before you remind yourself why it is you’re leaving his bed in the first place. You’re doing it for him. You don’t belong here, in his life. You shouldn’t be here. You could fuck it all up and that terrifies you more than the thought of leaving him does. You float around the room, quiet as a mouse, retrieving the few things you have. You hope he doesn’t wake up, as painful as is it to slip away without another word. You just can’t bare the thought of looking into his eyes, hearing his voice, feeling his hands on you. Seeing him smile playfully, that pink tongue touching his top lip when he finds something amusing. Or whispering in your ear as his hand finds it’s way to your back as he leads you down the hallway. Not now, not today. It would you break you in half, and you can’t have that, not when you need every piece of you whole for what comes next. It’s better this way. This way, it’s just a fling, something passing and trivial. For him, anyway. For you it’s more than that, much more, but you can’t stop to give these thoughts any air to breathe, lest they pull you under and drown you. You dress quickly, quietly, running a comb through your hair and slipping on your shoes. Turning back around you’re nearly startled to death, jumping out of your skin as you see Elvis sitting up in bed, arms crossed, silently watching you, a look of barely contained fury on his handsome face. Shit. You stare at him, frozen in place and heart jackhammering in your chest, any words you think to utter die on your lips the longer this silent showdown continues. You open your mouth to say something, anything, to fill the void but he beats you to it.

“Save it honey,” he says through gritted teeth as he throws the covers back and stands up, long legs striding over to where you’re standing, pointing a finger in your face. “You could have told me if this was just s-s-some kind t-t-trophy for you. Something to brag about to your little friends? Who else have you f-f-fucked, huh? Mick Jagger? Robert Plant? You some s-s-sort of rock star w-w-whore?” He hurls this at you with venom, his emotions betrayed by that old stutter, intended to hurt. And it does. In more ways than one.

Your mouth drops open and you feel tears threaten your eyes. It feels as if he’s punched you in the gut, you’re so unable to breath or think beyond the pain his words have sliced through you. He’s towering over you, chest heaving, pulse beating wildly under his jaw, his silk pajama shirt open to the waist. You’re in agony, your hands itching to reach out and hold him, reassure him that he’s gotten it all wrong. You realize not only is he angry, he’s also hurt. Hurt by the fact you would just thoughtlessly walk out on him after the past two days. That you could. Your heart is already broken by the fact you have to leave him but to leave him knowing he feels more than just a fleeting passion for you is overwhelming. You shut your eyes as tears spill down your cheeks, your hands balled into fists at your side, trying to gain a bit of strength to do what must be done. You open your eyes, expecting to meet his fractured blue ones but he’s no longer standing in front of you. He’s sitting hunched over on the end of the bed, looking defeated and weary. Your heart shatters just a little bit more and despite your better judgement, you find yourself kneeling in-between his legs, an echo of last night, but this time no one’s having fun.

“Elvis,” you whisper, your hands hovering on either side of his cheeks, hesitating just a moment before taking his face in your hands, “look at me.” His eyes are downcast, refusing to meet your gaze. Stubborn, headstrong, impossible man. “I’m sorry. I…” you stop, unsure of what to say, how to make him understand all of the things you cannot say. “Listen, I thought this was just a fun little fling for you. I know…I know how these things work, I wasn’t born yesterday.” He does look up at you then, meeting your eyes briefly, a hint of embarrassment in them, before looking away again. “And - the truth is…” you swallow back the tears that are threatening to fall again. “The truth is…I like you. You have to know that, Elvis. I thought it would be easier - for me - if I just…slipped away. It’s a self-preservation thing. And I see now that I was wrong. I’m sorry. Really I am.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just stays where he is, refusing to look at you, silent. And then the tears you were holding back start to fall, and your hands on his face feel like they’re on fire and you drop them to your lap. Suddenly, it’s all too much to bear. You are overwhelmed and exhausted by the last 48 hours - the pleasure, the pain, the disorientation, the otherness of your situation. You crumple in on yourself, curling into a ball at his feet, letting the feelings crush you as sobs wrack your body. You don’t care what Elvis thinks of you - don’t care that he might think you’re crazy or emotional or complicated. All you want right now is for the pain to stop. You wish you’d never come. Wish you’d never known how his callused hands feel on your delicate skin, the way his mouth fits perfectly on yours, like two puzzle pieces slotting together. Wish you’d never known how his voice sounds first thing in the morning, all sleepy and raspy, his southern drawl that much stronger, before he became aware of himself, before he became the Elvis everyone expected him to be. Most of all, you wish you’d never known what it feels like to be loved, even for a brief moment, by Elvis Presley. Because now you know it feels like you can breathe again, for the first time in a long time, and you don’t even know when it was that you had ever stopped. It feels like coming home.

You’re dimly aware of his hands on you, of the shushing noises he is making as he runs his hands over your body, trying to get you to calm down. If you could see his face, you’d see regret and sadness there, the fact that he is apparently the cause of all your heartache, his own feelings forgotten for the moment. It broke something in him to see you like this, ripped his insides up just a little. He’s never met anyone so emotional, so prone to tears, and rather than anger or annoy him, it makes him want to take care of you, to stop those tears and never have to see them again.

“Come on now, honey…calm down. I’m sorry, I-I-I didn’t mean what I said before, I was angry. I shouldn’t have said those things.” There’s a desperation in his voice that makes you cry harder, because it means he cares, more than you thought possible. His hands are on your shoulders and suddenly he’s lifting you onto his lap, though when he sat down on the floor you don’t know. You resist at first, pushing against his chest like a petulant child, your arms and legs resistant to his touch. But he pays you no mind as he gathers you close to him once again, as if he knows exactly what you need, even when you don’t - he rubs your back and lets you cry, just as he did the first night you spent with him. You’re too tired to fight any more and slump against him, chest slightly heaving as you stare into the distance, numb. You’re silent now, the tears still falling, soaking his silk pajama shirt, but instead of the overwhelming storm of before, these are bitter tears of grief, crying for what is already lost. For he is lost to you, one way or another. You’re clinging to a ghost, the shadow of a man long gone and you shiver even though his warmth is seeping into every inch of your body.

“There now,” Elvis murmurs, “sweet lil girl. Lovely girl.” He smooths the hair back from your forehead as he leans you back in his arms, cradling you like a baby, and shushing you like one too. Your tears have subsided and only little hiccups stir you every now and again, the room silent and you shut your eyes against the early morning sun that pours through the curtains.

“Now, lil one, you’re gonna tell me what’s going on. And why ya tried to sneak out o’ here like ya did,” he says softly, turning your chin gently so your eyes meet his. You expect to see some of the anger from before, but instead you see only concern and…deep affection. You will yourself to keep the tears down, to make it through this next part. This is the last test, the one you have to pass. You steady your voice and pull yourself up to sitting, being able to face him head on somehow makes this a little bit easier.

“I am sorry, Elvis. The truth is, I have to go home. I have a job and a life and…these past two days have been the most incredible of my life. But I can’t stay here…much as I’d like to,” you end quietly, suddenly shy. “And…you have someone waiting for you. This was never…this was never going to be anything more than what it is.” He smiles at you, sweet and sad, a sigh escaping his pink lips.

“I know, honey,” he says, the internal struggle in his mind apparent on his face. Finally he makes up his mind, saying, “But will ya come visit me at Graceland? I can make arrangements for…for us to be alone.” You feel your heart speed up at the thought once again of what you were doing. But more than that, the only thing making it’s way to your mind now is that he wants to see you again. Your heart feels as if it might float out of your chest. Can you promise him that you’ll see him at Graceland? No, of course not. It didn’t work like that. You aren’t even sure if you can travel again. And if you can, what affect would it have you? On Elvis? But the pull is too strong - blue eyes pleading with you, begging you to say yes. How are you supposed to deny Elvis Presley anything?

“OK,” you breathe, unable to contain the smile spreading across your face.

“Yeah?” He’s looking at you like it’s Christmas morning and you’re just the thing he’s always wanted, his face all lit up and hopeful.

“Yeah,” you whisper, pulling his mouth down to yours, kissing him, hard. Like you’re trying to imprint the memory of his lips onto yours. Like you’re trying to melt yourself into him, so that you can stay with him forever. Like you’re trying to impress upon him the memory of you, so that in his weaker moments, his loneliness, he remembers you.

-

You had told Elvis you’d see him at Graceland in two weeks. The hardest part was convincing him that you wouldn’t have access to a phone for those two weeks. In the end, you made up some story about having to go overseas for work and wouldn’t be able to call long distance. He seemed slightly dubious but accepted it, as long as you promised to take the number to Graceland in case you needed anything. That was a week ago, one more left to go. You spend every waking moment, every sleeping one too, obsessed with the thought of going back. Worried it won’t work, worried you’ll never see him again. And when you’ve worried enough, that’s when the tears come. But you’ve only got a week left until you try and create lightning in a bottle for the second time, which means it’s time to get to work. You read up on any new information or theories that have popped up in the past few days. You type out your experience, all the details, everything you remember from you trip and save it to a Word document on your laptop labeled “Bill S. Preston, Esq.” You’re still able to make corny jokes, that had to be a good sign. You connected with your family, finally, who all agreed that you looked rather weak and pale after being sick. If they only knew. Your sister was the only one who was in on the secret and she fussed accordingly over you and made you promise to be careful, take every precaution. You promised. She could see the light in your eyes that had never been there before, and feel the lightness of your spirit, which she hadn’t seen in you for quite sometime. How could she be anything but happy for you when it made you this alive.

This time you drive yourself to Memphis, it’s only a few hours away, and you figure time in the car to think will do you good. It gives you time to run through the plan again, to run through every scenario you can think of, troubleshooting in your mind as you go. You’re as prepared as you’ll ever be by the time you reach your hotel, planning on getting a good nights rest before your first attempt tomorrow. This time you’ve packed a vintage suitcase with clothes, pajamas, money…whatever you might need for a few days. He asked you to come for the week and while it excites you, it also fills you with a bit of dread. You haven’t stayed in the past that long before, you aren't sure what might happen. But it’s a risk you’re willing to take, foolish as it may be. The way you feel right now has you floating on air, possible consequences be damned. If everything goes as planned, by this time tomorrow you’ll be back in Elvis’s arms.

-

The few times you’ve been to Graceland flash through your mind as your car pulls up outside the mansion. The most intense feeling of deja vu courses through you and you shudder. You’ve been here before…but not…you remember all the tours you took of the house - this house. But that’s not what’s giving you the feeling of deja vu. It’s like you’re remembering something that hasn’t happened yet. You distinctly remember pulling up the driveway in a car like this and stopping here, in front of the steps, just as you are now. But that’s impossible. You’ve never been to the mansion in a car before, only the shuttle bus that takes you from the main entrance annex at the Graceland compound, across Elvis Presley Boulevard, through the graffitied gates of Graceland and up the hill to the mansion. Your mind must be playing tricks on you, your brain a little scrambled from the back and forth between past and present. Before you can ruminate on it any further your eyes are drawn to the front door and you see something you’ve only dreamed about. Elvis Presley, opening wide the door of Graceland, a cheeky grin lighting up his handsome face as he saunters down the front steps to greet you. You’re so entranced by the image it’s almost as if you’re watching an old home movie taken by someone else, something you’ve seen a hundred times. You don’t realize you’re just sitting there, staring at him through the window, until he tries to open your door and it’s locked. He shakes his head with a smirk and taps on the window.

“I thought you weren’t gonna lock me out anymore, little girl. You’re not tryin’ to brat up on me again so soon, are ya?” The playfulness sparkles in his eyes and his smirk tells you he remembers quite vividly the last time you tried to lock him out of somewhere he wanted to be. Your face flushes at the memory and you see him notice, giving you a look so full of promise and desire it takes your breath away.

“I don’t know, maybe I am. What are you gonna do about it?” you say with a smile, opening the car door and stepping out as you eye each other timidly. It’s only been two weeks but in some ways it feels like an eternity since you last saw him. Then suddenly he’s pulling you into his arms and crushing you in a bear hug, squeezing so tightly you’re having trouble catching a breath. Your not complaining and hug him back almost as hard, earning a satisfied grunt from him. A Tracy Chapman lyric hovers in your thoughts, “It would feel so good to be, in your arms, where all my journeys end.” That isn’t right, can’t be right…he isn’t your destiny. This isn’t where your journey ends…it’s just one part of it. He has his life…had his life, you correct yourself, and not for the first time you feel a chill settle on your shoulders as you look into the eyes of a man gone from this world for almost fifty years. But he isn’t gone…not yet. He’s here, right now, flesh and blood - alive.

“Whadya think of it, Queenie?” he asks as he takes your hand and pulls you up the front steps, the pride apparent in his voice, his face beaming. You’re too charmed for a moment to register what he said until your brain catches up.

“Queenie?” you question as you draw your eyebrows together and give him a puzzling look. He stares at you expectantly and dips his head like a little kid, almost bashful. “Queenie,” you say again slowly, trying it out, seeing how it sounds on your tongue, rolling through your head, landing somewhere near your heart. A smile spreads across your face and something fragile perches in your soul. He named you. Claimed you as his own.

“Everyone insists on calling me the King…figure I should have a Queen.” He flashes that famous lopsided grin before gathering you in his arms and nuzzling his nose into your neck at the ticklish spot just below your ear and your shoulder lifts automatically in response as he plants soft kisses there, his lips dragging across the the sensitive flesh, his tongue darting out every now and again for a taste, making you shiver. You’re still planted firmly on the front porch of Graceland for all the world to see. You manage to reluctantly pull away, suddenly terrified someone will see the two of you.

“Show me the rest of it…please?” you say, like you haven’t already been inside his house many times, like you don’t remember exactly where each room is, like all of the little factoids you’ve ever heard aren’t running circles in your head. He’s pulling you inside by the hand and as soon as the front door is shut his arms are around your waist and his lips are crashing into yours with a desperation so fierce it engulfs you like a wildfire in mere seconds. He walks you backwards towards the staircase, never breaking the kiss, his hands in your hair, on your hips, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your thighs as he inches your skirt higher and higher. Your heel hits the bottom stair and you stumble a little and giggle into his mouth, your arms instinctively circling his neck to steady yourself as Elvis gently lowers you back onto the stairs. You barely realize what’s happening as he drops to his knees before you and pushes your skirt up to your waist, tugging your baby pink cotton panties down and off with a gentle force that has you grabbing onto the wooden stair rail to keep yourself from sliding off the stairs entirely. You gasp at the unexpected exposure and immediately close your legs and sit up. “Elvis!” you whisper, your heart banging in your chest and a deep blush staining your cheeks.

“Shh, baby, relax. Let me take care of you. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this for two long weeks.” He kisses you, almost chastely, and places a hand on your shoulder, firmly but slowly pushing you back down. Your eyes come to rest on the crystal chandelier sparkling above as you inhale a shaky breath, trying to steady your pounding heart. You jump as his cool hands grasp your knees to try and pry your legs apart and you shoot up again, quick as anything. He chuckles and shakes his head. “You sure are a skittish lil thing…I told you before honey, relax. Nothin’ to be scared of, let Daddy take care of ya. Be a good little girl for me, now.”

You watch as he places a kiss on each knee, his navy eyes never leaving yours. You’re fascinated by the way his pink lips look on your ivory skin as he peppers your legs with kisses, lightly squeezing your calves and you sigh deeply, sinking back to the carpet. You open your legs a little more, granting him access to your thighs as he continues his delicate assault upwards towards your core. Lifting one of your legs and placing it on his shoulder, his other hand strokes your mound before he spreads your lips gently and lowers his head, his breath hot on your sensitive flesh. He flattens his tongue and begins to lick long, slow stripes up your wet heat. A whine leaves your lips unbidden and you arch your back up and into him. His lips close over your sensitive bud as he begins to suck, his tongue massaging at the same time. You’re breath comes out in shallow gasps, and you’re grasping at anything you can to anchor you - one hand gripping the stair rail, the other finding it’s way to Elvis’s dark locks.

Two of his long, nimble fingers slip inside you and he fucks you with them, agonizingly slow, his tongue rubbing circles around your clit. The carpet underneath begins to burn your bare backside from the friction, but it only adds pleasure to your destruction. Your hands instinctively move to your breasts, teasing your peaked nipples through your dress. He can feel you trembling, hear your high-pitched keening and when he curls his fingers up to hit that spot and hums against your skin, you finally break, clenching fiercely as his name leaves your lips over and over again in a choked breath. Your thighs clamp around his head as you ride out your high, his arm around your thigh the only thing anchoring you now. The chandelier above your head swims into view as you open your eyes, trying to catch your breath. Elvis is practically laying on you now as he looks up at you, chin resting on your stomach - your hands tangle in his hair and he beams a self-satisfied little smile at you.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it honey?” he teases, blue eyes sparkling. “I love watching ya fall apart because of me, ‘cause of the things I’m doin’ to ya.” It’s too much, the way he’s looking at you, the things he’s saying - the things he just did. You cover your face with your hands, embarrassed, but he reaches up, moving them away and making you look at him. “I like knowing I took care of my baby, ain’t nothin to be shy about.” He rubs his thumb across your lips and you see a smile tug at the side of his mouth, a private joke only he knows the punchline to.

“Elvis…that was…” you’re at a loss for words, truly. This wasn’t what you had expected your first moments in Graceland to be like. “Thank you,” you say simply, the only thing that comes to your jumbled mind. He helps you up, helps you put yourself back together, helps you smooth your dress down. A private tour of Graceland by Elvis Presley himself was not something that has ever crossed your mind. So to find yourself here now, in the Jungle Room, with him was…surreal. The two of you passed the afternoon quite happily, exploring the grounds and just catching up, talking about one thing or another. Thankfully, Elvis had arranged for the both of you to use a friend’s house while you were in town, a cozy little bungalow he had bought for a member of his Memphis Mafia and who he had promptly kicked out for the week, sending the poor fellow off to Los Angeles in exchange. Secretly, you were glad. You wouldn’t have wanted to share Elvis’s bedroom at Graceland, and being the southern gentleman he was, he wouldn’t have wanted that either.

-

Elvis appears in the mirror behind you, and you have to stop yourself from gasping at how handsome he looks, how the very sight of him sends a well of desire bubbling up from deep within and threatens to overflow and choke you. You have to have him - now. This is the most inconvenient time. He’s on his way to a dinner with the heads of Memphis society, local government officials and various charity organizations. A dinner you’re not invited to, which means you’ll be spending your first evening back with him alone. A prospect you’re not too thrilled about, but he could make it better, leave you sated and satisfied instead of desperate and wanting.

“I need you, E,” you whine, the breathlessness of your voice surprising even you.

Elvis chuckles with amusement as you watch him drift closer and closer in the mirror. “I can see that, Queenie. You’re just gonna have to wait til I get home. Can’t have me turnin up in polite society all disheveled now, can we? Despite what we get up to when we’re alone, I am a respectable man.” The way he’s looking at you begs to differ, like he could devour you whole right this minute, the hunger in his eyes matching your own. His big, warm hands find their way to your bare shoulders and slip underneath the thin straps of your vintage nightgown. His thumbs rub slow circles in the dimples of your shoulders and your breathing slows and grows shallow. One of his hands slips beneath the neck of your nightgown, over your heart and into your bra. He pinches your nipple slowly, rolling it back and forth between his fingers. Gasping, your head falls back against his stomach and you reach a hand behind you to grab his thigh. He leans down and kisses your neck, sending shivers down your spine. The ring of the telephone jolts you both out of your reverie and he reluctantly releases you, with a final pinch to your nipple, to answer it. You follow after him, wrapping your arms around him from behind, loathe to be parted from him for even a few seconds. You can feel the same needy possessiveness creeping up, the feeling you had two weeks ago that led to you being bent over his leather-clad knee, getting the hell spanked out of you. You stand up on your tippy toes so you can reach his cheek, stroking his sideburn with your finger and tickling. He playfully ducks his head to try and dislodge you, tries to walk away, but you’re stuck to him like glue, moving in tandem wherever he goes.

“The car’ll be here in ten minutes, baby,” he says, hanging up the phone. “I gotta finish getting ready, can’t be late to this thing.” He gently but firmly disentangles you from him, sitting you on the bed where you cross your arms and glare at him while he finishes combing his hair.

“Don’t gimme that look, Queenie. I- you know I can’t take care of you right now. I would if I could but I can’t.” If looks could kill, he’d be a dead man just from the stare you're giving him from your perch on the bed. “Lord, woman, you're insatiable. Didn’t I just have you on the stairs this afternoon at my own damn house?” He shakes his head, amused and aroused and…proud. Your eyes travel down his body - the man is a vision in black: high-collared black shirt open at the neck just a respectable bit, fitted black pants hugging all the right places, right down to his smooth and shiny black Chelsea boots. Those boots are…hot. You remember seeing ones just like them, on display at Graceland. And the way he wears them…fucking hot.

“I could…polish your boots for you, Daddy. Make ‘em real shiny.” Your breathless words shock even you. “Every time you look down at ‘em tonight you’ll think of me and how you’re itchin’ to get back home to me. How I’ll be here on this bed, waiting for you to come and fill me up.” You drop to your knees in front of him, running your hands up and down his legs, thighs to boots and back again. You notice his pants are a little tighter then before in the crotch and you can see the outline of his hardening cock through the material. He’s never heard you talk like this, never heard you be so bold. He clenches his fists, you see his throat working and he grits his teeth, staring at the ceiling. You think you hear him mutter, “Lord, give me strength,” before he gently pulls you up by the shoulders and leads you to the bed. He sits on the edge and crosses one leg over the other as you quickly shuck your panties and sink to your knees again, straddling his foot. The smooth, cool leather of the boot on your already soaking heat is a new sensation. You move experimentally, one hand on his knee, the other on the bed beside him. It’s smooth, the usual kind of friction is absent and in its place a slick, burning heat. The more you move, the hotter the leather becomes.

“Go on, ride my boot honey, polish it on up,” he manages a shocked laugh, surprised by the turn of events but who is he to judge? You give him a withering look and he stops laughing once he sees the concentration on your face. He flex’s his foot up and down by the ankle, changing up your rhythm, bouncing you slightly. The movement jolts you a little and your grab onto his thighs to steady yourself. It hits a different spot, the pressure building, the burning sensation a mix of pleasure and pain. You’re holding on to his thighs now, looking up at him, desperate and so very close to the edge. He takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and whispers filthy sweet words and praise to you.

“That’s my good little girl, doing so good polishing Daddy’s boots. Makin’ ‘em so shiny for me. My little one who can’t even wait three hours for me, gotta have me right now, any part she can get her hands on. Goddamn, I love you, honey.” You both freeze as your breath catches in your throat and you stare at him, the blood rushing in your ears, drowning out all other sound for a moment. You’re shocked, utterly and completely. Did he just….did he just say he loves you? Before you can respond he says it again.

“I love you. I know that’s crazy,” he whispers, brow furrowed and eyes piercing yours. “I know we haven’t known each other very long at all. I can’t explain it but…I feel as if I’ve loved you for a long, long time.” You don’t realize you’re crying until he gently wipes the tears from your cheeks with his thumb. He looks scared and nervous, like a little boy again. You lean up and kiss him - you can’t stop kissing him, breathing “I love you” in between each one, like a poem that only has three words. He flex’s his foot again, reminding you just how close you are to a sweet release. Slowly you drag your core up and down the slick top of his boot, your forehead pressed to his as you come, as he murmurs his love to you, over and over again.

—

While Elvis is at dinner you figure you might as well unpack a few things from your suitcase, no use in living out of it for the week if you didn’t have to. You take out another nightgown and place it in a dresser drawer in the guest room before removing a couple of dresses as well, shaking them out, trying to release some of the wrinkles that have settled in. Something white slips out from the folds and floats to the floor. You pick it up, turn it over. A receipt, from the vintage store where you acquired most of the things you brought with you. Your eyes run over the information before landing on the date of purchase - 07/07/2022. Suddenly the lights in the room start to flicker, off and on. Off and on. Your head feels heavy and as you fall you think, Is this what it feels like to die?

Your entire body is an earthquake. Something out of your control is happening, a frenetic vibrating that started in your core and is now radiating outwards. The adrenaline pumping through your veins is almost too much for your body to handle, your heart is beating out of sync and entirely too fast. Am I having a seizure, you wonder dimly, frozen where you lay, unable to move, your eyes refusing to open. If you could scream, you would, but you’re paralyzed, helpless to stop wave after wave crashing through your body. There’s a lightness in your head that’s clouding everything, scattering every thought, making it all hazy. It’s filling you up, every fiber, every cell, you’re more scared than you’ve ever been in your entire life. After what seems like an eternity, your body slowly comes down from the high and you stop shaking, eyes fluttering open, wiggling your fingers just to make sure you can move them.

You open your eyes to pale morning light and a cotton candy pink sky. The dewy warmth of the ground is already seeping into your clothes - your nightgown. How did you get outside? The last thing you remember is unpacking your clothes in the house you were staying in with Elvis. You feel…strange and weak. You lie there another couple of minutes, breathing and getting your bearings. The birds are chirping in the trees nearby and you can see some swooping and diving overhead as more light slowly fills the sky. You sit up shakily, and finally stand on unsteady feet. Like a punch to the gut, you realize that you’ve just been pulled away, unexpectedly, back to your own timeline. Away from Elvis, just when…oh god. Just when things were moving in a direction you hadn’t anticipated. He loves you. You double over in pain, almost falling to your knees again. You’ve got to get back to him, as soon as possible.

You walk through the trees, vision blurry from the tears you can’t seem to stop, unsure which direction you’re heading or where you even are but you can see fences in the distance, and horses. This looks like - are you at Graceland? How on earth did you end up here? You’re worried someone from the staff will see, worried you’ll get into trouble. You doubt they’ll take very kindly to a nightgown-clad woman wandering the private grounds in the early morning hours. You walk cautiously into the pasture where you see a lone figure standing at the fence, his back to you. Elvis. Oh…oh thank god. Thank heavens. Thank your lucky stars. You hadn’t gone anywhere, you’re still here. You feel as if you might sob uncontrollably but you hold it together as you break into a run, eager to explain, to tell him why you’d just disappeared like that, as if into thin air. He was so angry last time at the thought of you sneaking away, you’re unsure how he’ll react. The closer to him you get the more you slow your pace, catching your breath, preparing to beg, to plead, to do anything you can to make him understand you hadn’t wanted to leave him, hadn’t had a choice. Hell, maybe you’ll tell him the truth, let the chips fall where they may. What have you got to lose - it’s now or never, you won’t get another chance. Not with Elvis. Not after this. Almost there now, you’re so close, the peachy-pink early morning light envelopes his form and gives him an ethereal glow.

“Elvis.” Your voice is barely a whisper - a prayer, a plea, a vow. Your hand is reaching out for him, you can almost touch his white shirt, and he startles and turns around, spooked. You’ve scared him. You didn’t mean to. His face is pale and drawn, dark circles smudge the underneath of his eyes. The smile dies on your lips, you gasp and whip your hand back as if it’s been burned. Your mind struggles to keep up with what your eyes are seeing as they dart over his face, his body, taking in every detail, every nuance. Something isn’t right. His hair is shorter and his face…his face is full of promise and grief - so much sadness in his eyes. Tears stain his cheeks and he swipes at them hurriedly with the back of his hand, embarrassed, and gives you a wary look. You expect to see something in his face - happiness, surprise, anger…but…he doesn’t recognize you at all. That much is painfully clear. Your heart is beating too quickly, you can’t breathe. If you could only breathe a little easier. You sway a little, unsteady on your feet. His eyes are running over you, assessing you, assessing the situation. He reaches out a hand to steady you but you stumble backwards as tears sting your eyes. This isn’t your Elvis, the Elvis you left. The one standing before you is younger and beautiful, all chiseled features and swooping hair, lush full lips and smooth face. His clothes - his clothes are all wrong. Your eyes travel upwards as you take him in fully for the first time - white shoes on green grass, loose white slacks hang invitingly on his hips and a ruffled white shirt hugs his torso, short-sleeves exposing tan arms. You know this Elvis. Have seen those awful, heartbreaking photos of him and his father on the front steps of Graceland.

Just after his mother died…in 1958.

Oh. Oh no. This…this wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. Your breath leaves you altogether as you feel yourself start to spiral, darkness filling the edges of your vision. You remember the last time this happened, not so long ago, after meeting Elvis for the first time in 1968. You tilt backwards, sitting down hard just as he grabs your arms to break your fall. A wail leaves your lips as you realize you’ve lost your Elvis. If you’re here, in 1958, you don’t know if you’ll ever get back to him. Don’t know if you’ll ever get back home even. This Elvis is kneeling next to you, his mouth is moving but no words are coming out…and his eyes. Same shape, same vibrant blue color, same long eyelashes framing it all - but they’re no longer filled with love and longing and desire. Only grief and mild concern. As if of it’s own accord, your hand reaches out and gently cups his face, stroking his cheek, wanting to comfort him, knowing the pain he is in. Then the darkness engulfs you and you remember no more.

-

Tags: @meladollsims @godlypresley @jelliedonut @butlersxbirdy @precious-little-scoundrel @eliseinmemphis @powerofelvis

[storyofmychoices]

Safe

[Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 1 + Beyond] [Mal’s Orphanage] [Mal Volari x Daenarya Blades 2 AU]

Pairings: Mal Volari x Daenarya (F!OC) Book: Blades of Light and Shadow 2 Word Count: 600 Rating/Warnings: General; brief non-graphic mentions of cuts and bruises A/N: Art in header is by @wisejazz. You can see the full image here.

Synopsis: Mal contemplates life as he watches over Daenarya.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles as he held her in his arms. He still couldn't believe she was there—back with him. He had dreamt of this moment so many nights. His arms ached at the loss of her. What he wouldn't have done or given to have a moment like this. 

Now, she was back in the Realm of Light; and yet, he could see the traces of shadows that still haunted her. The cuts and bruises still told of the struggle to escape and the challenges endured. The blood had dried, leaving scaps to heal and bruises once purple began to yellow. 

She hadn't spoken much of her time over there. She didn't remember much. It was still fresh and yet, she didn't have time to heal from its toll before being called forward toward the next adventure.

"The next adventure," he thought to himself. His lips pulled at the thought. The next adventure.

The next quest.

The next score.

The next town.

The next conquest.

That had been his life. 

That had been the path he chose. Never stopping. Never getting too close to know anyone. Connections were a weakness. 

The past lurked just beyond the corner, waiting to pull him back. He wouldn't let it so he kept pushing forward, never stopping, instead chasing whatever the future held. That's what he wanted—what he had always wanted—or so he thought. 

He should be thrilled to be on the move, leaving White Tower behind, but he wasn't. His heart had always been in the adventure, but now, it was split. 

He drew her closer as a whisper slipped from her lips, the threat of nightmares looming. "It's okay," he whispered, brushing the loose strands of hair from her face. "I'm right here. I've got you, Kit."

He spoke soft reassurances to her until she quieted down, her body relaxing in his embrace, safe from all harm.

The others would be back from scouting ahead soon and he'd have to wake her, but not yet. 

The soft breeze whistling through the meadow brought thoughts of the children's laughter. He wondered how they were. He didn't think leaving them would be so hard. The look on their faces when he broke the news to them. Some were brave, happy that he'd be off saving the realm again now that he had Daenarya back. Some worried that without him, they'd be back on the streets. He shook his head. It did no good to worry. They were safe. He left them with his sister and Vivi. They were perfectly safe. In fact, with his sister, they would probably be full of sweets far more often than they should. They might not want him to come back. 

A quiet laugh rumbled in his chest as his heart warmed at the thought. He had never hoped to return somewhere so much before, but to return with her at his side to bask in the life they would build. Maybe running wasn't all there was. Maybe staying would be nice for a while. 

He couldn't stop the smile illuminating his face at the image of what could be. Not now... but soon. When the realm was safe, then he could rest. But until then, he'd keep her safe from all harm. She had been through enough. They all had, but none like her. 

He pressed a lingering kiss on her forehead and held her closer, determined to shield her from the darkness that still lingered. Together, they would protect the Light and the realm. Then, they'd return to the children and finally find some peace.

Just a little drabble for my Blades 2 AU. I hope you enjoy it!

[kariachi]

Oh look, more 'giving chars who never got to Impress babs' fic. How about some less social drama?

~~

She hadn’t been sleeping anyway.

A day of working with the other candidates on firestone sorting had left her dreams filled with fire, with screams, the type Silla’s antics and Teras’s affection couldn’t drive away. There had been nothing but the movement she always craved- pants, a tunic, her hair flying free as she ran paces between herdbeast paddocks. Enough to wear down the scream in her throat, dry tears she’d never shed, almost make a dent in her endless energy.

But that didn’t mean she’d welcomed the humming that had started. The demand that the people of Telgar gather in the Hatching Cavern, greet the hatching clutch.

Under normal circumstances she would have been a proper lady, would have walked back to the barracks and changed into better clothes.

That night she still smelt burning meat.

Teras draped across her shoulders as always, she had sent Silla back for ribbons. Took her time walking across the bowl, arranging her hair into a crown braid with practiced ease. Head held high, small, empty smile on her face, she made her way to the same seat she’d taken the last few wher hatchings. Telgar only allowed those they trusted with these eggs, since the wherlets would survive fine on their own, and that was nothing but a boon for stolen candidates.

She found she much preferred to be behind the walls.

The seats beside her were saved by Silla spreading out across them, waiting for Maksi and Thal to make their way over, done up as one should be for such an event. Neither mentioned her own attire, only shared a look, but Maksim’s arm was up around her shoulders even before she could rest her weight on his side. For them she could manage a real smile, not wide and bright as normal but enough to know she wasn’t dead or dying. Enough to allow for chatter about the boys’ dragons, for whispered gossip, Thal shaking his head affectionately as she and Maksi judged the attire of the candidates on the sands.

Guards, loyalists, done up far more erratically than the dragon candidates were made. Mostly the sort to care more about power and control than people, no one she would have chosen more than a dirty business relationship with. No one she would trust with the power a wher could offer. Especially not with the size of some of those eggs down there. She’d put her money on at least four bronzes, and on the dark thing in pride of place- like some aggravating power play, they’d have probably put it on a pedestal if anyone involved was bright enough to build one- being a blue, out of pure spite.

The whispers among them, around them, died down as the humming reached it’s peak, the first shell cracked. A bronze, of course, because the Weyr deserved good luck. Still, she smirked to see it walk right passed the violent dipshit who had been stood beside it, instead making it's way directly to it’s golden dam. It burned in her gut to watch her grant it affection, after that nightmare.

She made solid money on the whole mess, at least. Five bronzes by her count, most unbonded to her pleasure. In fact a lot of clutch went unbonded, and she had to wonder, as she glanced at the boys and caught the distant stares that denoted talking to their bondeds, if anyone else thought that noteworthy. Something to discuss later, mayhaps. But that damn dark egg, massive and cracked like scorched earth, refused to budge. The longer the hatching went on, the more that settled wrong with her. She’d been to enough of them, between Benden and Telgar, to know that golds always hatched late. They’d used it to claim their superiority in the Hall, that they had an innate sense of narrative.

Telgar Weyr, the Telgar Territory, did not need more gold whers.

But when had the universe truly cared what she wanted? She was lucky it liked her enough to keep her alive at this point.

It was almost suspicious, given how Telgar was, how normal the fresh new gold was when it finally arrived, shell falling away as it gave a languid, predatory stretch. Shining elder sisters took a half step forward. Telgar’s most loyal, strongest of will and mind, did the same from their sloppy circle around it. The bab shone in the dim light, burnished and bright in turn, as it took in all around it. Sands, siblings, candidates, stands.

Those around it may as well have not even existed as it made it’s way to the wall.

The stands fell silent. She felt Maksi’s arm tighten around her, her greens’ concern around the edges of her mind. The crowd froze as it climbed over the wall, started the walk up the stairs on unpracticed legs. A portion of the dragons stopped humming- she would bet money Zamanth, Shiko, and their clutchmates. Her endless fidgeting kicked up a half-notch, glad it was coming up the set nearer to her than the boys, angling herself between them in case it got violent. That certainly didn’t seem to be it’s plan, but she wasn’t one for risking her people, and it just kept climbing.

By the time it turned into their row- people pulling their legs up, loathe to touch it as it passed- Maksim’s grip was painful, Teras’s eyes whirling red.

She’d broken enough bones in her life that it’s (his) teeth sinking into her arm weren’t worth classing, especially not with the strong sense of partnershippossessionoursMine that filled her mind alongside those whirling eyes.

The burn was.

He leapt back, eyes solid yellow, mouth full of blood, as the pain hit her, as she clenched her teeth against the urge to shout, wrenched her arm away.

“Monie!” Dimly she heard Zamanth’s distressed bugle as Maksi pulled her near into his lap, and Thal surged forward. She pasted on a wider smile, shoved reassurances at her flits, at the gold, as their fear, worry, (guilt) crashed in on her. No words, just a tangled mass of confusion she did her best to cut through like a knife.

“Fine, darlings, no worries,” she lied, clutching her arm tight against her breast. After only a few seconds, it was already too much blood. She’d seen plenty enough wounds to know it was too much blood. The looks on her boys’, like she was dying in front of them (no, she was fine, if it meant they wouldn’t worry-), said they knew it too. The smile widened, a bigger, more obvious lie by the heartbeat, over teeth achingly tight. “Reaching healers would be nice though, if we could.”

The row seemed to empty out in front of them, Maksi’s hand clenched around her good arm as she murmured urges to calm at him. Thal calling to the healers who were already rushing over, likely reacting more to the distress of the hatchling than to the humans. The little gold (he’d seemed so large before, long and sharp as any Telgar wher, but now, with his distress in her mind, frantic patches of shapeless colors a reminder he was so so young-) following behind as she shoved as many reassurances as she could at him.

It kind of did feel like she was dying.

~

(Kept in the infirmary until they knew her arm wouldn’t get any worse, Monett threw chunks of meat into the cavernous mass of teeth that was Ruhkbat’s maw. Watched his second set of jaws catch some, those missed quickly beginning to dissolve before being snatched up on the second or third try. His mind rested heavy against hers- following and answering her lilting chatter with a hunter’s focus and a voice of steel and blood- for all they two seemed to slot together like missing pieces.

She’d never really expected it to feel right.)

[cryptidsofwakemoor]

Chapter 7 - Chillin

With the arrival of winter comes new challenges. Now armed with a blanket and pillow to help fend off the cold, Matchstick has started to make a daily trek to the mysterious fish person's house since it's the only reliable source of food... even though he still has no idea why they're leaving food out for him, or if he should even really be trusting it, but hey- beggars can't be choosers, right?

~*~

Mystic

That evening was the fastest Matchstick had ever fallen asleep. The apparatus that hooked him up to the facility wall couldn't compare to the comfort of this plush square of softness.

Time passes.

The weather gets colder.

The miracle cloth rectangle and square of cloud fluff made it bearable, though. He could sleep on the soft dirt of the den floor, wrapped in the blanket and resting his head on the pillow. The best damn sleeps of his whole life. Nightmares didn't come back to torment him when he slept with the soft stuff cocooning him. Must be some kinda magic.

And every day, he'd find a platter of food waiting for him on the steps of that house with the 'bird' feeders. It wasn't always the same food, but it was tastier than 'birdseed' and the sticky syrup from the cylinders.

He saw the fish-looking lady only occasionally, ducking in and out of their house to leave the plates of food, or heading out in their blue 'truck' to go god knows where. He saw the silver forest beast even less, the only signs of its presence being the fresh hole it dug into the earth a short distance away from his current hideout. It didn't leave any other gifts for him, either. Where had it gone?

Spooky

His breath was visible all the time now, even when he was calm. He noticed the people in town, in the times he ventured close, were starting to wear more and more stuff. And more noticeably, something seemed to be wrong with the trees? They were changing colors to something more red and brownish, and they were... shedding. A lot. The entire entrance of his den was getting crunchier and crunchier as the wind kept blowing the tree bits in. He would be lying if he said it wasn't fun to go bulldozing through piles of it, though.

Still, despite his naturally high temperature, the cold wasn't very pleasant. It seemed like the only time he was comfortable was when he was safely tucked away with the nesting stuff the silver beast had given him... So he started taking them with him whenever he ventured out.

He didn't have clothes like the people in town, save for the now VERY ratty and worn form-fitting shorts he'd been outfitted with at the lab... but the cloth rectangle was closest thing he had besides that, especially if he pulled it around his shoulders and over his head. At the very least it helped keep in his body heat and made him feel a little safer in regards to how easily a camera drone might spot him. The bad weather seemed to bring fewer of those, and it probably helped that he didn't actually enter the town in a while. He didn't have to, not when that one building with the pond had food out every day. It may not have filled him up entirely, but the feeling like he was going to die didn't crop up like it did when his food sources were less... certain?

...Part of him still wasn't sure about it, but he'd been going there daily for a while now, and still no ambush of any kind, save for the one time that person leapt out of the pond.

It was weird. He didn't know them, but he'd sort of gotten used to the routine with them. He knew when the food would be left out. Sometimes he'd arrive a little early and hide, watching from the safety of the trees until they went back inside, but it wasn't like they tried to look for him.

....Still had no idea what to do with those little metal things, when those were there. They almost looked like they could be some kind of weaponry- a blunted knife of some sort and a little four-pronged pokey thing- but they seemed kinda flimsy, and probably wouldn't be more effective in combat than the abilities he already had at his disposal... Not really worth the extra effort of carrying with him, so he left it be. Was it a sign of concern to want to arm someone...?

Either way, he would go there, eat, and somewhat cautiously go check on that second burrow on the way back. Still no sign of the silver beast.

...

Soon the day came when he poked his sleepy head out of the burrow, only to see the ground covered in a layer of... dust? No, as he climbed out and it melted around him, he realized pretty quickly that it was a powdery layer of ice. How'd all this get here? He shivered a little and pulled his cloth rectangle tighter around himself. His back stung when he did, but that feeling had almost turned into background noise for him at this point, and he gave it little notice.

The icy ground and dead tree stuff turned out to be a pretty slippery combination, especially since his footsteps melted it a little and made it more wet. Eugh, it was a quick way to make this walk completely unpleasant, though it still wasn't as bad as the days where water fell from the sky. He spent as little time outside the burrow as possible during those days, but would still accumulate mud on him regardless, that would bake in his body heat and come off in chunks.

...Okay, flaking it off was kinda fun, when he was bored. Which was kind of a lot of the time...

As he walked, he glanced over at the other burrow, which remained as quiet as usual. It didn't look like anything had come out of it, otherwise there probably would've been fresh marks of that big spiny tail dragging in the icy stuff. He was starting to wonder if maybe they left, and this had only been a temporary den...

Mystic

....

crnch

shfff

scrnchhh

Something was coming this way.

thnk

A mass of the powder fell from the branches of a tree at the edge of his vision. It lands with a dull whump.

"...hrmf."

The sound of a chain link fence rattling.

scrnch

thmsh

Then- the sound of something big letting out an equally big sneeze.

Spooky

He had been crouching at the entrance of the second burrow, peering into the darkness to see if he could catch a glint of light shining off one of those armor plates, when the sound of something huge slogging and crunching through the ice jarred him from what he was doing. He stood very quickly at the huge sneeze, looking like a kid who'd just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar, and turned around to look.

To his credit, he didn't try to hide this time. He was genuinely surprised to see the huge creature after days and days... How many days was it? A lot of days.

Mystic

He's greeted by the sight of- no surprise- the big silver beast. It's shaking its head back and forth, which... is covered in the white dust, freshly fallen from the tree. Said tree is making subtle vibrations, as though-

-it just ran right into the tree, didn't it.

Shaking its head wasn't doing the trick, so the shaking increased until it traveled all the way down the length of its body and tail. The chain link fence noise returned- ah, so that was what it sounded like when it shook out that pelt of metal plates. By the time it settled, a substantial amount of the white powder had fallen from its back.

At this point, it notices him. Squinting in the bright albedo from the icy coating all around them, they regard the kid, then hang their head, letting out another big sigh.

Stepping into the clearing, the shake off their limbs one by one, like a dog. A low humming rumble passes from their throat. Was that supposed to be a greeting? It didn't sound like words, but it didn't feel hostile.

Spooky

As... kinda silly as it was to witness a huge creature, the size of the trucks he had seen at Aria, go bonking into a tree... it was hard not to still feel somewhat intimidated when it approached him. Something about being near a living creature that enormous made him feel small, and that wasn't a very common feeling for him. At least he didn't feel like he was in danger this time.

It sighed again, he was pretty sure of it. Between that and how it hung its head while trundling along, he sensed it probably wasn't a fan of the cold, or the ice on the ground. Maybe wasn't feeling its best. Made sense though, it was covered in what looked like metal, and that would get really cold when exposed to this kind of temperature.

He stood there in thought for a few moments, then walked over cautiously... and after a few moments of uncertainty, he pulled out the pillow from his makeshift blanket cloak. He'd been hugging it for additional warmth and softness, and he gently pressed it against the side of the silver beast's snoot. It was kind of dirty by this point, but it was warm, very warm, like it was fresh out of the dryer.

"Aa.. hh..."

He'd opened his mouth and sounded like he was starting to try to say something, but his voice was a weak rasp from lack of use, barely above a whisper, and it was mostly lost beneath the sound of the wind.

Mystic

The beast blinked in surprise as- of all things- the kid approached them rather than ran away. It looked even more confused when the pillow is presented.

However, once the pillow is pressed against their cold snout, the frilled ears perk up. Their eyes widen, holding this strange position of mid-shaking a limb while the odd kid in the blanket burrito holds a pillow to their muzzle.

...they let out a snort. The edges of their mouth curl up. That was definitely a smile, and perhaps a laugh.

They enjoy the warmth for a minute or so, before retracting their head. Lifting one forelimb, the silver beast gently places their thick clawed digits over the hands holding the pillow, and pushes them back towards his chest. Plopping back down onto all fours, the beast stretches its back, tail curling into a spiral as they do so. Their tongue flops out as they let out a big yawn, showing off all those big teeth before they close the mouth again, rubbing at their muzzle with the opposite hand-paw from the one that nudged the pillow back.

"Mmmrf," the beast rumbles, the thudding steps continuing once more as it crunches its way through the snow towards the hole in the ground. Crawling through the entrance, it slips down to the base of the burrow, and wraps itself up in its tail at the bottom of the den. Faint shivers run through their chilled body, and they tuck the tail closer around themselves like a pointy cinnamon bun.

Spooky

Wrapping his arms back around the pillow, he felt himself smile a little as well, watching the big creature crawl into their den and get comfortable. Sure, the pillow was small, but he still felt like he helped, if only a little bit.

Also... it was weirdly kind of a relief to know they weren't gone.

Remembering why he was outside, though, he turned and walked back along the usual path he took to the food building. Curiously, as he walked along, he could see the big path in the snow the silver beast had taken to get to their den. Seemed they also walked this way. Actually... huh! He slowed a little, his eyes following the big footprints and lines where the tail dragged. It kinda looked like it swept its tail back and forth in some places, but for the most part...

He hopped from footprint to footprint as he followed that instead of the usual path, since it seemed to be running pretty parallel. It was kinda fun, though he cut it out when he slipped on some leaves and fell on his ass.

Ow.

Okay, had to be more careful walking in this stuff.

Still, it was strange... The trail was visible through most of the walk, but he lost sight of it somewhere around the time he was approaching the food building. Guess it was still a mystery where the silver beast had been... Oh well.

There was the white disc in its usual place on the steps, though the food seemed like it had been out for longer than usual. There was a very thin dust of ice on the two pieces of bread with meat and stuff in the middle that had been left out for him. No little stabby things this time, but whatever, he would've left them anyway. Maybe the person was in kind of a hurry this time.

Weird, though, their truck was still here...

Didn't look like they were inside, either. The windows were dark.

Mystic

The food, even though cold, was still delicious. It must have been sitting outside for a while. A few hours, maybe.

Sitting on the porch, wrapped in the blanket, he's able to sit back and take in the peaceful scenery. Despite the thick coat of white powder and ice on everything, the cylinders of food for the 'birds' (and ambitious fluffy rodents) were still out on their hanging hooks- with the exception of the sticky syrup ones. Those were put away somewhere he did not know. The tiny buzzing birds that used that feeder- which gave him a heart attack the first time one flew by his head- were absent once it got too cold outside.

...huh.

That was odd. There were scrape marks in the snow here, too. A lot less noticeable, due to the jumble of bird feet stamps around feeders, and snow mostly being replaced by thicker ice on the black stone path, but they were there for sure once he paid close enough attention. They looked like- scratches. Had a scuffle taken place here?

To the side of the house, on the small juncture of black path where the blue truck off-and-on rested, the scratches were deeper, and more numerous. Some wooden structure he couldn't fathom the purpose of had broken planks in the center, as though pushed by great force.

A small corner of something colorful poked out from underneath a haphazardly placed box at the side of the house.

Spooky

The pond was too frozen to drink from, so he scooped up a handful of snow into his mouth, letting it melt into water as his eyes traced the path of the scratches to the strange structure. Huh... he'd never really noticed that thing before. Mostly because there weren't any tubes by it, but the corner of something bright and colorful stood out like a beacon among all the white and gray and muted brown.

Soon, curiosity got the better of him, and the signs of damage and scrapes were concerning... He got up and moved closer to the box to investigate, too curious to just leave it be. What happened here...?

Mystic

The colorful thing was a piece of fabric, sticking out from under the edge of the box.

Removing the box entirely revealed it to be-

…a tattered shirt. It had been torn asunder, but even he would recognize this article of clothing from the shredded remains.

It was the fish lady’s shirt, the one she wore almost every day on her trips out of her house. Blue strings hung off the edges where something sharp had rent the once-whole article of clothing into many, many pieces. Most of those pieces were shoved under the box, and some were caught under the edge of the wooden porch.

Spooky

Realizing the implications of what he was looking at, he dropped the box in shock, eyes wide. The claw marks, upset snow and broken wooden structure- signs of a struggle, and now a torn piece of clothing, looking like it was hidden... And the fact that the trail seemed to lead back here...

Did the-

...Did the silver beast EAT the fish lady?!

There wasn't any blood, was the weird part, but maybe it swallowed them whole?? ...Minus the shirt? Somehow? It tore off the shirt, and then ate them?

Shit... Why didn't it just eat the food left out for him instead? It was a little cold but that's no reason to eat the person that made it!

Mystic

What was he even supposed to do, now? If the beast did eat them, his reliable food source was gone. He’d have to go back to swiping from trash cans as his primary method of scavenging. And on top of that, the bird feeders would be left empty, too- not only was he getting shorted on bird seed, but so were the birds!

If big silver animals ate people, how was one so close to town? And- why didn’t it eat him, then, when it found him trapped in that hole? Maybe he was saved by the trash smell- but then, it didn’t eat him earlier, and he was a bit less stinky now after a few rain showers. The beast never seemed hostile or territorial- or hell, even hungry.

…

Was that house just- going to be empty, now? It felt sad, in a way he couldn’t place.

Spooky

He paced anxiously in the yard as he tried to make sense of it all. If this happened- if the fish lady was... dead... there was nothing he could do about it, and that upset him even more. For the first time, he ventured up to the windows and peeked inside in hopes that he was wrong, but the place was indeed dark and empty.

...This was awful. He'd never really gotten to know this person, but... To feed random creatures outside even if they weren't people, just because they could...

Man, he didn't trust people, as a general rule... but this one seemed different. And they were gone now.

He sat on the porch for a while, staring blankly at the snow. Finally he got up, went back to the box, scooped up the tattered shirt remains, and marched all the way back to the silver beast's burrow. While it might have been a dangerous idea to confront it... It looked like he was gonna have to start risking his life for food again anyway. And he wanted some fucking answers!

~*~

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New reader? You can start here!

[peapodbond]

that was us part two

abby hasn't thought about tommy much. it's been almost ten years since they broke up. she sees him sometimes, at the bar nights that are still going strong, but they've expanded over the years and it's easy for both of them to circle around each other. they wave occasionally and she'd checked in with him after the warehouse explosion he was caught in, but for the most part they're just two people in the same social group.

her mom gets sick and she has less and less free time.

she's never been as devastated about the breakup as everyone thought that she should have been. she gets it. they'd been engaged for over a year, together in some form or another for three, and in most cases that would be earth shattering.

the thing that people don't understand is. abby had fallen into the relationship after getting the news that her swimming career was over. tommy had been fresh out of the army and trying to find some solid footing.

he'd spent the first year watching abby rub vitamin e cream into her surgical scars and massaging her shoulder whenever it tightened up, which was especially often once the temperature started dropping.

abby had watched him wake up in the middle of the night, chest heaving, his eyes so tired and hollow that she'd been worried something would happen. the nightmares had gotten better over the years, and she knew he'd started talking to someone, but they'd never completely gone away.

she'd asked about them a few times, but tommy didn't want to talk about it. she couldn't blame him. she could barely talk about swimming without wanting to hit something.

she's seen the scars on his body, has known him since he started fighting fires. knows which ones were there before the first time he got hurt on the job. even with the missing pieces she didn't like the picture it painted.

abby has a wall mounted pulley system because she'd complained about her gym not having first responder friendly hours and tommy spent a week researching the best home versions. he'd even removed and reinstalled it when she'd moved.

tommy probably still has the stress balls she'd made him for when his feet seized up after a long shift. she'd learned how make them when she was swimming, still has her own set and uses them on her shoulder.

she finds out about the harbor transfer on a call, when firefighter pilot kinard is the one updating her on the status of their patient for the hospital.

he sounds better than he has in years.

she makes a point to go to the next bar night. carla teases her about having a date. abby laughs, because it's the closest thing she's had in a year and yet this is definitely not a date.

she orders them both a drink and finds her way over to his table. tommy beams and pulls her into the booth with sal. she congratulates firefighter pilot kinard on his new job, tommy thanks dispatcher clark for the drink, and sal rolls his eyes at both of them. abby hears about gina, who sounds incredible. tommy makes a crack about her needing to be, to put up with sal. tommy's not seeing anyone right now, and abby finally admits that she's talking to someone on the phone but it probably won't go anywhere. both of them start laughing at her when she tells them he's a firefighter.

abby heads off the teasing about having a type by reminding them both that two firefighters in thirteen years does not a pattern make. they don't tease her any more but she gets the feeling they don't believe her. she doesn't mention her mother as they catch up; it feels like too heavy a subject for an evening that's basically a celebration, even if it's a few months late.

they debate whether crazy stupid love might be the best romcom made in the last ten years, and if pride and prejudice and zombies was worth the adaptation. 

she doesn't stay long — carla still needs to get home at a decent hour, and she has a shift the next day. tommy walks her out to her car and opens her door, tells her to get home safe.

she kisses him on the cheek. says he's the happiest she's ever seen him.

part one

[wolveria]

On Frozen Wings - Ch 6

Pairing: Crosshair x Hunter

Rating: 18+ only, Explicit

Hunter and Crosshair's last night on Pabu. Hunter wants to make it special, Crosshair continues to surprise him.

AO3

Hunter woke. He was perfectly quiet, and he didn’t move, but his breath rushed in and out as his heart hammered so hard he thought it might leap from his chest.

He sat up, the thin blankets pooling around his waist as he braced his hands against his forehead, attempting to get air. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only showed him the fading images that chased him from sleep.

The touch on his shoulder was light, but Hunter jerked back, eyes wide—he hadn’t heard anyone—

Crosshair stared, his eyes wider than usual. And then he set his features into something flat. Neutral.

“Who was it?”

Hunter blinked, still panting for air. How did he know?

Crosshair must have seen the question in his face, because he gave a small huff and said, “This might not be Kamino, but you still have the nightmares.”

The nightmares. They’d plagued him for as long as he could remember. Different circumstances, different people. Always the same ending.

He swallowed dryly.

“Tech.”

His voice trembled, but Crosshair didn’t comment. His face remained that same blank neutral, but then he got out of bed and slipped on a pair of loose trousers after checking the pockets. He tilted his head toward the door in silent invitation before walking out.

Hunter took a deep breath and followed, pulling on his own pair of pants before stepping outside. The pre-dawn air was cool and fresh, a lingering scent on the breeze of the blossoming night-flowers that dotted the seaside below.

Crosshair leaned against the stone barricade beside his house, this side more southern facing, and Hunter could see the horizon beginning to lighten. He joined the sniper, glancing at his hands and the source of the odd scent. Dangling between his fingers was a hand-rolled smoke, and suddenly, he was thrown back in time to Kamino. Sneaking off with Crosshair to smoke whatever they’d managed to get offworld after a mission, or trade with the regs.

Well, Crosshair had smoked, and Hunter had simply sat with him during the ritual. The tabac was too strong for Hunter to tolerate, but the smoke coming from this cig smelled different. Earthy and herbal, and oddly familiar.

Hunter scrunched his nose.

“Don’t tell me you took green Gabaki from the infirmary just to smoke it.”

A smirk tugged on Crosshair’s mouth.

“I did not take medicine from the sick and suffering, Hunter. They were offered to me by… what’s his name? The older gentleman with the cybernetic knee.”

“Mister Ferenki.”

Crosshair’s smirk grew a little wider.

“Do you know everyone here by name?”

“No.”

Hunter paused.

“Not everyone.”

“But most.”

Hunter didn’t know why he was getting defensive about it. Maybe because Crosshair could make him defensive about anything if he sent that tilted smirk his way.

But then Crosshair did something he hadn’t in a long time. He held out his hand to Hunter, the rolled cig held between his fingers.

Hunter stared at it for a moment, and then took it with more care than was probably needed, as if it would fall apart in his hands.

“We should be applying this stuff to our bruises,” Hunter muttered as he leaned against the half wall with his elbows. “Not smoke it.”

“We can do both.”

Crosshair didn’t look out at the sea, instead turning so he could lean back against the barrier, resting on his forearms. Hunter glanced at him before looking away. Crosshair was staring at him without a shred of shyness, his posture languid and inviting.

Hunter brought the cig to his lips and pulled, slow and testing, but the acrid burn he expected didn’t come. There was heat, and a curious taste he rolled across his tongue. He wasn’t even entirely sure you were supposed to smoke green Gabaki, but he trusted Crosshair not to poison them both.

“Surprised you would offer, to be honest,” Crosshair said, all lazy drawl. “Thought you would say some sensible, heroic thing, like how we should save the leaves for the people who truly need it.”

Hunter shot him a side glance.

“Bacta is hard to come by, yeah, but there’s plenty of Gabaki. No reason we need to suffer.”

“Suffer?” His brows rose. “If I recall… you used to like how it felt the day after you took a particularly severe beating.”

Hunter closed his eyes. Why, of all things, did Crosshair have to remember a comment he said once, in passing, when they were cadets. He’d commented that the ache after a sparring match felt good, and Hunter could still remember the interested sparkle in Crosshair’s eye, though at the time, he hadn’t understood what it meant.

Did he understand now? How… how long had Crosshair been interested in… this? Whatever it was, exactly, they were doing.

Taking it as a signal when Hunter didn’t move for several seconds, Crosshair moved. He leaned against Hunter’s shoulder, plucked the cig out of his fingers, and took a drag.

“Is it helping?” he asked, directing the exhale so it wouldn’t blow in his face.

Hunter had to turn the question over in his mind for a moment, the warmth of Crosshair’s shoulder against his a source of distraction. But he did feel more relaxed, calmer, then we’d he’d stepped outside.

“Think so.” Though he wasn’t entirely sure it was the herb so much as it was Crosshair’s close presence. He’d never admit this out loud, but… he’d needed this. Just, an acknowledgement. An offer of confidence. Anything. Hunter didn’t know why he woke up from the nightmares like that, frozen and completely silent. Maybe it was a subconscious attempt not to wake the others. Most of his brothers were heavy sleepers, and Omega had slept far enough away on the ship not to notice.

But Crosshair had always known. And when he’d left…

Hunter pressed his lips together. Crosshair offered the smoke again, and he took it, though he froze at his next question.

“What was it?”

No need to ask what was what. Hunter closed his eyes, but there was no salvation in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Crosshair didn’t backpedal or offer Hunter a way out. He simply waited. Hunter blew out a breath and opened his eyes.

“Donno how much you know about…”

“The kid told me.”

That made it a little easier. It was difficult enough getting out the words, tightening in his throat like they were clawing to stay inside.

“I, uh… watched it. Happen.”

Hunter took another pull, grateful for the momentary respite. When he continued, his voice wasn’t as steady.

“So, y’know. Played out like that.”

He didn’t try to bring the roll to his lips again. It barely stayed between his fingers.

“Always does. Same way. Every time.”

Hunter stared out at the ocean, but he didn’t see it. He only saw the nightmare that wasn’t a nightmare.

“And I can’t… stop it.” The words were trapped tighter. “I can’t—"

Over and over, it happened again. The railcar falling, the hinge connection shot through. The figure, growing smaller until it disappeared into the clouds.

Again, and again, and again—

Crosshair covered his hand with his. For a moment, Hunter thought he was trying to save the doomed cig, but he simply snuffed it out on top of the barricade and let it smolder.

His hands still covered Hunter’s until the shaking subsided, and even then, he didn’t let go, and Hunter didn’t pull away. His throat worked, like something wanted to crawl out of him, and he didn’t know what it was, but it hurt.

It wasn’t always Tech. Sometimes it was Omega. Other times, Wrecker. Echo.

Crosshair. For a long time, it had been Crosshair. Even before their squad broke apart, even when they were cadets safely on Kamino, he would dream of Crosshair slipping out of his reach.

And then they’d left Kamino, and the nightmares got worse. They got worse, because in them, Hunter was the reason Crosshair drew his last breath, a smoking blaster still in his hands.

Hunter shuddered. Crosshair moved closer, and he let him. He couldn’t pull away if his life depended on it. He surrendered and let Crosshair pull him, wrap around him, the way he would when they were younger and Hunter woke up, deadly quiet and trembling.

And eventually, it got easier to breathe, and the thing trying to claw its way out settled down. Crosshair didn’t speak, and neither did Hunter, huddled together as the sun peeked over the horizon. And the shadows of the nightmare faded, bit by bit, until there was nothing but morning light.

Crosshair squinted at him.

“How is it possible you don’t remember anything Tech said. He lectured us for hours, Hunter. Hours.”

It was their last night on Pabu, and Hunter still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the island where they’d found refuge and shelter, a place he could easily call home. But after how easy it was for Ventress to find them, Hunter had known they couldn’t stay.

Tomorrow, they would leave Pabu behind, and Hunter wanted to take advantage of their last night of privacy. It was unlikely they’d have their own quarters again any time soon, and he would miss the house. Miss what it meant, and how close he got to be with Crosshair.

But it was really happening. They’d spent the day finishing up plans and lists for what supplies they needed, and the Marauder would be loaded up tomorrow.

He wanted this to be… well. Good. But all Crosshair had done after they’d gotten into bed was eye Hunter like he was a particularly hungry shark that had offered to dine on Crosshair’s softest parts. Apparently, he wasn’t keen on the idea of Hunter, with all his enthusiasm and inexperience, taking full control of the reins.

“Eh, it’s fine,” Hunter said with a shrug. “I’ll wing it.”

Okay, so maybe Crosshair’s reaction wasn’t entirely unwarranted, but Hunter was mostly joking. Sure, he couldn’t remember Tech’s extensive lectures on sex education, and he was approaching this with little more than the fantasies in his head, but clearly, Crosshair had paid attention and knew what he was doing.

That should be enough, right?

Crosshair expression reminded him of a tooka angrily puffing up its fur to try and look bigger than it was.

“You will not.”

Hunter really didn’t see the issue. He knew what he wanted, he could imagine how to get there with the aid of plenty of lube. And maybe some bacta. Thinking ahead, he’d asked for some earlier that day from AZI, and the droid had happily supplied him with more than he needed.

Hopefully.

“Look,” Hunter continued, using his best calm the deadly nexu voice on the agitated sniper, “it can’t be that much more complicated than we’ve been doing already. It’ll work out.”

“I’m not letting youanywhere near my dick.”

“Yeah you are.”

Crosshair’s silence was followed by a heavy sigh. Hunter’s own smirk followed; he wasn’t the most gracious winner.

“Think of it as heading into a mission without intel,” Hunter added cheerfully.

“No. No. This isn’t remotely the same. A hundred-percent success rate on missions does not transfer to—”

Hunter ducked his head and latched his mouth on Crosshair’s neck. The startled kick he got was worth the hiss of pleasure as he licked and sucked on the tender spot.

“Nothing wrong with a little improvising.” Hunter planted more kisses along his throat to soothe him, but Crosshair wasn’t having it.

“Improvising means you have a plan to start with, which, clearly, you don’t—”

Hunter rolled on top of him and slipped between his thighs, grinding their hips in a slow, sensuous roll. Even he hadn’t expected the shock through his gut as their clothed cocks rubbed together.

“If I do anything wrong, you’ll tell me,” Hunter rumbled against his skin. “I trust you.”

That shut Crosshair up faster than if Hunter had gagged him. Which… hmm. Interesting idea to explore another time.

For now, they had too much clothing on, and Hunter planned to fix that. He stripped off his own clothes first, sitting back on his knees and letting Crosshair watch. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded as he leaned back on his elbows, drinking in the show Hunter was putting on for him.

Hunter found he liked Crosshair watching him, and maybe he always had. Being the focus of Crosshair’s attention always made the air crackle with something hidden and dangerous, Hunter’s hackles rising in warning of an unseen predator. But then Crosshair could ease the tension with a small, tilted smile, or a gentle pat on Hunter’s shoulder.

There was no dissipating that tension now as Hunter loomed over him, tugging off his body suit. Crosshair smirked at his obvious impatience, and Hunter was going to wipe that smug look off his face before the night was done.

Once he had him naked, Hunter took a moment to just… admire. Crosshair was lean muscles and long limbs, graceful legs meeting narrow hips, and his cock rested on his abdomen, dark and heavy. Hunter didn’t know where to start first. He wanted to devour him, a meal out on display, and—he was realizing a slight problem. He was already so hard he ached, and he hadn’t even been touched yet.

The thought of Crosshair tight around him was enough to make him throb, the head of his cock weeping copious amounts of precum. This was not good. The last thing Hunter wanted was to cut the night unexpectedly short. Not to mention, Crosshair would never grant mercy on his bruised pride.

Crosshair lifted a brow.

“Problem?”

“No,” Hunter lied. “Just… planning my approach.”

Crosshair made a noise that was awfully close to a laugh.

“Might help if you started with lube.”

Hunter rolled his eyes, but in truth, he might have forgotten that step. Crosshair’s long thighs and flat stomach and slender throat were distracting.

“Uh-huh,” Hunter grunted without further comment, and he grabbed the bottle next to the bed. He popped the lid and dripped some of the viscous liquid into his palm.

Something flashed over Crosshair’s features, too fast for Hunter to catch, especially when he suddenly wouldn’t meet Hunter’s eye. He actually had to move back to avoid being accidentally kicked as Crosshair decided to switch positions, laying on his stomach with his chin resting on his arms.

“It’ll be easier for you like this,” he mumbled.

Hunter frowned but didn’t argue. He’d rather see Crosshair’s face, drink in each desperate expression as it crossed his features, but maybe that was too much. Maybe it was easier for Crosshair this way.

If that’s what he wanted, Hunter wasn’t going to say no, and his growing impatience finally got him moving.

Hunter spread the lube along his fingers, and after a brief pause, took the bottle and dripped some of it down the crack of Crosshair’s ass.

He hissed, jolting his hips away from the cold liquid.

“Sorry,” Hunter said, and he was. Maybe. A little bit.

Crosshair only answered with a low growl, and Hunter took that as his sign to continue. Carefully, and with more than a little curiosity, he ran his thumb over the tight ring of muscle. He was… a lot warmer and softer than Hunter expected.

Crosshair shuddered but remained silent, stubbornly so. Hunter was going to change that, but he could take his time. Payback for all the damn teasing Crosshair had made him endure.

He started with one finger, and then two, slipping them inside, marveling at the surprising heat and how tight he was gripped. Crosshair shuddered again, and Hunter experimented with his movements, working Crosshair looser but also noting what he reacted to, and to what degree.

Crosshair’s scent was sharp with arousal, his face soon pressed against the pillow, still refusing to make any noises past a shallow pant here and there.

Hunter frowned, wondering if Crosshair had done this before. He’d assumed he had, he seemed far more experienced than Hunter, but there was something strange about the way he was pushing down his reactions. And he did seem to enjoy it from the way his body twitched and his scent grew stronger.

But when Hunter removed his fingers and asked, “You ready?” Crosshair didn’t respond. Even though he was lying on his stomach, his posture was rigid, the muscles along his back tense and stiff.

Crosshair finally nodded, but he still wouldn’t talk. And there was a tangy note of something else joining the arousal. It was a familiar scent, but it was so jarring in the context of what they were doing that Hunter felt off-kilter.

“Crosshair?”

“What,” he snapped with more bite than was needed. “I said yes.”

Thicker now, the scent. It was… wrong.

“Yeah, but.” Hunter floundered. “You do… want to do this, right?”

Crosshair glared over his shoulder, eyes narrowed in what was probably meant to be anger, but he could see it there too, the thing he’d smelled, potent and unpleasant.

Fear.

“Do you think I’d be doing this if I didn’t want to?” Crosshair hissed.

Hunter didn’t know what to do. Even that question was loaded with more aggression than was needed.

No… not aggression. Crosshair was on the defense.

Hunter sighed, his own tension softening once he made up his mind. As soon as he did, he knew it was the right decision.

Crosshair frowned as he carefully studied Hunter’s face.

“What are you—ack!”

Crosshair squawked as Hunter flipped him over, pushing him onto his back before descending on him, kissing his neck and sucking a spot right under his jaw. See if he can hide that under his suit.

“Hunter,” Crosshair growled, frustrated, “what are you doing?”

“Give it a minute.”

Crosshair’s exasperated sigh was a smokescreen, his hands telling a different story as they roamed over Hunter’s back, fingers digging into his skin. Hunter nosed at his neck, sucking and licking until the tang of fear had faded and only desperate need remained.

Relieved he hadn’t ruined the night after all, Hunter smirked and descended down Crosshair’s body, leaving a path of kisses in his wake. He didn’t need to look up to know the sniper was watching him with just as much attention as he paid through a scope at his target.

But that laser focus was shaken when Hunter reached down, wrapped his fingers around Crosshair’s cock, and swallowed him down whole.

In hindsight, Hunter probably should have started slower for his first time giving a blowjob, but the choked whine from Crosshair was damn worth it. He had to be careful himself not to choke, and he experimented using his tongue and hands to add to the stimulation.

He might be improvising his way through it, but it seemed very effective from the way Crosshair was gripping him tight, fingers curled into his hair, and fuck, the tugging at his hair didn’t help with his situation. Namely, not blowing his load early against the mattress.

Hunter quickly fell into a rhythm, figuring out what appealed to Crosshair by the way he tensed, how his breathing changed, even his smell. He definitely liked his tongue, liked when he swallowed him down, and strangely enough, seemed to like when Hunter accidentally scraped his teeth over his skin.

Crosshair was getting close, a litany of whines and breathy moans flowing off his tongue, and Hunter had a wicked idea. He’d enjoyed it when Crosshair did it to him, but considering Crosshair’s earlier reactions, it would either go really well or extremely poorly.

Well, since when did they play it safe?

Hunter pressed against Crosshair’s hole, and finding it still slick, he pushed in two fingers.

Crosshair’s back arched, his hands gripped Hunter’s skull tight, and a bit out “fuck!” was all the warning he got before Crosshair spilled down his throat.

Hunter somehow managed not to choke, though it was close, and he slipped off Crosshair’s cock when he was finally let up for air. The taste was salty and strange, but he swallowed every drop without hesitation.

And the look on Crosshair’s face when he did. He was panting, halfway sitting up but not quite all the way, as if he didn’t have any strength left. His cheeks were flush, his eyes slightly glassy. He looked good like that. As if Hunter had taken him apart and he was just trying to remember how to speak.

Hunter had the sudden, inexplicable urge to lean up and… kiss him. At least, he thought that’s what he wanted to do. He’d never kissed anyone before, but the way Crosshair’s lips were parted, Hunter wanted to descend on that mouth, taste him with his tongue and open him up in other ways.

Hunter didn’t actually care if they ended up fucking the way he originally planned. He just wanted to touch Crosshair, taste him, hold him close until the previous distance between them was a fading memory—

Crosshair moved, startling him. He was almost rough as he yanked Hunter up his body, and he could only watch, wide-eyed and confused as Crosshair didn’t explain, not one damn word as he slipped further down the bed under Hunter.

He opened his mouth to ask what the hell he was doing, and then his mouth went dry as Crosshair’s head settled between Hunter’s folded legs. And he had zero time to prepare as Crosshair grabbed him by the ass and pulled his hips down, right to where he was practically straddling Crosshair’s face.

He swallowed Hunter down with one smooth motion, and it was like all the strength went out of his body. He was on his elbows and knees, helpless as Crosshair mercilessly devoured him, keeping a death hold on his hips so Hunter couldn’t move. His thighs might be around Crosshair’s head, but he was the one trapped.

Not that he could have escaped with the way his brain was scrambled. Hunter couldn’t even grab a pillow to hold onto, his forehead braced against his arm as he tried to last more than five seconds with Crosshair sucking his cock like his life depended on it.

“Cr-Cross-h-hair—” he choked out. He didn’t know what he was begging for, but he certainly begged. He groaned into the bed, and it was probably a good thing Crosshair couldn’t see his face because there were definitely tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

The tight heat was impossible to resist, and Hunter grit his teeth as he involuntarily rutted down into his mouth. He tried not to, or at least tried to be gentle, otherwise Crosshair would be at real risk of choking—not that he seemed to care with how he encouraged Hunter’s small thrusts with the hands on his hips.

Hunter could hardly breathe, his nerves sparking with too much sensation, and when Crosshair shifted his grip and grabbed his ass, fingers digging into flesh, Hunter gave up the fight. He let himself be swept away, carried over the edge, and he came with a hoarse cry.

Crosshair swallowed him down with a lot more grace than Hunter had, but he didn’t let go right away, swirling his tongue around Hunter’s sensitive cock until he whined from too much stimulation. He could even feel Crosshair’s smirk as he pulled away, the bastard.

Hunter collapsed onto his side, not wanting to crush Crosshair anymore than he already had. He’d tried not to put too much weight on him, but with Crosshair shoving him down on his face, that was probably the point.

Crosshair joined him, though they hadn’t made it back up to the pillows yet. His face was still flush, his lips raw and puffy from his attention on Hunter’s cock, and he nearly groaned again.

That same urge returned, the one where he wanted to lean over and taste those lips for himself. But that would be kissing then, wouldn’t it? Was he supposed to? Crosshair hadn’t indicated he wanted to, and he’d never done it to Hunter. Kissing was something couples did, and they weren’t a couple.

Were they?

Crosshair stared at him, gaze growing suspicious the longer Hunter went without saying anything. Hunter cleared his throat.

“So… it was good, yeah?”

Crosshair rolled his eyes. Which probably meant everything was fine.

“Yes, Hunter. It was good.”

Hunter hummed, and then he looped an arm around Crosshair’s waist and pulled him close. He pressed his nose to his throat, and once the sniper realized he wasn’t squirming out of Hunter’s grip, he quickly gave up.

“You know, you’re very touchy after orgasm.”

“Mmm. And you’re touchy before yours.”

Crosshair scoffed, but he settled closer, and his scent was warm and satisfied. No trace of the earlier anxiety and fear, no tense muscles or a sense of bracing. Hunter still didn’t know what had happened, and he’d get it out of Crosshair.

But not tonight. Tonight was about taking care of him, and Hunter would say he succeeded by the way the sniper had become a warm, boneless lump in his arms. Hunter lightly traced a hand up and down his back, savoring every inch of bare skin he could reach. All the places they touched spread heat through him, the kind that felt like it could warm Hunter on the coldest night.

Every time they did this, Hunter felt like they were venturing further into something. Something more intense, though they’d always had an intensity between them that they didn’t share with the rest of the squad. But even this was… a lot for them.

Hunter had assumed sex would just feel good, like jerking off, but this was different. Better. He wasn’t sure what that meant, if it meant anything at all.

“And you’re not very relaxed, either,” Crosshair commented sleepily.

Hunter hummed in amusement. No, he supposed he’d never been very good at that.

“I’m relaxed.” He pressed lazy kisses along Crosshair’s collar bone before scooting up higher on the bed, resting his chin on his head. He wouldn’t be able to get any sleep if there was any part of Crosshair he could reach with his mouth.

Hunter smiled a little. And he thought the sniper was bad with his toothpicks. Seemed like Hunter found his oral fixation of choice.

It was a testament to how tired Crosshair was that he didn’t complain this time when Hunter wrapped around him, holding him in his arms. Maybe he’d realized it was a losing battle, and that Hunter was incapable of sleeping in the same bed with Crosshair and not end up curling around him.

And Crosshair didn’t really make fun of him beyond light teasing. Maybe it was too much to hope that he liked this as much as Hunter did.

“Sleep,” Crosshair mumbled. When Hunter remained quiet, he pulled impossibly closer and dragged his lips across the top of Hunter’s chest. “Or I’ll make you come again. You seem ready to go.”

He nudged his hip against Hunter’s half-hard cock, and he groaned, his hopes dashed that Crosshair hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t his fault. They were in bed naked, how was Hunter not supposed to be hard?

“I’m good.”

“Yes, you are,” Crosshair purred, and—Hunter was fully hard again.

He was also exhausted, and they did have a lot to do tomorrow, and he couldn’t afford to be too tired to—

Hunter bit out a moan as Crosshair wrapped his hand around his cock, his pace slow and gradual as he took his time. Something about that just made his cock ache more, the lazy, easy movements.

“You can fall asleep, if you want,” Crosshair said, the silky tone tickling down Hunter’s spine. “I won’t stop until you’re finished.”

Hunter bit his lip, and—fuck—why did that image suddenly grip him in a merciless grasp. He believed Crosshair too, that he would take care of Hunter even if he fell asleep.

Well, he wouldn’t need to worry about that. Hunter wouldn’t have time to fall asleep with the way Crosshair stroked him, unhurried and patient.

It wasn’t long until Hunter quivered, shaking apart for a second time, and even though Crosshair stroked him through it in a way that was brutally efficient, his other hand was on Hunter’s back, fingers splayed, holding him close.

Like maybe he, too, could no longer bear any space between them.

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