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joemama-2 · 2 months ago

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a dead end | chap. 3

༺♰༻ gojo x fem reader

𓉸♱𓉸 synopsis: you were a star under stadium lights, gojo satoru a savior in sterile halls. now, the world rots, and survival is your only stage. amid the relentless dead and the horrors of the living, an unsteady bond forms—but trust is as fragile as life itself. in the shadows of ruin, love and death walk hand in hand. which will claim you first?

༺♰༻ wc: 9.6k

༺♰༻ tags/warnings: death, angst, violence, smut, cannibalism, murder, blood, gore, zombie apocalypse, crazy people, reader is a little bitchy at first, character development, torture, guns, weapons, alcohol, drugs, medical talk here and there, research talk, mentions of a leaked sextape, bullying, betrayal, lying, love, surgeon! satoru, cheerleader! reader, small age gap

༺♰༻ series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

The hospital buzzed with its usual rhythm—a steady pulse of urgent footsteps, muffled voices over intercoms, and the hum of medical equipment. Gojo stood in the bustling trauma bay, scrubbing his hands meticulously under the scalding water, mentally preparing for another long shift. Just another day, he thought. Another set of lives to save. While Nanami and Ito haven’t even clocked in yet, he was stuck here. He sighs, trying not to dwell too much on it. He studied for this and dedicated hours, days, months, and years to this profession. Just suck it up, suck it up.

“Dr. Gojo!” A frantic voice broke through the air, slicing into his focus. He turned to see a nurse rushing towards him, eyes wide, panic etched across her face. “We’ve got an emergency intake—severe trauma. Possible bite wounds.”

Bite wounds? Gojo’s brows knitted together as he grabbed a pair of gloves. “Alright, let’s move,” he commanded, slipping into his role seamlessly.

The trauma bay doors swung open, revealing chaos in motion. Paramedics wheeled in a stretcher, the patient thrashing weakly against the restraints. Blood smeared across her limbs, and her skin was a sickly, ashen gray. Her eyes, wild and unfocused, darted around the room. “Late twenties, found unconscious and bleeding in an alley. Found by someone walking by,” one of the paramedics reported, struggling to keep the patient still. “Possible drug overdose, but… she’s been biting and scratching. Unprovoked.”

Gojo moved in quickly, assessing the situation and silently nodding along to the information being told to him. “Let’s get her stabilized,” he ordered, voice steady. “Push 5 milligrams of midazolam, and get a tox screen running. We need to figure out what’s going on.”

The nurses moved in sync, following his commands, but something felt off. The woman’s movements were erratic, too strong, almost inhuman. Her fingers clawed at the air, mouth snapping open and shut as if trying to bite through the very air itself. Gojo leaned in, shining a light into her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, unfocused. “Can you hear me?” he called out, keeping his voice firm but calm. “Ma’am, can you tell me your name?” The woman doesn’t respond, attempting to bite at his ear before he moves away in time.

A collective gasp rippled through the room as the patient’s teeth clamped down on nothing but air, her jaw snapping shut with a sickening click. Gojo’s expression remained unreadable, but his grip on the stretcher’s railing tightened. The nurses took a cautious step back, glancing at each other for reassurance, but their unease spread like wildfire. “She almost bit you—” one of them started, but Gojo cut her off with a sharp nod.

“I noticed,” he said dryly, but his mind was already spinning. This wasn’t normal. Overdoses, withdrawals, even extreme psychosis—he’d seen it all before. But this? The sheer aggression, the unnatural strength, the way her body fought against sedation like a cornered animal—it didn’t add up. “Her vitals?” he asked, directing his attention to the monitor as one of the nurses fumbled with the blood pressure cuff.

“Heart rate is… Jesus,” the nurse muttered, eyes widening. “168 beats per minute. It’s skyrocketing.” Gojo frowned. That wasn’t just stress—it was something else. A body under that kind of strain should be shutting down, but she was still moving, still fighting as if sheer will alone kept her conscious.

The nurse with the syringe hesitated before stepping forward again. “Administering midazolam now.” The second the needle pierced the woman’s skin, a guttural snarl ripped from her throat, raw and animalistic. She lunged upward, nearly toppling the stretcher as her body convulsed.

“Hold her down!” Gojo barked, moving to restrain her arms as another nurse grabbed her legs in order to place straps on her limbs.

But she was strong. Too strong.

A sickening crack echoed as the leather restraints dug into her wrists, her muscles tensing unnaturally. The veins beneath her skin bulged, an eerie blackness creeping up her forearms. “Doctor, I don’t think—”

Then she stopped.

The room fell silent except for the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Her body slackened. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. The fight was gone as if something inside of her had finally given out. Gojo slowly loosened his grip, exhaling through his nose. “Alright,” he muttered, glancing at the monitors again. “Get a full panel workup on her—blood tox, organ function, everything. And someone check her—”

A sharp gasp cut through the air. It was the nurse standing closest to the patient. Gojo turned just in time to see the woman’s eyes snap open—pupils blown so wide that her irises were nearly swallowed by darkness.

And then she lunged. The poor nurse didn’t have time to react. A wet crunch filled the room as the woman’s teeth sank deep into the nurse’s forearm. Screams erupted. Blood splattered onto the crisp white sheets, pooling onto the floor in sickening ribbons of red. The nurse staggered back, her face twisted in pain and disbelief.

Gojo acted before he could think.

He grabbed the nearest crash cart and shoved it between them, using it as a makeshift barrier. The patient—no, the thing—snapped its teeth wildly, blood dripping from its mouth as it fought against the stretcher’s restraints. The nurse clutched her arm, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “Oh my god—oh my god, she bit me—”

Gojo’s stomach twisted. His mind screamed at him to do something, to take control of the situation, but a terrifying realization settled into his bones. The room had erupted into chaos. The other nurses scrambled back, knocking over trays and equipment in their haste to put distance between themselves and the thrashing patient. Someone was screaming for security. Someone else was already reaching for the emergency call button. Gojo barely registered any of it. His gaze locked onto the nurse clutching her arm, fingers trembling as blood seeped through them. The bite was deep, the wound ragged, and the sheer force behind it—

It wasn’t normal. Nothing about this seemed normal.

“Get pressure on that wound,” he ordered sharply, breaking from his momentary paralysis. “Now.”

The injured nurse—Yuki, his mind supplied—nodded weakly, her breaths shallow, ragged. One of her colleagues rushed forward, pressing a wad of gauze onto her arm, but Yuki didn’t react. Didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out. Just stood there, swaying slightly, blinking as if she were trying to force herself to stay present. Shock. Maybe blood loss. Maybe—

The patient jerked violently, snapping Gojo’s attention back. The crash cart he’d shoved between them rattled under the force of her struggle. Despite the restraints digging into her wrists, despite the blood smeared across her lips, she kept fighting, kept lunging, animalistic grunts spilling from her throat. The guttural sound sent a chill down his spine. “Doctor, what do we do?” someone asked, voice tight with barely contained fear.

Gojo’s jaw clenched. “We—” His words faltered as he looked at her again. The way her body contorted, the unnatural sharpness of her movements—it wasn’t human. It wasn’t just an overdose, or psychosis, or anything that made sense.

And Yuki—

He turned back toward her, but his frown deepened when he saw what had already begun to happen. She was trembling now, violently, like something inside her was coming undone. Her breathing had grown erratic, a wet, gurgling rasp behind each inhale. Her pupils—God, her pupils. They were dilating, swallowing up every trace of brown, leaving behind only an abyss of black. Gojo had seen overdoses. He’d seen trauma. He’d seen people die on his table. But he had never seen anything like this. The realization settled into his bones, cold and unshakable.

This wasn’t a patient. This was something else entirely.

The nurse who was helping Yuki with pressure on the wound was next to go, and so was the other nurse, then the security, the older woman at the desk who always offered him donuts from her daughter’s shop, and the other patients. Everything was a mess; people were running and screaming everywhere. Satoru was used to chaos and panic, but this—this wasn’t the same. Sharp eyes darted around as he tried to make sense of the bloodbath happening in front of him, fingers twitching by his sides. The sounds seemed to blend into one, his eyes closing momentarily—willing himself to take a deep breath and calm his body.

“Dr. Gojo!”

A shout for his name has him moving instantly, head whipping over to one of the newer nurses. She was backed against the supply cabinet, eyes wide with sheer terror, hands shaking as she gripped a pair of trauma shears like they were her last line of defense. “They’re—” Her breath hitched, and she shook her head violently. “They’re attacking everyone!”

No shit.

Gojo didn’t waste time responding. He could see it, hear it, feel the horror crawling under his skin like an infection of its own. The nurse who had tried to help Yuki was on the floor now, her throat torn open, gurgling as her hands weakly clawed at nothing. Another had barely made it two steps before the security guard—no, the thing that had been the security guard—tackled her to the ground, teeth sinking into her shoulder. The older woman at the front desk. The patients waiting for help. The paramedics who had wheeled in that first patient.

One by one, they fell, and one by one, they rose again.

Screams shattered through the air, but Gojo forced himself to push forward. His mind raced, trying to grasp at some kind of explanation, some kind of rationalization, but there was none. His body was running on autopilot, instincts screaming for him to do something—anything—before he was next. He reached out, grabbing the younger nurse’s wrist, his grip firm but not cruel. “We need to move,” he ordered, his voice steady despite the chaos. “Now.” She didn’t argue. She couldn’t. The moment she nodded, he pulled her with him, shoving past overturned chairs and blood-slick floors, trying to navigate the quickest way out. Every second counted. Every turn was a gamble.

And just as they rounded the corner toward the exit—

Another figure lurched toward them, half of its face missing, blood dripping down the remnants of its jaw. “Shit!” he manages to evade the attack, simultaneously pushing the nurse to the side. However, it proved to be useless when one of the paramedics grabbed at her ankle with ungodly strength and took a bite out of the flesh.

Her scream pierced through the chaos, raw and agonized. She thrashed, kicking at the paramedic-turned-monster, but its grip was relentless, teeth tearing into her calf with sickening force. Blood sprayed across the linoleum floor, pooling beneath her as her body twisted in desperation. “Fuck!” Gojo moved before he could think, his hand finding the nearest IV pole. With a forceful swing, he brought it down onto the thing’s skull. Once. Twice. The dull crack of bone giving way under steel echoed through the hall. The creature twitched before finally going still, its jaws slackening, releasing the nurse’s mangled leg.

She was hyperventilating, trying to scramble backward, her fingers slipping in her own blood. “It hurts—oh god, it—”

“Get up no—”

He doesn’t finish that sentence when her body twitches, jerking in ways that look like they could break bones. Her eyes, wide with terror only a second ago, rolled back into her head. A violent convulsion wracked her body, limbs twitching unnaturally as if something inside her was seizing control. Foam bubbled at the corners of her lips, her chest heaving in frantic, uneven spasms. Gojo had seen people die before. He had seen bodies succumb to the limits of mortality, had fought against it with everything he had. But this was wrong. He didn’t know if he could save these people. This was all getting out of hand way too fast. “Sumi.” He crouched beside her, one hand hovering uncertainly over her shoulder. “Stay with me. Breathe.”

But she wasn’t breathing. Not properly. Her gasps came out in short, shallow bursts, her pupils dilating until nothing remained of their original color. Her fingers twitched, curling like claws against the floor. The convulsions stopped. And then…her body went completely still. Gojo swallowed, dread pooling in his stomach like lead. He knew what was coming before it even happened, but a small, desperate part of him still hesitated.

“Sumi?” he tried again, softer this time.

She moved. Not like a person. Not like someone regaining consciousness. Her head jerked to the side with a sickening pop, her gaze snapping up to meet his. A slow, eerie smile stretched across her face, lips splitting over teeth now stained red with her own blood. And then she lunged. Gojo barely had time to react. He threw himself backward, her teeth missing his throat by inches. She scrambled forward on hands and knees, faster than she should have been able to move. A guttural snarl tore from her throat—a sound that no human should be able to make.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the IV pole again and swung. It connected with a sickening crunch, but she kept coming. Even with her skull caving in, even with blood pouring from her shattered face—she kept coming. "Fuck," he hissed, bracing himself.

This wasn’t an illness or whatever it may have been. This wasn’t a psychotic episode. This was something else entirely. And if he didn’t get the hell out of here—

He was next.

He collides the pole into her head three more times before her body goes slack, a gaping hole that pours blood out onto the floor. Satoru doesn’t look back as he quickly scrambles to his feet and runs to the door leading to the stairwells. Doesn’t stop moving forward even after the snarls and growls of whatever those fucking things are chasing him up, but gets ultimately distracted when other nurses, doctors, patients, and family members open the doors leading to their floor—completely unaware of what kind of hell just took place below them. He’s running and running until there’s nowhere to run to anymore. The top floor of the hospital that’s been under renovation, almost close to finishing. It’s empty for the most part until the construction workers decide to grace the place with their presence.

He opens the double doors with quickness, rushing inside and closing them right behind him. t’s a temporary refuge. The space is large and open, construction equipment scattered around like remnants of a dream left unfinished. The sterile white walls have been interrupted by half-constructed walls and loose cables, the sharp smell of fresh paint and cement mixing with the foul, metallic stench of blood that clings to him. Looking around, he grabs one of the longer cables and wraps it in and around the handles of the door, essentially ensuring the doors can’t be opened from the outside. He steps back slowly, his chest heaving. His thoughts are a blur, too fast to catch up with, too fast to make sense of. How the fuck did this happen? He thought he was in control. He thought he understood everything.

But what just happened outside? He has not a damn clue.

“I—w-what?” you gulp out, eyes wide and staring at the man who holds your fate in the palm of his hand.

“You heard me,” he dryly scoffs, his smirk unnerving. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“A-Are you fucking insane?!” your face scrunches when he presses the axe closer, pressing a hand down onto the handle in an attempt to keep it at bay.

“Maybe, but I’m also not taking chances, even if you are pretty.”

Your heart races as his words hit you, and for a moment, you freeze. “Pretty?” You repeat, your mind struggling to focus through the adrenaline rush and fear.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he cuts you off, his voice low and dangerous, though there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “Pretty people don’t get a free pass. You’re either useful... or you're one of them." The tip of the axe shifts, hovering dangerously close to your throat. "So, what’s it gonna be?"

“Listen,” you stammer, trying to think fast, “I—I’m not part of whatever the hell’s going on out there. I’m just trying to survive, okay? I’m not a threat to you.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word, but his gaze never wavers from you. It's like he's waiting for you to say something more.

“And how do I know that? You could be lying to my face for all I know,” he quips back, head tilting in a scrutinizing way. His eyes scan down your body, lingering a bit too much on your legs—though not as much as your chest.

You huff, trying to ignore the way his gaze makes your skin crawl. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I’m bleeding, exhausted, and just barely survived getting ripped apart out there?” You gesture wildly toward the door. “Does that scream ‘like one of them’ to you?”

Gojo hums, tapping his fingers against the handle of the axe. “Mmm… could just mean you’re a tough little thing.” His smirk deepens, and he finally meets your eyes again. “But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Mostly ‘cause you’re pretty.”

But he just said…. Your face twists in disbelief. “That’s it?”

“Hey, don’t look so disappointed.” He finally lowers the axe, resting it against his shoulder. “I could’ve gone with my first instinct and chopped your head off. But lucky you—” his grin turns downright cocky— “I’m a sucker for a good underdog story.”

He steps back, grabs what looks to be a wire or chord of some sort, and loops it through the handles of the doors, tying it roughly. And only then do you allow yourself to look him over as well. He’s wearing green scrubs and a white coat layered overtop. The material is stained with what you can only assume is blood, his hair unkempt and white strands poking up in all different directions as he runs a hand through it. A thin pair of silver-framed, rectangle glasses sit on his chin, the lenses look scuffed up. He must have been through some shit too. Not like you’re going to ask. He watches you carefully, his stance still tense, as if he’s waiting for the slightest reason to raise that axe again. But then, as if some invisible weight lifts off his shoulders, he exhales and takes another step back. The distance he gives isn’t much, but it’s enough for you to stop feeling like you’re seconds away from death. You take a slow breath, your limbs still trembling from everything that just happened.

His sharp blue eyes meet yours again, and the smirk he wore earlier has faded into something unreadable. “So,” he says, voice casual despite the tension still thick in the air. “What’s your deal? You really come all the way up here just to bang on my door and scream for help?”

You frown, straightening your posture even though exhaustion still weighs you down. “I had nowhere else to go. Excuse me for believing there were other survivors. I ran here, I–I thought there’d be help. Doctors…something.”

He scoffs. “Little late for that.”

“No shit.”

He turns his back to you, striding over to the window and looking out. “So,” he begins. “This….stuff…it’s happening outside the hospital too, I assume.”

“Yeah,” you nod, letting out a big and tired huff of air. Grunting to yourself as you allow your body an ample amount of time to recover from the shock it just experienced. Sinking down to the floor and sighing in relief—the floor has never felt more comfortable than it does right now. Satoru hums in acknowledgment, but there’s an edge to it, like he already knew the answer before you even said it. He places a hand on the windowsill, fingers drumming idly against the surface as he stares down at the wreckage below. The city that was once bustling with life is now a graveyard, streets littered with abandoned cars, bodies—some moving, some not—and plumes of smoke rising in the distance.

His jaw tightens. “Figures.” You watch him, taking in the way his shoulders are drawn tight, the way his fingers twitch like he’s fighting the urge to grip something—maybe the axe still resting against his hip. He’s trying to stay collected, but you’ve seen enough people break today to recognize when someone is on the verge of it. Not that you care. You’re barely holding it together yourself. “Did you see anyone else on your way here?” he asks, still looking out the window.

You hesitate, thinking about your friends losing their lives right in front of you and the fact that Sayo is still lying out there in the middle of it all. You press a hand to the side of your head, eyes squeezing shut, stomach churning. “No one made it,” you mutter, voice hoarse. “Not in a way that mattered.”

At that, Gojo finally turns back around, studying you with an unreadable expression. He leans against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. “That so?”

You nod, but you don’t elaborate. You don’t want to talk about it.

The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the occasional distant sounds of chaos outside. You furrow your brows, just for a moment, allowing your body to sag against the cold floor. It feels like the only solid thing in your life right now.

“You’re hurt.”

Your eyes snap open. Gojo is looking at your arm now, at the blood staining your sleeve. His brows furrow slightly. You blink down at it, almost having forgotten the wound entirely with everything else going on. “Oh. Yeah.” You move your fingers, testing how bad it really is. A sharp sting shoots up your arm, making you hiss. “It’s fine,” you lie.

Gojo clicks his tongue, pushing off the wall. “Yeah, well, I’d rather not get stuck in here with a liability. Get up.”

You glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“I said get up,” he repeats, walking over to where a few carts with wheels standby. You see him open one of the drawers, a basic first aid kit coming into sight. “You want to live, don’t you?”

You don’t answer right away, but eventually, with a groan, you force yourself to your feet. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Haven’t you seen any zombie movies? It’s a scratch but maybe you already have whatever the hell those things do. You’re lucky you’re not spazzing out on the floor right now, then I’d really have a reason to kill you.”

Your lip curls up, walking over to where he is. Opening the kit, and moving some of the supplies to the side to grab a few anti-bacterial wipes. “For a doctor, you talk about killing someone way too easily. Are you sure you’re certified?”

He lets out an amused huff, shaking his head as he leans against the cart. “Certified? Honey, I’m overqualified.”

He watches as you take off your jacket with one hand, his lips twitching. You grab one of the wipes he opened, hesitating to apply it to your wound. You catch the barely concealed smirk, shooting him a glare. “Are you just gonna stand there and make jokes, or are you actually going to help?”

He sighs dramatically, pushing off the cart. “Well, since you asked so nicely.”

Before you can protest, he snatches the wipe from you, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second. The way he moves is so effortless, so natural, that you almost don’t register what’s happening until he’s gripping your wrist with a firm but gentle touch. “Relax,” he drawls, dabbing at the wound. The sting burns deep, making you suck in a sharp breath, arm jerking involuntarily. His grip tightens for just a second before loosening again. “You’d think someone who just ran for their life wouldn’t be such a baby over a little antiseptic.”

You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to yank your arm away. “Says the guy who pulled an axe on me two seconds after saving my ass.”

Satoru shrugs. “You looked suspicious. Plus, it was funny.”

“Yeah? Almost getting your throat slit is funny to you?”

His grin widens, but there’s something sharp in the way he looks up at you, something unreadable behind those piercing blue eyes. “I like to keep things interesting.”

You swallow, refusing to let the unease creeping up your spine show. Instead, you roll your eyes, looking away. “Whatever.” The silence resumes between you again, but this time, it’s not as…weird. He works quickly, applying some of the ointment before pressing a bandage over the wound and giving your arm a light pat. “There. Good as new.”

You snatch your wrist back, flexing your fingers. “You could’ve just given me the supplies. I know how to take care of myself.”

Satoru rolls his eyes and steps back. “Yeah? You mean the way you ‘took care of yourself’ by running in here screaming for help?” Your jaw clenches, but before you can snap at him, a noise echoes from outside the door—a low, guttural groan, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of footsteps. Your heart rate spikes. Gojo, however, merely tilts his head, his expression unreadable. Then, with a teasing lilt, he murmurs, “Looks like we’ve got company.”

“We should—”

“Don’t worry, they’re not getting through it.” His footsteps carry him to the double doors, giving the wire another small knot. “This can hold ‘em back.”

“Really?” you can’t help but scoff in disbelief. Eyes wide and hurrying over to his side. “That? That can hold whatever the fuck those things are back? This is a hospital and you guys can’t afford to have regular locks on your doors?”

Gojo hums, seemingly unbothered by your concern as he gives the doors a light push, testing the strength of his handiwork. “Locks slow things down. Not exactly ideal in a place where every second counts.”

You let out a sharp breath, glancing between him and the doors. “Yeah, well, I think we’re a little past ‘every second counts’ now, don’t you?”

He turns to you with a charming smile, shoving his hands into the pockets of his scrubs. “Relax. If they do get through, I’ve got an axe, and you…” His gaze flickers down to your empty hands before lifting back up to your face, his smirk deepening with an amused chuckle. “Well, you’ve got a strong set of lungs.”

Your eyes narrow, lips parting to throw some kind of retort at him, but another groan from the other side of the door makes your blood run cold. It’s closer this time, more urgent. The sound of nails scraping against the wood sends a violent shiver up your spine. He merely tilts his head, listening. “Sounds like they really want in.”

You stare at him incredulously. “And you’re still just standing there?”

“Would you rather I open the door and say hello?”

You groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you grumble under your breath. The sound of something heavy slamming against the door makes you both freeze. Your breath catches in your throat as the doors rattle in their hinges, the knot in the wire straining under the pressure.

Gojo clicks his tongue. “Huh.”

“Huh? What the hell is ‘huh’ supposed to mean?”

He turns to you, and for the first time, the teasing glint in his eyes dims slightly. “It means we should probably get moving.”

Your stomach drops. “I thought you said they weren’t getting through?”

He grins, reaching for his axe. “I also said I like to keep things interesting.”

You let out a string of curses under your breath as you back away from the door. “You are the worst person I could be stuck with right now.”

Gojo slings the axe over his shoulder, flashing you a wink. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“Do not call me that,” you tell him firmly, lip curling in disgust.

“Fine, whatever your name is.”

“My name is—”

“Look, enough talking and more trying to figure out a way out of here. One that doesn’t involve the stairs, if possible.”

You rub your face, panic setting in once more. “D-Don’t you work here? Shouldn’t you know?”

“I haven’t been up here. It’s been closed off for renovation.” He replies, looking up towards the ceiling and walking around.

“Renovation… renovation,” you repeat lowly, huffing. “Well, that’s just great. We’re gonna fucking die, and it’s all your fault.” You sink down to your knees, fingers twitching on your thighs. You didn’t think it would be possible to feel closer to death multiple times in one day, but here you are now. Bangs and groans from outside the doors interrupt your goodbye monologue.

Gojo pauses mid-step, glancing down at you with a raised brow. “My fault?” he repeats, amusement creeping back into his voice. “I don’t remember dragging you into this hospital and locking the doors behind you.”

You glare up at him, hands clenching into fists on your lap. “You could’ve at least had a damn plan!”

He sighs dramatically, rubbing the back of his neck. “I did have a plan. Step one: don’t die. Step two: don’t let some random stranger get me killed. And, so far…” He gestures vaguely toward the barricaded doors. “We’re still on step one.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Great plan, doctor. Real detailed.”

“Hey, I’m a trauma surgeon, not a survivalist. Cut me some slack.” He turns away, scanning the dimly lit hallway. “But since you’re so eager for a plan, let’s make one.” The doors creak again under another heavy slam. You flinch. Gojo merely rolls his shoulders, unfazed. “Alright,” he muses, tapping the handle of the axe against his palm. “No stairs, which means we need another way down.” His gaze flickers upward again, lingering on the ceiling. “If this place was under renovation, there should be scaffolding somewhere.”

You blink. “You want us to climb out of a hospital window?”

He shrugs. “Got a better idea?”

You press your lips together, stomach twisting. You really don’t.

Gojo grins, taking your silence as agreement. “Thought so. Now, get up. We’ve got some window shopping to do.”

Your lips purse, but the weight of the situation brings you to your feet. You let out another string of curses, glaring up at your unforeseen ally.“If we die, I’m haunting you.”

He nods. “Kinky.” Ignoring the comment, you tie your hair back. If you’re going to have a final day on Earth, firstly, you’re not dying at the hands of other…people. And two, you’re most certainly not dying next to an infuriating man like him. He’s rolling the sleeves of his white coat up, twisting his neck from side to side. “There’s an underground parking garage. Employees only. We can go there but that means going down and facing those things.” You feel your chest tighten at the thought, pressing down on your chest. Another life or death, sticky situation. It’s one thing to be running for your life; it’s another to know that the only escape route is through the very thing you’ve been desperately avoiding. Your heart races, the pulse of panic threatening to override your every thought. The way this guy speaks about it so nonchalantly, like it’s just another inconvenience, makes you sick. Does he even understand the gravity of the situation? Does he realize that going down there means walking straight into the heart of danger? You shake your head slightly, trying to push the rising dread aside. You can’t afford to be scared right now. You can’t.

But it doesn’t help. It’s still there, gnawing at your insides like a constant pressure. You glance over at Gojo, his posture relaxed, almost too confident. He’s already thinking about the next step, mentally preparing for the mess ahead while you’re still stuck back in the reality of what’s happening. The very idea of going through those things makes you want to vomit. You can almost hear their gnashing teeth, the wet, hungry sounds that have been haunting your every step since you stepped foot in this nightmare.

You can’t do this. You can’t—

But the thought dies as soon as it forms, buried beneath the heaviness of your survival instincts. There’s no other way. If you want to live, you’re going to have to face the very thing that terrifies you the most. You clench your fists, trying to keep your breathing steady, the sting of your arm a minor distraction compared to what’s coming. “Then we’re fucked either way,” you mutter, voice harsh, though the words do nothing to quiet the internal noise swirling in your mind. You push yourself to stand taller, to act like you have everything under control—even if you don’t. You won’t show weakness. Not now, not here.

Your eyes shift to Gojo, who’s still fiddling with the equipment, glancing at you as if expecting something. His words earlier, the ones about not getting stuck with a liability, echo in your head. Is that what he thinks of you? That you’re a liability? It stings more than it should, especially given the situation, but you can’t afford to linger on it. "Fine," you force out, standing up straighter, squaring your shoulders. “Let’s go. Just... just don’t slow me down.”

Gojo's expression flickers again, an unreadable glint in his eyes, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't need to. You both know that the clock is ticking, and right now, all you have is each other—whether you like it or not. He finishes tight-knotting the end of another wire to one of the pipes on the wall, connecting it with another chord, and then two more. It creates a familiar representation of what should be a rope. “We’re fifteen floors up.”

“Fifteen?” you repeat back with incredulity, eyes wide. Damn, did you really run up that many flights? Must’ve been the adrenaline because you’re usually tired after just two. You shake your head and walk over to where he’s opening the window and throwing the loose end of the long conjoined wires out.

“We’ll use this climb down.” He gives the wire a few tugs and after seeing the pipe holds it pretty well, he moves to climb out.

Your hand shoots out to grip his arm. “Wait! W-What if it’s not long enough?”

“Then we hop into the nearest window and go down from there.”

“Well, what if it snaps and we fall to our death?”

“You said you ran here, right? You should be down at least a pound or two. That’ll help us.” He shrugs.

This guy! “This isn’t a joke!” you exclaim, he turns to look down at you, eyebrow raised. “I’m not falling to my death and I’m not trusting you either. If we’re doing this, we have to be sure it’ll work.”

Gojo's gaze sharpens, just for a second, before that smirk of his reappears, more teasing than reassuring. "Don't worry, I'm not letting you die on me just yet. That would be too anticlimactic."

You grit your teeth at his response, irritation bubbling up again. It’s the kind of flippant attitude that, in any other situation, might make you walk away from him. But here? With the sound of snarling creatures growing louder outside the door and the weight of the situation pressing down on you, you don't have the luxury of being picky about your companions. You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the sleeve of his jacket, as though holding on to something—anything—that might give you the tiniest shred of control over this madness. "I’m serious," you say, your voice softer now, but no less intense. "One wrong move, and we’re done. I’m not asking for a guarantee, but I need to know you’re not going to fuck this up."

For a moment, Gojo’s eyes change with something you can’t quite interpret. He looks at you like he’s about to crack some sardonic joke, but then the edges of his expression soften—just barely. It’s a fleeting glimpse of something deeper, something more human than the cocky façade he’s been wearing. “I’m not gonna fuck this up,” he says, quieter than before. “But we need to move. I’m not here to lose time arguing.”

Your breath hitches as his words hit, that tension returning, knifing through your chest. You glance out the window, your mind running through the worst-case scenarios: falling to the ground, your body snapping under the impact, the wire giving way to the weight of your desperation. But it’s not like you have a choice. There’s no other way out. You draw in a slow, deliberate breath, your hands shaking slightly as you release his arm and step toward the window. The world outside feels like another universe—chaotic, terrifying, but somehow still just beyond reach. You force yourself to meet Gojo's eyes, ignoring the flash of doubt that tries to creep in.

"After you," you mutter, voice almost drowned out by the cacophony of the chaos below. He flashes you a grin, far too confident for your liking, before stepping onto the ledge and disappearing over it. The faint thrum of your pulse fills your ears, your heart hammering with every passing second. You don’t have the luxury of hesitating. You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. He’s first out the window, using the wire to grip onto.

The wire stretches out below you, and you can hear Gojo’s voice calling up from beneath, the sound of his boots scraping against the side of the building. “Let’s go,” he shouts. “You’re not dying up there.”

You force yourself to swallow the fear choking your throat. There’s no turning back now. If you want to survive, you’ll have to trust him, even just this once. With one final glance at the locked door behind you—the thing keeping the chaos at bay—you grab hold of the wire. Your fingers slip a little, the metal feeling cold and foreign in your hands. The weight of everything makes it hard to breathe, but you don’t stop. Not now. One step at a time. Very slowly, you climb out the window, gripping your savior for dear life. The soles of your running shoes stamp down onto the side of the hospital building. Your breathing feels shaky and uneven, but you will your body to climb down.

Every muscle in your body protests as you inch your way down the side of the building, the rough texture of the concrete beneath your feet scraping against your shoes. Your fingers ache, but you cling to the wire, each grip desperate and frantic as you descend into the unknown below. The air feels thicker and colder, the sounds of the hospital—the pounding, the growls, the chaos—fading to nothing but a distant memory.

Your breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts, and your mind races, replaying every terrifying moment up until now. The face of Sayo flashes through your thoughts, the guilt already gnawing at you, even though your survival instinct tells you there's no time to dwell on what happened back there. Every inch lower feels like a countdown to a disaster, your stomach twisting, tight with nerves. "Take it slow," Gojo calls up to you from below, his voice loud enough to cut through the fear ringing in your ears. "You don’t want to make it worse by rushing."

You don't answer, too focused on the descent. Your foot slips for a brief moment, a sharp jolt running through your body, but you catch yourself just in time, heart racing. You curse under your breath, forcing yourself to calm down to breathe, but it’s hard when everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control. As you both climb your descent, you pass by multiple windows of the hospital, barely having time to look in before one of those creatures gets too close to the glass, mangled faces pressed to the glass, and forcing you to hide off to the side. You keep your eyes away from the windows, focusing entirely on the wire beneath your hands. It’s your lifeline now. Your only hope. But the tension in your fingers only grows with each inch you descend, like the wire’s becoming slick with your own fear. Just keep going, you tell yourself. Just keep going.

Gojo’s voice breaks through the pounding in your head again. “You’re doing fine. Just don’t look down.”

It’s a futile piece of advice—too late for that—but you squeeze your eyes shut for a second, trying to block out the height. The wind blows harder as you continue downward, the hospital walls below fading into an indistinct blur. You try not to think about what happens if you fall, if the wire breaks, or if one of those monsters happens to look up at the wrong moment. But the thought of Sayo, Yui, and everyone else; the guilt that gnaws at your insides, pushes those fears aside. You can't let that weigh you down. Not now. Not when there’s still a chance to survive.

"Don't stop. Just keep going," Gojo’s voice calls up again, louder this time, but with a tone that’s almost… comforting. Even if his words are wrapped in layers of sarcasm, there’s something strangely steadying about his presence.

You’re not sure if it's the adrenaline, the tension, or just the fact that you’ve been hanging onto this wire for what feels like forever, but you feel a little more steady with each passing second. Your hands are raw now, the skin on your palms chafed, but you don’t let go. Not for a second. The wind picks up even more, swirling around you, carrying with it the smells of burning rubber and smoke. Your hands are starting to burn. The world outside feels vast, too vast, and your head spins as you force yourself to stay focused on the task at hand. The ground seems so far away. It feels like you’ll never make it. You finally manage to glance down, just for a split second, and the ground below makes your stomach lurch. The parking garage’s concrete floor looks miles away, the edges of your vision blurring with the pressure. Your heart slams in your chest as you look up quickly, trying to keep the vertigo from overwhelming you.

You can hear Gojo below you, his voice sounding closer now, his hands gripping the wire with practiced ease. “Almost there,” he calls, though his tone doesn’t seem too urgent, as if he’s been in worse situations than this.

You shake your head, teeth gritted, trying to shut out the panic creeping into your chest. There’s still a part of you that wonders if this was a mistake—if you’re not going to make it. You can’t help but wonder if Gojo’s not just as clueless as you are. But his presence, his confident tone, keeps you moving. Then, just as you're nearing the final stretch, your foot slips again, sending a jolt of panic through you. You catch yourself, but not without a sharp cry, a gasp of air leaving your chest as your stomach drops. For a moment, you just hang there, suspended in midair, body trembling. "Shit," you mutter under your breath, eyes squeezing shut, breathing out and focusing.

His voice cuts through the panic. “You alright?” There’s a hint of concern now, masked by his usual cool demeanor.

“Yeah,” you call out, “I’m fine.” But even to your own ears, your voice sounds shaky. You push yourself forward again, hands clutching at the wire like a lifeline. You’re close. So close. The ground is finally coming into view—barely more than a few feet away. Your body aches, and your head is spinning, but you can’t stop now.

The wind picks up again, and your foot slips again. Catching yourself even harder this time, combined with your sweaty but burning palms. You can faintly make out him calling up to you once more, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of your body jolting as you slide down in a momentary free-fall. “Shit!”

The wire feels too slippery for you to catch, and you begin to have that epiphany of your life flashing before your eyes for what must be the hundredth time today. Until, a firm catches you by your waist, locked and secured around it. The sound of his hissed grunt hits your eyes, and the two of your bodies swing side to side, back and forth, until he steadies you both against the wall. Breathing heavily, he huffs as he adjusts his hold. Your eyes open after closing them after what you thought would be your death. His chest is pressed against your back. “Hold,” he gruffs out.

You do so quickly. Your heart beats wildly, out of sync with everything, but the panic begins to fade, slowly—bit by bit. The world around you sharpens again, and you’re aware of how precariously close you were to falling. To dying. The thought makes your stomach flip. “Not today,” you murmur, your voice hoarse, raw from the strain of the climb and the near-death experience you’ve just had.

“Not today,” he repeats, a strange softness in his tone, a touch of something almost reassuring.

Your heart pounds in your chest, the thundering of your pulse loud in your ears, as the adrenaline from the near-fall surges through your body, shaking your hands and making your legs feel like jelly. Every breath feels like it’s ripping through your lungs, but it’s a strange sense of relief that comes with Gojo’s grip around your waist, anchoring you to the side of the building like a lifeline you didn’t know you needed. His chest pressed to your back serves as a grim reminder of how close you were to plummeting, but it also feels like an odd comfort—something solid in a world that's falling apart. Your thoughts are too scattered to make sense of much. The ground still feels so impossibly far away, the wind whipping through your hair, tugging at your clothes as though the earth itself is trying to pull you down. It’s dizzying, suffocating. But you manage to focus on his voice, low and steady, cutting through the panic that threatens to overtake you.

“Breathe, slow down. You’re alright,” he mutters into your ear, his breath warm against the cold air. It’s a strange thing to hear him say. A little gentler, less cocky than the usual bravado, but just as firm. And for a split second, you almost believe him. You almost start to believe that maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it through this.

The steady pressure of his hold keeps you from losing control, even as your body trembles. His grip tightens around you, not with urgency, but with intent—like he’s waiting for the right moment to push you forward. It makes something stir inside you, a complicated knot of anger and gratitude that you can’t quite untangle. You don’t want to rely on him, not like this. You don’t want to admit how much you need him to get through this. Still, you force yourself to steady your breath, eyes flickering open for a moment to glance at the ground below. It’s even closer now—so close you can almost taste the concrete. The garage is just a few more feet down. But the thought of trying to make it the rest of the way on your own, after what just happened, is enough to make your stomach twist. What if I fall again? What if this was a mistake?

But then Gojo’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts again, this time with a touch more force.

“Stop thinking so much,” he says, his grip shifting as he pulls you up slightly, adjusting his hold around your waist. “We’re almost there. Just focus. Just focus on getting your feet on the ground.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. Your hands are slick, your body worn from the climb, but you manage to find some semblance of focus, forcing your limbs to obey. Just a little longer. The ground is so close now, and though your head spins with vertigo, you push yourself forward, feet sliding along the building, each movement controlled, even though every muscle in your body screams in protest. You can feel the tension in Gojo’s grip as he pulls you closer to the final stretch, his voice barely a whisper against your ear now, “Almost there. Don’t stop now.” The air feels thick, every inch of movement dragging on, but you finally feel it—your feet graze against something solid, the rough concrete finally meeting the soles of your shoes. The relief that washes over you is almost overwhelming. You’ve made it. You’ve actually made it. You stumble, catching yourself with a grunt, and then, finally, you collapse—your legs giving way beneath you as you hit the concrete. You're breathing heavily, but you’re alive. "That was a close one," you mutter, trying to push yourself up. Your limbs feel like lead, each movement sluggish and strained, but the fear, the tension, it slowly starts to lift, replaced with a faint but undeniable relief.

Gojo doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looks down at you for a moment—his expression indecipherable, like he’s sizing you up in the aftermath of it all. But there’s something different in his gaze this time. Less amused, less cocky. Maybe even... appreciative? You can’t tell, but it’s there. “Yeah,” he finally replies, his voice steady as ever, but there's a flicker of something beneath it. "But we’re not out yet."

You nod, slowly rising to your feet, the muscles in your legs protesting, but you push through. You look up at him—his white coat now stained with the grime of the descent, his hair even more wild, but still carrying that aura of unshakable confidence. He adjusts his glasses and nods in the direction of the parking garage. “C’mon.”

You don’t hesitate in following him, heads swiveling around in wariness and anticipation—as if something will pop out of the shadows out of nowhere. The tension in the air is suffocating, every step feeling heavier than the last as you follow closely behind Gojo. Your breath is still uneven from the climb, your hands aching from gripping the wire so tightly, but you push the discomfort aside. There’s no time for weakness. Not now. Not when the world around you feels like it’s on the verge of collapse.

Gojo moves with a controlled urgency, his sharp gaze darting from shadow to shadow, scanning every inch of the dimly lit parking garage. The flickering overhead lights cast eerie, shifting shapes along the concrete walls, distorting reality into something far more menacing. Your grip tightens around the weapon in your hand—whatever little defense you have left. Your nerves are on edge, every sound amplified. The distant groan of metal, the faint echo of dripping water, the shuffling noise that could either be the wind or something far worse. You swallow hard, keeping close, your body tense, waiting—expecting—something to lunge at you from the darkness.

It’s quiet, luckily. The dim setting of the parking garage offers a surprising amount of comfort than it usually would. He stops, causing you to do so subsequently. Reaching his hand in his pocket, a momentary look of surprise flashing over his face. He pats his pants down. Your eyes widen. “I don’t think I have my keys.”

“What?!” you cry out, hands shooting out to feel for yourself. Your face falls when you feel something, looking up at him with a tight expression.

He giggles, pulling his keys out and dangling them in front of you. “Juuust kidding, got you.”

“That’s not funny at all,” you grumble, following him.

Gojo laughs lightly at your response, the tension of the situation momentarily dissipating as he continues toward the exit. His pace quickens, urgency returning as his eyes shift to scan the corners of the garage, still sharp, focused. The light flickers again, casting long, jagged shadows across the concrete. You try to steady your breath, feeling a mix of irritation and relief. He seems like he’s always like this—trying to break the tension with his stupid jokes. But you can’t afford to let your guard down now, not when every shadow could hide danger. You move in close, staying right behind him, though part of you wants to keep your distance. He holds an arm out and you think it’s to alert you of something in the distance. But there’s a car beeping.

You look over and spot an eccentrically blue BMW. The BMW M4 sits in stark contrast to the grimy parking garage, its electric sapphire paint catching the dim light. Dirt and faint scratches mar its sleek surface, a testament to hurried getaways. The black carbon fiber hood and tinted windows add an air of mystery, while the low growl of the engine as it unlocks is a reminder of its power. It looks almost out of place here—too flashy, too pristine—but right now, it doesn’t matter. “Stranger, meet Baby. Baby, meet stranger.” Satoru grins, puffing his chest out like he’s won a race or something.

Your lip downturns.

“So,” he looks at you. “What do you—”

“Pussies drive BMWs,” you cut him off, walking forward and over to the passenger side. “Mercedes is better.”

Gojo freezes mid-sentence, lips parting in mock offense before breaking into a loud, incredulous laugh. "Excuse me?" He places a hand over his chest, feigning deep betrayal. "Baby did nothing to deserve that slander."

You don’t spare him a glance, yanking open the passenger door and sliding in. The interior is just as sleek as you’d expect—black leather seats, ambient blue lighting humming softly along the edges, the faint scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Gojo slides into the driver’s seat, shaking his head with a smirk. "You wound me, truly. But you know what? I’ll let it slide since you clearly have bad taste."

You scoff, buckling your seatbelt. "Says the guy who just giggled at his own joke five minutes ago."

He gasps, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead. "Unbelievable. I offer you my protection, my car—my beautiful Baby—and this is the thanks I get?"

You roll your eyes. "Just drive, Dr…." You tilt your head to look at his nametag. “Gojo.”

At the sound of his title, he hmphs triumphantly and buckles up, you follow suit. “Maybe call me Satoru. You’re not a patient of mine nor do you work with me.”

“And I’m glad I’m not.”

“That’s your cue to say your name now, silly.” Putting the car in drive, he slowly peels out of the parking garage, eyes scanning outside from left to right in a constant motion.

You hesitate for a moment, debating whether or not to give him your real name. But then again, what does it matter now? “It’s Y/N,” you finally say, watching the streets as the car glides smoothly onto the road.

Gojo hums, testing the name on his tongue like he’s committing it to memory. “Hmm, suits you. I like it.”

You don’t respond, instead turning your focus to the eerily empty streets. The city feels wrong—too quiet, too still. Neon signs flicker in and out of life, casting the sidewalks in a dull, ghostly glow. Storefronts sit abandoned, some doors left wide open like their owners had no time to shut them. You sigh and rub your face. “Where are we going?”

“Dunno, maybe my place.”

“For what?”

“If an apocalypse is starting, I’m not forgetting my moisturizer.”

You grit your teeth but decide to hold back on an insult. For now. “Fine. Then mine.”

Gojo raises a brow, amused. “Oh? You wanna grab your moisturizer too?”

You shoot him a glare. “No. I need my things. Clothes, supplies—” you pause, glancing out the window at the desolate cityscape. “Weapons.”

He whistles. “Damn, didn’t peg you for the paranoid type. You keep an arsenal under your bed or something?”

You exhale sharply, not in the mood for jokes. “Just drive.”

Gojo shrugs but obeys, making a turn onto the main road. His grip on the wheel tightens ever so slightly, his eyes flicking between the rearview mirror and the darkened streets ahead. “Alright, boss. Just don’t be mad if I judge your taste in home decor.”

You lean back in the seat, watching the quietness of the city fly past you. Luckily you haven’t seen any of those things—zombies?—yet. That’s a good thing, it should be. But you’re starting to find out that the still eeriness of just nothing might be even scarier. The city feels more and more like a ghost town the further you drive. It’s unsettling—how quickly everything unraveled, how an entire population could just vanish, leaving behind only flickering lights and abandoned cars. You tighten your grip on your seatbelt. “How far is your place from here?”

“Fifteen minutes, give or take. Yours?”

“About the same.”

Gojo drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Good. Then we grab what we need and figure out the next step. And then…” He sends you a sideways glance, an excited lilt to his voice. “We’re stopping by a gas station.”

You furrow your brows. “For what?”

He grins. “Snacks.”

(if i forgot to tag you, pls let me know) taglist: @sukuxna0 @heartsteelkaynconsumer @myahfig4 @kirachuyuu @sypnasis

@ducky1232 @oromanticism @2late4breakfast @beabamboo @dickktektive

@sleepyyammy @tbzzluvr @beabamboo @lovely-maryj @n1vi

@ojdubije @reixtsu @istha5 @ritsatoru @sadmonke

@zoeyflower @topmeyelena @sourairi @jlandersen01 @vamppirez

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navybrat817 · 4 months ago

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It's Cold Outside

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky reflects while standing out in the snow and meets an angel... you.

Word Count: Over 700

Warnings: Slight angst, Bucky remembering the past, instacrush of sorts, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: For @the-slumberparty's December Daze Challenge: the first day of snow. May do a few more ficlets for them ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he was happy to see snow. It reminded him too much of that fateful day on the train. The snowflakes falling from the sky was as if he was falling again, this time in slow motion. The crystals were beautiful, but fragile. They could easily break or spell doom for people who weren’t careful. And it was cold. Very cold.

He rubbed his metal arm absentmindedly under his coat. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine warm flesh instead of an instrument of destruction. Maybe he would’ve gotten a tattoo to honor his unit or family. The needle piercing his skin would’ve been pain he welcomed instead of the pain he didn’t ask for others to inflict on him. He didn’t just lose his arm when he fell. He lost himself.

The life of Sergeant Barnes ended, and the Winter Soldier began.

Tilting his head toward the sky, he couldn’t remember why he went outside to begin with. Maybe the bitter cold would freeze over the gaping mental hole in his heart long enough that he’d stop bleeding. Or maybe he wanted to feel the sharp wind blowing in his face to prove that he was still alive and standing. That no matter how many times the world knocked him down, he’d get up again.

But, God, why did it have to be so cold?

And why did he have to face it alone?

“Hi!”

Snowflakes gently fell around you and made you shine like the brightest star in the sky. So did your smile. It was so blinding he almost looked away, but he was afraid if he did so that you’d disappear.

A beautiful voice drifted to his ears and he was certain his heart stopped, but not in a way that made him afraid. Turning toward the source of that sound, he found himself staring at you. And his heart never beat faster.

Where did you come from? Were you an angel who landed safely from heaven? Did angels exist? He was ready to become a believer.

And it was the first time he felt warm all day.

He grudgingly tore his gaze away to make sure you weren’t looking at someone else, but he was the only one on the sidewalk. “Hi,” he croaked.

“Do you live here? I’m moving in,” you said, nodding to the building behind him. “Figures the day I do would be the day it snows and no one can make it out here to help,” you added teasingly when he didn’t answer right away.

He was too captivated by you to speak.

Blinking and telling himself not to gawk at you like a creep, he then noticed the box in your hands. “Yeah, I do,” he said, his feet moving on their own accord. “Can I help?” he asked, offering to take the box. Any excuse to continue to be close to you.

“Oh, thanks,” you smiled, making him lose his breath. “I really appreciate it, um…”

“Bucky. I’m Bucky,” he said, wishing he could shake your hand.

You gave him your name as a snowflake touched the corner of your mouth and melted. He no longer wanted frost over his heart. He wanted your warmth to fill his heart instead. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” he smiled back, spotting the small truck nearby. He understood why the weather might keep people away, but having to move by yourself? He didn’t want you to freeze or risk you falling with the many trips. “And, listen, if you need help with more of your stuff, I have time.”

“Really?” The next smile you gave him was a bit shyer than the previous, but was just as beautiful. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he promised.

You briefly touched his left hand, and he could blame the gasp on the chill in the air if you asked. He didn’t have to close his eyes to imagine the warmth. It moved from his fingertips to his shoulder and he wondered if you really were an angel.

“That would be amazing. Thank you.” You turned around to get another box. “I’ll have to find a way to repay you.”

Maybe you’d join him for dinner one night. That would be repayment enough for him. And seeing you smile over your shoulder, for the first time since he could remember, he didn’t mind the cold. Or the snow.

Lovelies, I think Bucky deserves some love for Christmas. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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seaspringangel · 9 months ago

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tears like sugar — boothill

summary: the sweetness of your tears makes boothill feel human again.

word count: 1.0k

content warnings: fem!reader ✦ dacryphilia ✦ oral sex(fem!receiving) ✦ overstimulation ✦ some touch starvation ✦ pet names (sugarplum /baby)

notes: just boothill being a love drunk simp <3

“Yer so pretty when ya cry.”

Boothill's hold on your naked hip was bruising and possessive as he pushed you down on the bed, but he still traced a tender, affectionate line from your temple to the bottom of your eyelashes beading with tears as he smiled crookedly; he imagined it to be a star pattern, pressing light into your skin. “I like it when yer face gets all soft n’ cloudy n’ sweet.”

You flushed, bashfully attempting to cover your face with your hands, but Boothill wasn’t having any of that. He gently peeled them away, forcing you to stare at his face, bright with adoration. “C’mon, sugarplum, ya’ know I need to see your face when I make you fall apart.”

Boothill had missed you so desperately. His work as a Galaxy Ranger always took him so far from where your hands could touch him. So many bitter nights kept him from the comfort of your arms, as grounding to him as the star shine that he traveled amongst, leaving him full of yearning, loneliness, and dreams filled with you.

If he still could cry tears, Boothill would have shed several, letting them rain down on your face. But that part of his humanity has long been bled out of him, craved out of his body, sold for parts, phantom tears forever haunting his eyes. So how can one blame him that he was addicted to the loveliness that was you jumping in his awaiting arms, your adorable tears moistening the metal of his neck?

Boothill had you laid out beneath him, your body a universe made for his hands; every awe-inspired, reverent stroke and caress from the pleasure-pain of his fingers and teeth and tongue left you flushed so beautifully, color painting your body like a sunrise, and Boothill couldn’t help himself, he could never help himself when it came to you; he nipped at the soft bud of your nipple, and the sting of heavenly pain was so sudden you gasped, shivers dancing up your spine, liquid heat pooling in your stomach, an electric fire sparking to life inside you as you push yourself into his metallic chest, embers kissing shards of ice.

And more tears, shining and sweet, gathered in your eyelashes. Boothill wanted those tears to slide down your cheeks and into his mouth like falling stars.

All of his hot blood had long been frosted over with metal and circuitry, his robotic body an ice tundra slaughtering the spring in his veins; there was no bleeding heart to beat organically in the metal cage of his chest, no flesh or sinew to rub warmth into, but he knew you tried your best to love all of the cold hardware that forced him to be the ruthless machine he was today, with every tender kiss and affectionate touch that you showered on him. You wanted to make him feel human again. To make him feel like he is someone worth loving.

But there was no better way to show your love for him than when you fell apart in his hands, your tears raining down on him like a gift from the heavens when he lapped up the sticky sugar sweetness from your cunt, the velvet of your walls clenching around his artificial cock as he kissed away the sweet relief weeping from your eyes, the next best thing to a sugar rush for him. That’s what made his empty cavity of a chest burn with something bright and warm: your tears, salty and lovely and just for him alone. That is what made him human.

Boothill continued lavishing you with licks and kisses and small bites as he kept you pinned beneath by your hips. He trailed down from the valley of your breasts to the bliss he sought between your thighs, your delicate cries of please, Boothill, pleasepleaseplease a beautiful, needy melody in his ears, sending every electronic component within him humming. Aeons above, he could hear you cry like that forever until his body rusted over and broke down to nothing but scrap metal in the haven of your arms.

When he reached your cunt, he breathed you in and groaned softly; you were already so wet, your honeyed slick sliding down your legs, and Boothill wasn’t one to waste any precious drop; he licked them all up with a burning, aching swipe of his tongue, leaving behind a shining trail of his salvia. “You taste better than moonshine…” Boothill sighed against your inner thigh, your taste, sweet, sugary, and so utterly addicting, washing over him. “I jus’ want to devour you whole…”

And that’s exactly what he did; he latched onto your clit, his shark teeth and mouth a ravenous, all-encompassing, ruthless thing, sucking and licking and drinking you in until your voice cracked, breaking apart on his name, your cries crescendoing into sobs.

He ate you and ate you, coaxing one orgasm to crash on his tongue like a wave, then another, and another, until you were nothing more than a quaking, wanton mess gripping tightly at his hair for relief. So needy. So perfect. So completely his.

“You got one more in ya, sugarplum. I know you do,” Boothill cooed softly, gazing up at you from between your thighs with reverence, your slick shining on his mouth like spilled starlight. You looked like what he had dreamed about for so many lonesome nights: beautiful and wrecked from the hunger of his desire, your face soft and cloudy and sweet, wet with tears.

So many beautiful tears.

He drank from you until you were whimpering and limp in his hands, his grip on your hips lessening until he was rubbing them soothingly. “You did so good, baby.” Boothill pressed soft, apologetic kisses to your body as he crawled upwards until he was peppering your cheeks with them, lapping up the tears spilling from your eyes with his tongue. “Yer pretty as a picture…”

Boothill knows that as soon as he separates himself from the warmth of your body, he’ll have to leave again, becoming weary and rueful thing cast out to endure the cold, black nights alone. But at least he has this memory as beautiful as the sweetest dream emblazoned in his mind to keep him going when things get hard: you, the brightest stars swimming in your eyes, love weeping between your thighs, your tears sweetening his tongue.

He will never dream for anything more.

#✐ — writing #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail smut #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr smut #boothill x reader #boothill x you #boothill smut #boothill x fem!reader #hsr boothill #boothill hsr #boothill

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fairyhaos · 10 months ago

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seventeen as types of soulmate aus

requested by 🍉 anon! this one was cute hehe

masterlist

seungcheol

soulmark that complement your soulmate's. they're not exact replicas, but rather pairs of shapes that fit together well, and if someone other than your soulmate touches the mark, they burn. but as seungcheol cleans your wounds after a battle, both of you startle at how, when he accidentally brushes over your mark, a flood of warmth fills you both

jeonghan

compass on your skin that points in the direction of your soulmate. only, your compass seems rather confused. it glows whenever jeonghan is near, and spins wildly when he's not. you're quite sure he's your soulmate, but the compass doesn't make sense... that is, until you catch him with his shining halo and white wings.

joshua

meeting them in your dreams. underused type of soulmate au tbh but it's just so sweet!! at the end of a long day, you fall asleep and find joshua already waiting for you with a smile on his face, and every night, you fall harder and harder for someone who you haven't even met in person yet but who still has captured your heart

junhui

body swap for three hours when the youngest of you turns 21. the entire thing is chaos because it's impossible to truly prepare for when it will happen. and even though the body swap ends in disaster, somehow, inexplicably, he finally finds his way to you

hoshi

whatever they draw on their skin appears on yours. he likes the fact that you can almost... communicate with each other, without having ever met. he likes the little scribbles that appear on his hands, the ink marks, the reminders. it feels like being a part of your life, long before he actually meets you.

wonwoo

telepathic link. on his 21st birthday, he'd jumped out of his skin because he didn't realise your voice would be so loud. you're so hyper, always chattering to your soulmate in your head, and whilst it's definitely a change to wonwoo's normal life, he likes it. and when he finally meets you, he finally gathers the courage to say he really likes you, too.

woozi

stars appear on your skin when they touch you. it's devastatingly intimate: his touch burns gentle marks into your skin, painting unique patterns that only you can see, and it makes you yearn for him to finally realise that it's him, him with his warm hands that bleed stars beneath your clothes, who you love the most.

minghao

one-sided soulmates. you're minghao's soulmate, but you don't have a soulmate in return. slowly, carefully, minghao helps you heal from all those years of being told that you're broken, a defect, unworthy of love. he does it not just because he's your soulmate, but because he really has come to love you, and he wants you to be happy.

mingyu

red string of fate. you have this red string on your finger that fades into the distance if your soulmate is too far away. but one day, you look down at your hand and realise you can follow it, the red string winding translucently down the street until you look up... and there stands mingyu, string connected to yours, the softest smile on his face.

dokyeom

the world turns colourful when your eyes meet. it's fitting, for dokyeom, because of course the world bursts into colours the moment he meets your eyes, because of course him and his shining gaze and bright smile make your entire world come to life before you. that's just the kind of person he is.

seungkwan

a soulmark that changes colour depending on how your soulmate feels. you find your soulmark fascinating because it always goes through a whole range of colours at any given time, swirling majestically with emotions. it takes a while for you to notice that the colours might, just maybe, match with the emotions of your hyper, passionate best friend, seungkwan.

vernon

your soulmate's name appearing after you fall in love. vernon has had your name on his shoulder for almost as long as he's known you, so he knows you're his soulmate, but he still patiently waits for you to fall in love with him too, wanting to give you that choice, willing to wait for however long it takes for his love to be returned

chan

countdown until the first meeting. something about chan and having that fateful first meeting when the numbers on your wrist finally reach zero and you look up and see him smiling at you, surrounded by the golden light of the sun, looking like he really is your one, precious, fated companion for life.... just fits him so well, really.

reactions tags: @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @bunnyiix @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @newgirlygirl @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @wonranghaeee @yonabutnotyuna @crackedpumpkin @wqnwoos @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @icyminghao @valenhui @sweet-like-caramel @odxrilove @kyeomyun @chansburgah @pepperonijem @jeonride @kellesvt @astrozuya @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @all-american-fangirl @f1uffyjun @sea-moon-star @nonononranghaee @isabellah29 @mcu-incorrect @hrts4hanniehae @kikohao @melodicrabbit @dokyeomkyeom @bananabubble

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ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

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In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Two: say cheese

tw: non-con mention

On Valentine’s Day, Simon wakes you up the way he always does—with a kiss.

Tender lips on the apple of your cheek, he draws you into the land of the living as he cradles the back of your head with the palm of his hand. You smile; quiet and soft. He wishes he could take the pad of his thumb and trace the curve of your skin forever. To engrain it into his epidermis until he has it memorized; a new scar on his heart for him to bear for all eternity.

When your eyes flutter open, his throat feels tight. Even in the dull sunlight that seeps through his window, they shine so bright. Their illumination trumps that of any star in the sky; the twinkle of all the precious gems in the world.

“Morning, Si,” you whisper.

He melts—cotton candy caught in water, he dissolves into nothing just from your voice alone. You see it in the widening of his pupils, dark voids swallowing him whole. You lean forward. A gentle embrace between lovers, you kiss the tip of his nose before moving to his lips.

Once again he realizes that yes—in fact—he certainly could live like this.

Simon has nothing special planned for the holiday, but he tells you he’s taken the entire day off. Despite how busy Terminus gets, especially as Valentine’s Day has fallen on the weekend this year, he says he’d much rather spend the day with you; that he wants to make the most of the otherwise useless occasion now that he has someone to share it with.

Now that he has someone to love.

For breakfast, both you and Simon cook together. Dancing around the kitchen, you hum little tunes to yourself while you season your egg mixture for omelets. He often finds himself staring, or even standing behind you with his hands on your hips, swaying to the made up melody that reverberates on your vocal cords. It’s a simple waltz. A loving pas de deux.

Both of you eat with spines curved forward as some brainless programme drones on the television. His weight next to you grounds you. It is the first time—in quite a while, you think—that you can sit and enjoy a meal for the sake of the food. Not in a rush to get to work, or between patrons. Nor is it simple mush you’ve whipped up for the mere sake of feeding yourself. This must be what it’s like to live, you think. Enjoying food with the person you love. Sitting in silence as your molars grind together.

“Do you wanna go on a walk?”

Simon’s voice is still murky and warm when he asks his question as his wet hands place rinsed dishes into the washer. You hold a glass of water up to your lips as you sip—much to Simon’s content. He dries himself off on the towel by the stove before leaning against the counter.

“A walk?” you repeat.

He nods. “Reckon some fresh air would do you some good.”

“You’re… okay with that? You know, me going out in public and all?” It’s an insane question to ask out loud; as if you’re some prisoner here. As if you need Simon’s permission to do anything.

“Course. You’ll be with me,” he says decisively.

Your lips curl around the cold glass at your mouth before you lower it to the counter next to you. “Okay… yeah. A walk sounds nice.”

Your winter coat has you feeling overdressed in the uncannily warm February morning. Sunbeams swaddle you with loving fingers as you step foot out of Simon’s car. The drive was short to the park at the edge of the neighborhood. Swarms of families line the pavement and playground as parents push their children on swings and dogs play fetch with their owners. Laughter bleeds through the air like the crackling of fireworks. Sharp, jovial mirth.

Simon’s hand is heavy against your low back, even through the padding of your coat. He leads you towards his left side, putting himself between you and the street. Smiling, you tug on your left ear. The distant chatter and screeching is muffled, but Simon’s voice cuts through the noise clear as day.

“Been scrapin’ up a bit of extra cash these last couple of weeks. Should have enough to pay off Marco here in a couple of months or so,” Simon shares. His tone is casual and soft, but you catch the slight grit of his teeth when he says Marco’s name.

Nodding, you let your eyes wander to the blurry faces that line the park. Colorful children’s coats stand out against the otherwise slate, sunbleached grass and equipment like lost dots of confetti. “You still haven’t told me what else you’ll have to do to get him off my back,” you remind.

“You don’t have to worry ‘bout that, sweetheart.” You move in the corner of his eye—head whipping to the side, disgruntled brows furrowing. He offers you a quiet smile as he slips your hand into his and pulls you closer to him on the pavement. “I promised you I’d take care of it. Take care of all of it.”

“Yeah, but you’re being secretive about it. It’s got me nervous,” you admit. You swallow down the nervosity clawing at your throat and squeeze his hand in an attempt to jest. “It’s not anything weird, is it? They’re not gonna make you eat something gross or anything?”

Humoring you, Simon chuckles. “Depends… how gross are we talking?”

Mulling your thoughts over as if you have to sincerely contemplate the foul idea, you hum. “Maybe something like, a putrid rat? Or maybe a cockroach.”

“Eating a cockroach is much harder than what I’ll have to do,” Simon deadpans.

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” you scoff.

It takes everything within him to hold back his smirk as he shrugs. “Tommy and I were wild lads.”

Your giggle sounds in perfect time with the jocular shrieks of the children on the playground. Shaking your head, you kick at the stray rocks in front of you on the pavement. “Oh, I can’t tell if you’re joking or not. I’ll try not to think about that next time we kiss.”

“Might still have an arm or a leg stuck between my teeth.”

“Simon! That’s gross! That’s so, so gross!”

Battle cries interrupt your repulsive conversation, forcing both yours and Simon’s neck to snap to the side. There are about six young children, ranging from five to nine racing across the field, each swaddled in coats and scarves stylized into bandanas. Some carry toy swords. Their grey plastic sports a wicked curve, while others carry fat sticks. One of the kids—the largest of them all—fixes his eyepatch as he points his weapon to some imaginary destination in the distance.

“Bring me that horizon!” he demands, his voice growling as deep as his prepubescent throat will allow.

Chuckling, Simon squeezes your hand as he leads you along to continue your walk. “Odd thing to shout.”

“Odd?” you echo. “He’s quoting one of the best movies of all time!”

“Which is?”

“Pirates of the Carribean, of course,” you state, matter-of-fact. “Jack Sparrow says it toward the end of the first movie. You know, that’s how Aelin got her nickname. From that movie, I mean.”

Having piqued Simon’s interest, he looks at you from the corner of his eye. “Oh?”

You open your mouth, lips parting with a grin—but then you stop. Heart lurching, mind reeling; you realize you’ve unlocked a terrible memory. One you’ve tried to shove away. Not for your own sake, but Aelin’s.

Still, you see her. Cheeks stained with mascara, snot running from her nose which she rubs on the sleeve of her jumper. She’s white-knuckling a bottle of beer, something cheap and sour. The scent rolls off of her in reeking waves, smothering that rosewater sillage you’re so used to with her.

It hurt so bad, she says. Sitting there on the toilet. I felt so fucking useless.

Her voice slurs. Each word bleeds into the next, her tongue too fat in her mouth to enunciate properly. Her accent thickens. She sounds like Sean.

I remember when it happened with Adam. Bastard left me to deal with it alone, but not John. He held me the entire time in the bathroom… he fucking cried with me.

You don’t know what she’s talking about. She refuses to say it outright. But when she mentions her ex-fiance, you recall the first time you ever met him. Dressed in black, eyes bored and jaw grinding, annoyed with the funeral services and still holding Aelin despite it. She looked different then, at her father’s funeral.

Stomach swollen. Skin glowing.

He told me it wasn’t my fault. She takes another swig. You have half a mind to tell her to stop, but you keep your lips sealed. It feels like my fault.

“Or are you not allowed to tell me because you’ll have to kill me afterwards?”

Simon’s voice pulls you back into the present, and you push those rotting memories aside to shoot him a tight smile. Everything feels too warm. His hand in yours, the coat on your torso.

“She was… really upset about something one night,” you cautiously explain. “She invited me over when John was at work one night to talk, and she was just… pissed. Had been drinking for a little while before I got there. So I sit and talk with her as she drinks, and she’s… well, she’s crying and stuff. But the more she drinks, the better she feels, and she goes to take a sip but she’s already drank every bit in the bottle and… Well, she looks at it and asks me where the rum has gone.”

“Was she really that far gone?” Simon chuckles, though you can hear the restraint in his voice.

“Oh yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like that since,” you nod. Then, a fit of giggles begins to bubble in the back of your throat. It claws, pounds. You raise your free hand to your mouth as if you can hold them at bay. “Wanna know the best part about it all?”

“Hm?”

“She wasn’t even drinking rum. She had bought a six pack of Madri and was drinking that instead. Oh, it was hilarious. We both burst into laughter,” you say, unable to hold back your mirth any longer. “But she quoted it just like Jack Sparrow did in the movie, so I started calling her Sparrow, and then it just shortened to Row over time. I dunno, it’s dumb, but we have fun with it. And really, it’s payback for her nicknaming me Chip.”

It’s hard for Simon to hold back his chuckle as you recall the story. It hums—rattles in his chest like caged bees yearning to burst free. “Does this mean you’ll have to kill me now that I know too much?”

“Of course not,” you playfully roll your eyes. “Just… don’t repeat it. Really, Aelin is embarrassed about that whole night.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, sweetheart.”

When the park runs out of pavement for you to tread on, you and Simon continue to persist. As you perambulate through quiet streets, you eventually end up in a hidden alley. Dated cobblestone streets create dark outlines besides each building. Some sport creaking wooden signs held up by chains that wave in the wind as if luring you inside. There is a soft whimsey to this place. A gem hidden amongst the steel muck of London.

For a while, you stick to window shopping. Thrift stores, jewelry shops, exotic tea stores; it's the entirety of the world condensed into one tiny street. You’re reminded of Christmas shopping with Simon—of your small fox keychain. Though you haven’t entered your trashed apartment in ages, you still lug the item around with you. As it rests in your coat pocket, your free hand slips inside to pet the faux fur that lines the fuzzy critter’s body.

It’s the bakery that truly catches your attention.

A large window looks out upon the greying streets, but as you gaze into the building, it’s as if you’re transported into a realm of fantasy. Bakers with dusty aprons hunch over tables as they knead and braid dough. Glistening razors slice along the soft tops to score them in shapes of vines, and it parts like split flesh. Sourdough bread cools in racks that line along the window, enticing potential customers with their impressive display of weaved loaves. There are turtles, bears—

—a fox.

Your voice does not ask to enter, but your eyes do. Simon gladly makes the detour into the shop where the two of you settle on sharing a loaf of pumpkin shaped sourdough bread and a bowl of cheese dip. You huddle in the corner next to the window where you watch people meander about. Families enjoying the day, lovers with weaved fingers, lone strangers smoking on corners with their heads down.

Once your stomachs are full, you and Simon return to the car where the young children playing pirates have vanished back home. The ride back to his house has you feeling airy—as if your body might detach from the earth and float off into space at any moment. He was right, you realize. A walk really did you some good.

You’re quick to shoulder your coat off the moment you're through the door. Tossing it onto the hanger and kicking your shoes off your feet, you make a beeline to the couch where you cuddle in the nest of blankets you’ve gathered over the course of the last few days. Lazy days, full of cuddling and watching movies and stolen kisses. Simon straggles behind, movement unhurried as he plops his heavy body next to yours.

“Movie time?” he asks.

“Only if we get to watch the best movie ever,” you stipulate. “I have to educate you, saying as how you didn’t even recognize the quote at the park.”

Chuckling, Simon concedes and begins to tap away at the remote as he flicks through various streaming services. Pulling the blankets over your lap, and tossing some onto his for good measure, you begin to burrow. Legs curled, head on his shoulder—

—your phone rings.

It vibrates. Obnoxious and greedy. Huffing, you stretch yourself out in order to retrieve the item from your pocket, and you look at the screen with blank eyes as the caller ID lights up.

Incoming Call from Bee

Eyebrows narrowing, you try not to think about the reasoning for this call as you answer and raise it to your right ear. “Hello?”

“Hey. Uhm…” Bee’s voice crackles through the speaker, her vocal fry evident as she sighs heavily. Voices bleed through the speakers; they’re distant and fuzzy, as if the room is packed with people. “Look, I don’t want to worry you but I’m just gonna come out and say it, but someone was looking for you here at Sapori just now.”

Just like that, the nadir of your day has arrived. I approaches with sharp teeth and glowing eyes that crinkle with a sickening grin. Your throat grows tight at the question on your tongue—you already know the answer.

“Oh,” you say stiffly. “Who?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t give his name, but he was a right arse,” she explains. “Barmy bastard stormed in like he owned the place and was asking for you. Nonno got frustrated with him, and called him a creep and told him to get out of his restaurant. That even if you did work here, he wouldn’t let you talk to him. It got pretty ugly. Certainly ruined the Valentine’s Day cheer.”

Head rising from Simon’s shoulder, he freezes as he watches you sit forward. “Is everything okay? No one was hurt, were they?”

“Hurt? What, no. I mean, things got a little tense but the guy ended up leaving eventually when he realized he wasn’t getting what he wanted. Which was… well, you, I suppose.”

You swallow. “I’m so sorry that all happened.”

“It’s fine,” Bee dismisses. “Everyone’s okay. But there’s one other thing. Before he left, he threw something onto the ground. It’s an envelope, and it’s addressed to you. Some sort of letter, I reckon. That’s mostly why I’m calling. Nonno told me to throw it away, but it didn’t feel right having all this happen and you not knowing about it. I don’t know, I don’t mean to scare you, but I’m worried about you, Chip.”

Everything spins. Event Horizon ripping you to shreds, wolf nails tearing through your skin—you are caged. Hidden away in a shining, safe enclosure, but the world still rages outside. Marco still moves. He still lurks.

The only reason why you’re still safe is because he hasn’t gotten bored enough to bite through the lock.

“I can throw it away for you if you want,” Bee continues.

“No. No, that’s okay. I’ll—erm—be by to pick it up later, okay?” you interject.

“Sure thing. And Chip… you’re safe, right? You’re not in any trouble or something?” she asks cautiously.

You force a smile on your lips only so that your tone softens. “Of course. I’ve been staying with Simon, so…”

Content, she hums. “Bring him with you to Sapori. Seriously. It’s smart to lug a dog like him around when there’s freaks wandering.”

The line dies. The silence that follows acts as the kindling to immolate you. Flesh bubbling free from your skeleton, your eyes pulse in your skull as you try to calm your racing heart. Simon’s hand rests on your knee; he squeezes it, forcing you to look at him.

“What is it, baby?” he asks, voice low.

“Marco was at Sapori.” It erupts from your throat. You have to force it out, or else you might not say it at all. “Bee called to say that he left me a… a letter, or something. I dunno, it sounds- I dunno. It’s weird. I don’t feel good about this.”

“Is he gone?”

“I think so, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was waiting around for me or something…”

Unable to stand the sight of it any longer, you place your phone on the coffee table and attempt to suck in a deep sigh. Your lungs stretch. Tissue expands, blood vessels bulge, and then you let it go.

“I’ll go get it.”

Your head snaps to the side to look at him. “Si, I dunno if that’s a good idea.”

“If he’s makin’ threats to you, I need to know about it.”

Shaking your head, you fight the urge to lower your face into your hands. “He’s been threatening me for years, what good does knowing the specifics do?”

Simon rises from the couch, and the space next to you feels impossibly empty. You stare up at him as he begins to wander around the coffee table, and eventually you push yourself to your feet too.

“It keeps us prepared,” he rationalizes. “It’s nothin’ sweetheart. I’ll grab the letter, then come straight home.”

His words are unwavering. Each syllable is confident, and it lures you into believing him. And you do believe him—you just aren’t sure you trust anything else around you.

“Promise?” you demand.

Simon nods. “Promise.”

You kiss him—gentle lips on stubbly cheek. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”

The drive to Sapori takes twenty minutes, but Simon makes it in fifteen.

The door nearly swings off its hinges from the patrons that flock in and out of the building. Incessant. Never-ending. Candlelight dances through the window to greet him as he squeezes his broad shoulders through the frame. All it takes is a quick glance around the room to realize he’s underdressed. Donning a pair of faded jeans and a simple coat does not come close to comparing to the half suits and business casual attire of every other man in the building.

A new host greets Simon with a wary smile. Built just as tall and broad as a flag pole, he scratches behind his ears with gritted teeth. “Can I help you?”

“Simon!”

Bee emerges from the crowd with fat, heart-shaped earrings dangling just above her shoulders. She nearly tramples over the host in order to get around the counter as she shoves her order book into her apron pocket.

“Where’s Chip?” she asks.

“She stayed home,” Simon says gruffly.

Bee nods. Her eyes nervously flicker through the small crowd waiting outside the door. “That’s probably for the best. That fucker who was in here earlier really gave me the creeps.”

He hums in agreement. “She said you had a letter for her?”

“Well, it’s certainly not from me, but yes.” Her fingers expertly retrieve an envelope from her pocket. The corners are rounded, dulled down by the contents of her apron, but he sees your name written with a heart next to it. “I just hope everything is okay. We’re all worried about her here, especially Bruce.”

Simon relieves her from the wicked object. It feels heavier than it looks. Bulky. He slaps it against the palm of his hand. “She’s alright. I’m makin’ sure of it. Thanks for this, love.”

He decides he’s not going to wait until he gets home to open it.

As the door locks engage on his car, he keeps his head ducked low in the driver’s seat as he begins to rip through the envelope. It’s a buttercream yellow, and it smells noxious. Intruding. Like mint.

There’s a card inside. Rose pink blinds him as he slides it free, and he’s greeted by art of a large heart with an arrow shot through it as thorned roses dance around the edges. Special delivery is printed inside of the heart with an overly swirling cursive font—the brazen audacity of it has Simon feeling his pulse in the side of his neck. His thumbs dig into it like he’s peeling an orange, and several items slide out of the card and into his lap.

It reads:

Missing you an awful lot these days, babe. I really wish you’d talk to me. You know I can’t stay mad at you forever. I know you’ll come crawling back to me soon. You always do.

Until then, I’ll have to settle for these pictures. They’ll get the job done for now, but it’s nothing close to the real thing.

Love,

Marco

Hands resting against the steering wheel, Simon looks down. Strewn upon his lap are countless photos. They’re professionally printed—the film reflects the nearby sunlight, but it’s not enough to blind him from their contents. They’re pictures of you. Some close, some far. They span from different time periods, each of them recording your life for over the last decade.

There’s one where you’re in your apartment standing next to your window. The blinds are mostly closed, but it’s not enough to fully hide your body as you’re undressing. Shirt pulling up over your torso, the only clothing protecting your dignity is your bra. Another one shows you when you were a kid. Sixteen, if he had to guess. You look so young—baby faced and dressed in your uniform with your bag slung over your shoulder.

And then, on the very top of the pile, there is you with tears in your eyes as you sit in a rickety old chair in the center of a caliginous warehouse—Marco stands in front of you, grinning as he holds your hand around his eager erection.

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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mediumgayitalian · 2 months ago

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“You’ve been driving a while.”

“It’s a long trip.”

“Hm.”

At the tail end of summer, nighttime roads bend time. There is something about the blacked abyss that haunts you, Will has noticed, that sings to you like saccharine silver lullaby, that blurs the edge of your vision into something soft and infinite, no end or beginning, no harsh edges, no starts or stops. There is no line where the horizon meets the sun-warmed asphalt, no border between shadows. All that lives is black, in its thousand siren shades, surrounding the weak yellow headlines with sweet words and gentle promises. I’ve got you, Night whispers, come rest with me. Lay down your weary head. I will watch for you.

In the winter there is snow. In the winter there is light, in the stars reflecting on the white tops of trees and bright icy lakes, and the sky glows with it, swelling with pride, ballooning a thousand times larger than the yawn of pavement, than the brush of branches stretching out to hold her. In the winter wind roars over anything in her path, in the winter salt bumps along hardened rubber, in the winter snowflakes shimmer and dance a thousand movements in the doting attention of a bright blue moon. In the winter the night laughs, long and lavish and bright, and pays you no heed or mind, resting on her frosted laurels.

The January trip to his mother is easy. The night is not lonely, and does not call to him. Will has never feared the ice and the snow, not in the way he forgets to fear warm summer’s whispers, in the way his eyes follow the night’s expanse until his irises turn black.

There is something about shadows and shadows and shadows that Will has only barely ever resisted.

In the summer the night’s song swells along the tired beat of the van’s old blinkers.

“You’ve lasted so long,” Nico observes.

In the night the son of Hades melts, almost, into the dark of the passenger seat, into the blanket of heavy obsidian that drapes gently over his slight shoulders. Only the sheen of his bright eyes, as Will turns to him, shine like sunrise, like the first clear breaks of light through the murmuring night’s shroud.

“I’ve — made the drive before.”

Nico hums again. It is louder, barely, than the crooning cicadas, than the lilting long-eareds.

“You should pull over. Let me drive a while.”

“I know the way.”

The words are automatic, blending in his ears like the tick of a watch clicking endlessly away in the background.

“I know.”

Nico touches Will’s wrist and he startles, cool-cold fingers contrasting the cozy current coming through the cracked windows. He notices his hands resting on his cramped knees, palms creased in the shape of the steel steering wheel. Hears the blinkers, both sides, beating along with his heart, flickering amber, bleeding into the darkened dashboard. Feels the gentle purr of the old engine, slow beneath his tired feet, rattling his aching eyes.

The dark is no longer moving.

“I’m — we —” He stops. He breathes in. “The van’s —”

Nico’s thumb brushes gently over his heated wrist, end to end, and pauses, bitten nails tracing circles over the burn scar at the base of his thumb, then drags gently again across.

“You’re parked,” he says quietly. “It’s been an hour.”

Will swallows. “Oh.”

“It’s just straight down here for miles, tesoro. I can handle it.”

“I — know that.”

Nico flashes a smile. It’s bright, like his eyes, clear, edged, boundaried. “Switch with me, sweetheart.”

He does, and the numbness in his arms pulls heavy, but the cool press of Nico’s hands on his skin, on his hip, on his arm, is heavier, firmer, realer. The click of the seatbelt is startlingly loud, and the pull of the polyester over his chest is taut, grounding. The roar of the engine is deafening, discordant. Definite.

“Rest, Will.” The flush on his cheeks is assuaged, briefly, by the brush of Nico’s hands. “Let me handle it this time.”

Will breathes out, leans into his touch, and lets go.

#a little but wishy washy a little bit purple prose #but i like purple so that’s okay #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #nico di angelo #will solace #nico di angelo & will solace #nico di angelo/will solace #nico/will #will/nico #solangelo #100 ways #100 ways to say i love you #my writing #fic

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hellishjoel · 11 months ago

Text

on call

7.5k / pairing: cardiothoracic surgeon!javier peña x resident surgeon f!reader

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summary: Javier Peña - a shark of a surgeon - is the head of Cardiothoracic Surgery and you're on his service for the week. After letting you take lead on a risky surgery, you crave what else he can teach you. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), doctors performing surgery but no gore, medical talk (open heart surgery performed, mention of aneurysms and paralysis), both Javi and reader are surgeons, implied but unspecified age gap (Javier is an attending surgeon, reader is a resident surgeon), sex in an on call room (rooms in the hospital where the staff can catch some zzz's), swearing, size kink, praise & degradation kink with accompanied dirty talk, competency kink, (un)affectionate pet names, fingering, oral cleanup (f!receiving), oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie reader is described having hair and wears surgical scrubs, but otherwise (I believe) no physical description, no use of y/n A/N: FYI the only knowledge about hospitals or doctors I know is from Grey's Anatomy, so expect some drama and inaccuracies! beta’d by the lovely @thetriumphantpanda! spanish assistance by the talented @undercoverpena! banner made by me!

Any doctor will tell you that smoking cigarettes has a well-documented history of negative health risks.

Smoking can significantly increase the risk of various health problems, including cardiovascular diseases, lung cancer, respiratory issues, and, most importantly, to a surgeon, how delicate your tissue is. It shreds during stitching, falls apart in between gloved fingers, and increases the risk of infection.

So why does Javier Peña, the Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery, smoke?

Probably because he thinks he’s God. Galavanting through the surgical wing in his dark navy scrubs. The attending flirts with every nurse who passes his eyeline, sweet-talks his residents, and charms each patient he consults.

Beneath all that, he was a ruthless shark of a surgeon. Driven to the point of recklessness. Stealing surgeries out from under fellow doctors, commandeering ORs, and always proving to be the smartest in the room. He knew when to bark and, more importantly, when to bite.

Javier Peña was a piece of goddamn work.

The operating room is the only time he’s silent. Espresso eyes narrowed on the surgical field, fingers succinct and persuasive like he’s giving the most delicate organ in the world a compelling speech: to live, to keep beating, to pump blood until it simply cannot.

He’s impressive, really.

Standing on the opposite side of the patient on the table, watching him work, you nearly forget how handsome he is behind his mask. If you weren’t such a great resident, you’d be more impressed by his looks than his hands.

But his hands… they were brilliant.

Peña was steady. Every movement is filled with confidence; they don’t stutter or flinch. He operates with wonderful dexterity, switching between both hands, neither more dominant than the other. Instrumental and graceful, like a maestro conducting a large orchestra.

This was his stage, the surgical instruments were his props and everyone in his OR was simply an extra. He was a star; everyone knew it. But no one knew it more than you, his third-year surgical resident on his cardio service for the week.

His years of training bleed through his expertise, and shine in a way that makes you remember why you signed up for so many years of medical school, dropped top dollar on an education to get you here, and then granted residency at one of the finest hospitals in the country.

You were good. Peña was great.

As his resident, you must prove nothing but useful. He’s not a natural teacher, the way his brain drives allows no one in his passenger seat. But you’re keen on declaring on cardio, and you’ve been the resident by his side for most of this year. He doesn’t need your help. He can do this all by himself, so all you can do is prove yourself useful.

You must anticipate his needs and next move, watching him progress from step one to final completion.

But this surgery was unexpected. Unplanned. Most heart surgeries end up being accidental, arising from complications during a routine surgery. The patient on the table before you was scheduled for a general procedure but began presenting with heart issues during the operation.

Peña performs an aortic arch replacement. He starts with a #10 blade, making an incision along the sternum to access the aortic arch.

“Retract all this tissue,” he mutters.

It takes you by surprise because his OR is radio silent. He talks in his head, not to you, ever.

“Me?”

“Are you really asking me that?” His tone twitches with irritation, but you do as he asks before he can disregard and bury your anticipation. It allows for more exposure, and he’s back to work. He cannulates the patient for CPB, working through the right atrium and then the aorta.

“Proper placement?”

You nod before you remember he’s still staring down at the patient’s heart. “Yes.”

Doctor Javier Peña is the commander of his OR. Which makes you all the more confused as to why he decides to put you in the driver’s seat. Or rather, the hot seat.

“Okay, we’re going to arrest the heart using cardioplegia purposely. What’s next?”

Your mouth is going dry; it takes you a moment to find your words. You should know the answer, even without having prepared. He just makes you nervous. “We need to use myocardial protection techniques to minimize… ischemic damage?”

His eyes snap up, glaring, cold as ice. “Are you asking me? Or are you telling me?”

You force down the lump in your throat and take in a shaky breath. “Telling?”

He cocks his eyebrow in annoyance.

“Telling.” You say more confidently, nodding before he sighs. He wanes his options in his head before his eyes start to soften. He must feel at slight ease talking to a resident who isn’t a fucking moron.

“Okay. You’ll deliver the cardioplegia solution and monitor its function.”

You let out a breath of relief, perhaps too big of one, because Peña smirks and tuts at your shift in breath.

“You’re not a complete waste of space in this surgical program after all. Congrats.”

After willing yourself to bite your tongue, you watch him proceed with the arch repair. He returns to silence as he carefully dissects the aorta, amber eyes admiring each of the strong branches like that of a great oak tree.

“Name them.”

Eyes meeting his over the operating table, Peña waits. He’s testing you, pushing you towards greatness or failure. He wants to see where you fall—if you’re worthy to be in his OR, opposite of him, learning under his greatness, or if you’re a waste of his time and talent.

“You’re a third-year resident, I knew this by my second,” he grinds, “all the books I’ve seen you read in the cafeteria should have told you this. Name them.”

He watches you, it wasn’t just in your head - the magnetic stare you can feel from across the room that makes the hair on your arms stick up. He watches, he knows you’re capable. “Not gonna get by just on looks here, Doctor.”

Dragging your eyes away from his intense stare, you loosen your jaw and line your fingers over each strong branch, starting at the trunk of the tree. “The left subclavian artery, left common carotid artery, the innominate artery-”

Peña raises his gloved hand, seeing the gentle smear of blood along his fingertips and palm. “Stop.”

Your eyes squint heatedly, feeling your chest tighten. “I can finish, I know them-”

“Stop, damn it,” he barks louder, his eyes shifting away from yours and across the room. He wasn’t listening to you; he was listening to the heart. Doctor Peña tilts his head to the monitor, watching the heart shift its beats. “Doctor, identify the pathology.”

You shift on your feet, the nerves throughout your arms leave you feeling shaky. Something was wrong. “The aortic arch, it shows…” Closing your eyes helps you focus, ignoring the crowd in the overhead gallery, forgetting the patient on the table just for a moment, and only listening to the beat on the monitor.

“Pretty girl, not so smart,” he taunts with a shake of his head, the beeping on the monitor pitching louder and echoing hauntingly through your ears. You wished this room would swallow you whole, but that would be you admitting to cowardice.

Peña takes a deep breath and looks between you and the monitor, “Alright, come on, open your eyes,” he instructs, guiding your hand off the retractor and along the heart’s wall. “What do you see?”

The commanding tone in his voice brings you out of your head and back to the patient. The room wavers and it goes silent. You don’t hear the erratic beeping of the machines, you don’t see the movement in the gallery. Doctor Peña is in front of you, calm and focused. Because he trusts that you know what’s wrong.

The aortic wall bulged out of its normal shape. It looked weak, stretched out, thin, and nearly translucent. You see the saccular protrusion, lips parting at the discovery.

“He’s—was there an aneurysm? He had an aneurysm?” you ask with more panic in your voice than you had hoped. It must have been during the patient’s original procedure earlier in the day before you and Doctor Peña even scrubbed in. “We can’t do a repair or a replacement of the arch. We have to stop everything--”

“So what are we gonna do, Doctor?” He probes, piercing dark eyes on you. Suddenly, your height shrinks, and you feel only a few inches tall under his gaze. He’s so much older and wiser, and all you can do is panic. “What, you can't figure this out yourself? Four years of medical school, internship, and residency, don't fucking disappoint me now. Tell me how we fix it.”

Our brains hold endless files of knowledge. A doctor is not only supposed to keep files on how to perform a procedure but also what to do if one is horribly failing. But your brain only knows panic because until you become a brilliant surgeon, all you know is fear.

“Should we page neuro? A-A neuro consult, his blood flow isn’t reaching his spine. He might be paralyzed.”

Peña scoffs and shakes his head, “Hoping someone else comes to save you and fix your problems? What if I wasn’t standing here? You’re on your own, kid.” he spews, focusing his headlight back over the heart. “We don’t call neuro, the patient can’t wait that long. Come on,” he whittles away your confidence, fire in his eyes. “Come on!”

You can’t seem to control your anger, feeling it ween down to something brittle and broken. You snap. “Doctor Peña, respectfully shut the hell up. We’re gonna fix the aneurysm sac.”

“How?” He’s quick on the whip, and it feels like your lungs might give out. “Come on, smart girl, tell me how.”

“You’re-You’re gonna use the sac to bring blood back to the spinal cord. He’s only paralyzed because the aorta isn’t able to send blood to his spine. You replace the aorta with a Dacron graft and rebuild the aneurysm into a second aorta.” It’s spoken with half confidence, but your eyes are fiercely stubborn.

“Its only job is to send blood to the spine,” he mutters in agreement, hands already at work.

“Like the freeway being blocked by traffic, you take a side road. Or, in this case, you’re building the side road.”

He momentarily pauses his hands, pretty brown eyes searching yours. He stares you down longer than anticipated, and suddenly, the air feels charged. Heat tingles up your spine, and you find yourself challenging his stare.

You deserve to be in this OR. You’re good, but Peña is great. And you will be great once you learn more from him. Him and his stupid fucking- brilliant hands.

“I’m not building the side road; we are,” he corrects, and he asks the scrub nurses to give him the supplies for constructing the graph.

Finally, his cheeks perk up, and a small smirk hides under his mask. “Suction, Doctor. Prep some 6-0 of prolene. We’re gonna need it.” Peña spends the next few hours teaching you how to reroute the aneurysm and restore blood flow, allowing you to reconstruct and place the graph.

You and Peña are a well-oiled machine. He lets you take the lead under his supervision. It’s impossible not to scream inside your head about this moment. You feel like you’re floating, no longer panicking. Your fingers weave with an indescribable amount of delicacy. It feels like braiding hair, the way your fingers know where to move, the muscle movements natural despite never having done this procedure before.

What a fucking high. And you’ve always been such an adrenaline junkie.

Once word got out around the hospital that Peña was doing this incredible and unexpected surgery, the gallery was all standing and fighting for room to glance out the over-viewing window. And you were there, across from him the entire time. Every surgeon in your class is sitting in the gallery, damn jealous of you.

Peña watches you close up the patient and says nothing; you were perfection.

You huff loudly upon completion, watching as Peña wipes his forearm across the sweat on his forehead. You despise him in this moment. Thankfulness fights your need for social justice. He can’t talk to you like that, belittle you, squish whatever confidence you had left. But you’re exhausted now and don’t feel like snapping in front of half the hospital.

“We won’t know if he has full function until he’s awake. Page neuro and tell them they have a post-consult waiting for them.” His voice drips with exhaustion, rolling out his shoulders as he speaks, and you can’t help but watch as the broad muscles move under his shirt, tan skin now visible after the medical gown has been removed.

Trailing behind him out of the OR, you strip your surgical gloves, gown, and mask in the trash as you try to calm your adrenaline. It never stopped beating; your heart, the strong and beautiful organ that it was, never stopped pounding. You can hear it in your ears, in your pulse, even thudding excitedly against your neck.

It beat for your ambition, it beat for Doctor Peña. He’d never see you as his equal. Hell, he’d never see anyone as his equal. But today, he taught you. And you can’t think why. He has barely done his duty all year despite working at a teaching hospital where the residents are nearly quizzed on the minute by their attendings.

Peña didn’t think anyone was worth his time, but he saw something in you today. Despite being thankful, you can’t help the anger you feel bubbling up as he smirks at you from down the hall.

“What the hell, Peña?”

Oh shit.

The head of neurosurgery stomps down the hall in his navy blue scrubs, graying hair tucked under a scrub cap decorated by EEG waveforms. His eyes are narrowed on Peña, pointed finger at the ready.

“Who the hell do you think you are? Your patient goes into paralysis and you don’t think to page me?”

Peña merely shrugs and sets his hands on his hips. “I did think to page you. And decided not to.”

The head of neurosurgery scoffs in disbelief, raising his voice to a shout. “You’re too fucking- cocky for your own good! I could have done an assessment, they could gotten spinal cord ischemia- and a third-year resident of all people performing that surgery? What the hell were you thinking?!”

Fuck. Now you were brought into this, and standing at the end of the hallway couldn’t be farther away. Peña was as solid as stone, heat didn’t faze him. “She had it under control. She was perfect.”

Perfect.

Neuro seems to smirk lightly, brain doctors who love to play mind games. “You two screwin’ around in the on-call rooms, too? Is that why you let her in on that surgery a fifth year couldn’t even perform? You pull that shit again, and I’ll-”

“You’ll what?”

Peña steps closer, narrowing his eyes on the short little man whose bark was louder than his bite.

Neuro stutters for a moment, his posture shrinking. You can’t help but smirk, almost a little lightheaded at the way he steps in to protect your credibility. Peña was a dangerous surgeon to stick around with. His arrogance, next to his skills in the OR, could be taught by accident.

Neuro grabs onto a slipping rope and sniffs as he glances around at the onlookers in the hallway. “Don’t think I won’t tell the Chief about what happened today. You and her are on thin ice.”

Peña smirks and pats his shoulder in a futile manner, pulling loose his scrub cap and running a hand through his jet-black tresses. “She had it under control. I wouldn’t have let her do anything she couldn’t handle. And if you talk about her like that again, I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth out.”

Peña’s already walking away, back to the angry little man.

Your stomach bubbles with something unfamiliar, slipping behind the elbow of the wall and taking a shaky breath. You can’t feel anything besides the buzzing in your brain and the tremble in your hands.

Doctor Javier Peña was defending your fucking honor.

In Javier’s eyes, any surgeon can walk into an operating room and follow the procedure's already-written steps. They can rehearse, practice, and prep all they want. But the beauty of surgery was that it was both a science and an art.

The heart was such an intricate, unpredictable thing. Healthy one minute, broken the next.

Javier loves to read, but only for the plot twist endings—the ones you don’t see coming—which add richness to the story and make you fall deeper into the mystery.

That’s why he loves the heart because it isn’t easy. It’s a challenge. He also loves that hearts make him feel special because not everyone can handle operating on a heart. That’s why people choose easier specialties. Cardio was hardcore. Javier was hardcore.

Despite how difficult a cardio surgery can be, the surgeon must be gentle. Going too fast leads to mistakes.

As if driving on black ice, you can’t twist your wheel too fast, or you’ll spin out and crash. He was like that during his internship, even into his residency, but he carried raw talent that no one else could compare to. He was the star of his class, a surgeon who felt like he was more than a doctor, more than a God. A preacher to the soulless, a guide to the lost. He was his patient’s light at the end of the tunnel. He saved their fucking lives.

In his eyes, heart surgeons needed to be sharks. He never met a shark who wasn’t fierce and damn near evil. It’s critical to success; to be a shark in the water, eager to see crimson.

You were no shark—not yet. But your drive, dedication to the art, and willingness to work with him set you apart. He knows he’s not easy. But he’s never liked easy anyway.

Javier slowly slumps down onto the edge of an on-call bed, smacking the light switch so damn hard that he thought he broke it. The room sinks into darkness, a velvet blanket of blue from the slight night sky slipping past the blinds.

He was exhausted after today, the hours of his day stolen by back-to-back surgeries. His back ached, and his knees were screaming at him. But the comfort of a bed wasn’t all that he craved.

You were brilliant, purring like a kitten whenever Javier stroked your ego. A younger colleague impressed him for the first time in months.

God, you were young. What—ten years his junior? More?

His face fell into his hands, heat flushing into his stomach at the thought of you.

When he’s in surgery, the heart is all he can think about. But your eyes were on him for hours, watching him, learning from him—God, the things he could teach you.

Suddenly, the door clicks open, and light floods the room, causing Javi to drop his head and squint.

“We need to speak, Doctor Peña,” your silken voice evokes a sense of long-lost courage.

You’re the last person who should be in his on-call room.

He groans and stands, eyes cast on your hand still nervously caught on the door handle. “Not now.”

“Yes, now,” your voice wavers as you click the lock and cross your arms. His eyes drag over your body, hugged by the comfort of your soft blue scrubs. He can tell it’s taking everything in your body to control your temper, as he is still technically your boss. “You can’t just belittle me in front of the entire OR. No more calling me princess, no more calling me pretty. I’m a lot more than those pathetic superficial names, and you know it.”

Javier runs his fingers down his nose, mutters something incoherent, and plants his hands on his hips before curtly jerking his head expectantly. “I said not now.”

“You push me, you push me around, you push me in the OR, you just don’t stop-”

He snaps.

“I push you to be great!” His brown eyes nearly turn obsidian as he locks you in his gaze. “You’ll be a better doctor when I’m done with you. You should be thanking me.”

You scoff indignantly and throw up your hands in frustration. You’re so fucking cute when you’re upset. “Thanking you?”

“Yeah. Thanking me. My ass is on the burner because I let you perform that surgery.”

“The one not even fifth-year residents could perform?”

Peña pauses, his jaw shifting from left to right as he glances at the room's corner. “You heard all that, huh?”

There’s a lull, one that signifies you both know that he stepped in to defend his choices in the OR; specifically defending you. He watches as you slowly nod, pulling your hand off the doorknob and crossing your arms over your chest.

“You didn’t have to do that. Now it looks like you favor me. I’m gonna get chewed out by the other surgeons, not to mention my entire class is going to think I’m sleeping with you.”

Pena shrugs and purses his lips. “Let ‘em.”

He watches as your lips part, taken aback by his words. After a few doe-eyed blinks from you, the room falls out of focus, and it doesn’t feel like he’s standing in the hospital anymore.

Javi imagines you in places he shouldn’t. At his place, in his apartment. On the couch. In his bed. He thinks about how different you’d look in the light of day, your body curved by jeans or even a sundress if the weather allowed. He’d be privy to the freckles on your back and shoulders, the dips of your hips, the slope of your body he wants to memorize with his eyes closed.

But fantasizing wasn’t enough.

“Let ‘em,” he mutters, low, and enclosing the space between your bodies. “If they already think that, let ‘em. Fuck ‘em.”

Your face visibly softens, and your head naturally leaning into his hand that rests on your cheek.

“I want you to teach me,” you whisper to him. And it’s so fucking soft, so sweet dripping from your lips, almost whining with need.

He slowly nods as the room falls silent, Javi’s opposite hand coming to your hip, flushing your body against his.

“Okay, cariño, I’ll teach you.”

“Teach me,” you plead again, your chest heaving with anticipation. His eyes fall to the way your breasts protrude with each breath you take in your scrubs. The emotion that stirs in the room is enough to start a full-blown hurricane.

Javi’s hands fall to the hem of your top, and you raise your arms swiftly, so pliant to his touches. But that’s your job, to anticipate his needs.

The sight of your skin alone is enough to make his shoulders tighten, seeing you all pretty and exposed. A knot begins to grow in his stomach. But no, you weren’t done yet.

“Please, Doctor Peña,”

No, don’t fucking beg.

“I want you to use your hands and teach me.” Insistently, your fingers dip into your scrub bottoms, his eyes catching the pretty black band of your panties before the material is pooled on the floor.

You stand there with soft eyes, wide and expecting. The longer he stands here, not touching you, it damn near looks like he’s hurting your feelings. But he’s not stupid enough to leave you abandoned.

“Fuck,” he grunts, closing the distance in a matter of a second, his hands on your hips as he yanks your body into his firm front.

The kiss is tangled and heated, desperate and needy, so different compared to the subtle dance you both played before. But now it’s so obvious the pure need that consumes you both.

Your small fists clutch his broad shoulders, and you moan into his mouth purely at the muscle built into his toned body. He licks into your mouth, and all he can think is how fucking sweet you taste. And how your pussy probably tastes just as sweet.

Your fingers blindly reach for the light switch, flicking them off and sinking you into midnight once again.

Javi tuts and shakes his head, breaking the kiss as he glares down at you. “You wanna see my hands work, cielo? Then you gotta watch.” He mutters as he flicks the switch back on, guiding you into the lower bunk of the on-call beds.

He likes the way your hand slips from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers gentle at first before clutching at the hair on his nape.

Javi lets out an unexpected moan into your mouth as his body slots perfectly between your legs. His rough and calloused hands explore the smooth skin of your outer thighs. He squeezes and cradles the flesh with the perfect balance of strength and delicacy, the coarse hairs of his mustache scratching your skin as he presses kisses over your exposed breasts.

He craves every breath that you take because of him, because of his actions. Your reactions are honest and instinctual, watching as you bite down on your lip because God forbid anyone saw you sneak into his room.

Javi’s fingers are just as you expect, expertise as he unclips your bra with ease. He snatches away the black material, your nipples sensitive to the cool air as they peak under his eyeline.

“Christ,” he mutters, his hot mouth on them in an instant. His tongue circles them meticulously before he suckles, lifting his head and watching as your breast is tugged into his mouth. A whine slips past your lips and he feels your legs tug tighter around his waist. It’s enough to get him hard, the way you won’t let him go, because this feels way too fucking good to stop.

“Doctor Peña-”

“Javi,” he mutters upon letting your nipple go with a pop, moving to the other and showing it just as much affection, letting his teeth gently nip at the sensitive peak. “So fuckin’ pretty, princesa,” he mutters before sucking on a spot just above your breast, a place to mark his territory.

You gasp at the feeling of his hot mouth on your skin, goosebumps flooding to his touches. You glance down through barely-open eyes as the skin changes color, from red to a soft purple as he draws blood to the surface. His teeth marks are still there even after he leaves, a smirk on his face as he slips lower to between your legs.

“Javi, please,” you muster up, trying to regather air in your lungs.

He shifts to his knees, one arm straight and hand planted beside your head as he hovers over you, the other finally slipping between your legs. Your lips part as he slowly swipes two up your center, seeing what makes you tick.

His smirk widens as your eyes roll to the back of your head, biting down on the plush of your lower lip again to conceal a moan that surely would have slipped. He spreads you, letting his thumb pads delicately circle your clit experimentally. “So fucking wet for me.”

Just as a moan emits, his hand is clamped over your mouth.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he degrades, your eyes wide as the circles continue achingly. “Into my hand, baby girl, don’t want anyone else to hear you. Just me.”

Your thighs begin to tremble as his thumb experiments on you, and you realize he’s learning. Everything is about learning for him. He learns and studies the heart, now he’s studying what makes you fucking soaked for him.

The slow circles are enough to get you going, but as he continues to pick up the pace, he realizes you need more more more.

His thumb moves faster and surfs the edges, it makes you twitch under him. His smirk widens as two of his fingers glide up and down your wet center, your hips nudging upward with neediness.

“Wanna hear you,” he mutters, but you’re so scared to let out a peep. In this fog, you can’t even remember if you locked the door, and now your heart is pounding against your chest, the beautiful muscle that it is.

“Come on,” he says goadingly, pushing two fingers into your entrance. Your eyes blow wide as you let out a soft sigh into his palm, followed by a wimpy whine. “Give it to me,” he mutters as his fingers start to move through your tight heat. He’s trying to find it, working himself deeper and deeper, curling them just right and finally-

His hand clamps harder down on your mouth as you let out a loud cry, eyes shutting hard as your body writhes against him. You leak out against his fingers, hearing them squish with your arousal as he smirks. “That’s fuckin’ right, feels so good to let it out, doesn’t it? You can gimme more,” he encourages, and you don’t think you fucking can.

But he works against you so feverishly, the combination of his thumb on your clit and fingers fucking your entrance, once the seal was broken, it was hard to contain it.

“Fuck!” You cry out as he scissors you open, separating his fingers and forcing your entrance to work itself wider for him. The noises are obscene, soaking his fingers as he continues to plunge so deeply into you. Your hand shakily reaches up to the bicep bulging beside your head, nails sinking into his tan flesh.

His movements have your thighs beginning to shake as he searches, still learning, looking for that one spot that has you breathless. Then it fucking sucks the air from your lungs.

You gasp against his hand and clutch his wrist desperately, feeling him massage the sweet, spongy part inside of you that has sparks going off at the base of your spine. Your eyes begin to water at the overwhelmingness of it all, him and his stupid fucking perfect hands.

“Javi,” you pant against his mouth, because something indescribable is building. Your back arches against his body. He doesn’t even need to look at what he’s doing, he’s so distracted in watching you unfold.

Finally, it’s all too much, and he’s got you in the palm of his hand. You can’t help but bite into his palm as you sob against his hand, his fingers so perfect inside of you, leading you to the crescendo of your orgasm. The build leaves you lightheaded, your thighs twitching against his hips as he purrs your name.

“Just wanna little taste,” he mutters as he finally slips his hand from your mouth, still feeling the burn of your pretty bite. His chest lands on the mattress, and you sit up a bit to allow him space.

Javi’s arms wrap around your legs, hands now on your inner thighs as he helps spread you open. You whimper, still so sensitive that you nearly twitch away as he moves in. “Aww, come here, sweet girl. Know you taste so good, don’t you?”

You weakly nod and sink back into the mattress, your eyes falling closed as he slowly sponges kisses to your warm inner thighs. Your hole still puckers for the loss of his fingers, a groan leaving his throat at the sight. He teasingly flicks his tongue against your twitching clit, and it’s enough to make your entire body seize.

“So fucking sensitive,” he mutters adoringly, spreading your labia and letting his tongue flush against the juices that soak his tongue. He audibly grunts against you and works slowly to clean you up. His eyes meet yours, and he reads your wrecked face instantly.

You let out a hesitant moan, your fingers tiredly weaving into his dark locks and nails gently scratching along his scalp. His mustache tickles your clit and you try to breath through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He was right, his hands were fucking perfect. Look at the way he learned your body, what it was chasing after, how it could be healed with his touch. You only with to give him the same.

You sit up off your elbows, and he looks up at you with your arousal sitting silkily across his mustache. You cup his jaw, and he sits up with you, your mouth landing on his. You taste yourself, and it almost makes you shy, knowing Doctor Peña has tasted you. More importantly, made you cum with nothing more than his fingers.

The opportunity to touch his body is one you didn’t realize you craved, small palms moving down his front. On instinct, he parts from your kiss and pulls his scrub top off. And God, you were right with every assumption.

You knew he worked out, all cardio Gods adhere to the rule of working out to keep the heart muscle strong, but this was a different kind of strong. He was a Greek marble statue, all arms and toned chest and a waist you could easily tangle your legs around.

“Jesus,” you breathe out.

Javi smirks confidently, his large hands cupping your face once more and tangling his tongue with yours. You swallow the lump in your throat and move your hand to his upper thigh, coasting your hand along until you feel his shaft protruding against his scrubs.

“Take ‘em off,” you whisper.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” He asks confidently, forcing a grunt out of your mouth as you tug against the hem.

“Telling. Now off with them.” You command.

He tuts as he stands from the mattress. “That’s my girl,” he mutters proudly, circling his thumbs along the waist of his scrubs before pushing them down, briefs included, stepping out of the material that pooled around his feet.

You slowly raise an eyebrow, your lips parting at his size. No wonder he was so cocky. You sit at the edge of the on-call bed and he steps forward knowingly.

“S’okay, pretty girl. Just wanna make you feel good.”

You stubbornly shake your head and take his hands, guiding him closer as your doe-eyes meet his melting brown ones.

“I can do it.” Wrapping a hand slowly around his length, your other hand rests on his thigh to allow some security.

He takes in a slow breath, his eyes growing heavy as you spit along his length.

“Fuck,” he mutters as his large hand gently comes to rest on the back of your head, fingers intertwining in your hair as he begins to clutch them possessively.

It felt so good to be the one in charge, to be his guidance. He wants you so badly, your hot mouth wrapped around him, begging for his own release just as you were.

You sponge kisses along his length, watching him almost in a taunting way, because you know he’s going to fall apart before you. Flatting your tongue and sticking it out, he grunts at the sight. Leaning forward, you take him in your mouth. Your tongue circles his beady tip and you get to enjoy the taste of his pre-cum on your tastebuds.

He’s salty and musky, hours after a long surgery and it tastes divine. All man. All Javier Peña.

Javi’s breaths are getting faster as you begin to bob your head, taking him inch by inch until you felt comfortable enough to really go for it.

“Such a fucking- overachiever,” he grins, your nose brushing against the coarse hair along his base as your eyes clench closed, choking around him but not letting off. “Holy fuck,” he moans. Your nails sink into his thigh and he hisses, your one and only reminder for him to stay quiet. He pulls off with a pop, leaving you pouting as you stroke over his impressive length. He twitches in your hand and he’s so heavy in your palm.

“Don’t want anyone to hear us, Peña,” you remind as you break to give kisses along his thigh where your nails created crescent moon shapes.

“Got me so close, baby. Don’t wanna cum yet, though.”

You pout but ultimately leave him with one last kiss to his shaft.

Javi can’t seem to get enough of your kisses, tracing his tongue along your bottom lip as he moves you back onto the mattress once more. Your fingers glide down his body, feeling the ripples of his muscles that you hope stays engrained in your mind forever.

Even if it’s just a one-time thing, you wouldn’t mind storing the way he makes you unfold so effortlessly, caring to learn your body and its cravings.

“Please, Javi,” you whimper against his mouth, feeling the warmth of his body slipping between yours once again, and it feels like a home. “Need you.”

He nods breathlessly against you, propping up the pillow behind your head. You’re not sure why it gives you butterflies, taking care of you more than just sexually. But he pats the pillow a few times nonetheless and centers it to the back of your head, not stopping until you’re smiling up at him.

Your hand cradles his jawline, thumb gliding across his chin before his mouth is back on yours. His lips part as your gasp enters his mouth, feeling his hand guide his tip from your clit to your leaking entrance.

“Wet all over again,” he mutters against your mouth, but acting surprised is pointless.

“Uh huh,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before letting him envelop you fully.

Javier listens to you, reads your body language. He feels you grow tense as his tip nudges at your entrance, feeling your legs tighten hesitantly around his waist.

Your hands are soft on his back, moving along the carved muscles and following their runs like wild rivers. Perhaps it is a way you calm your nerves, touching his warm skin relaxes your walls. He’s able to push onward.

“Jesus- Javi,” you whimper, letting him sink his length fully into you until he bottoms out in one thrust that leaves him groaning. The pillow he’s laid down for you is held by his fist, the veins down his arms bulging against your head.

“Fuck, that’s it,” his chest rumbles, Javi starting to find a rhythm as he guides his length in and out of you.

The first couple of strokes are dragging, aching. It’s hard to breathe and your nose brushes against his neck.

Javier is so lost in the feeling of you, your tight little cunt squeezing repeatedly around his cock. The hand not holding him up runs up the side of your body, first on the outside of your thigh, then moving upwards to squeeze your ass in his large palm. You moan into his ear, and he does it again, both of you smirking against the kiss. Then he’s on your hip, following the pretty curve before he wraps his arm on the underside of your body, cradling your shoulder.

It’s like a seatbelt clicking in, gasping as you feel him lock you into place. Your eyes widen as you look up at him, Javi coming to rest his forehead against yours as he begins to snap his hips.

With the change in pace, the energy becomes charged with something less delicate. It’s like you were witnessing Javier’s two-sided personality, trying to learn and teach, and now, the arrogant, cocky shark.

The drag, once painful, now feels heavenly, the ache becoming a sedative that has you cooing for more. He’s more relentless now, hips snapping into yours that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your jaw points to the ceiling, and he sees the opportunity for his lips to latch onto your neck.

At the height of sensitivity, you feel everything. The sweat trickling down your temple, his teeth carving marks on your neck, your breasts pressed against his toned front; he’s all encapsulating.

You whine as you squeeze around his cock, his hand on your shoulder pressing harder into your skin. He keeps you there, pounding into you, the coarse dark hair grinding against your clit so perfectly. Your core tightens, and you feel your second orgasm begin at its crest. He must be close, too, because he’s driving into you with ferocity.

“Javi,” you cry against his neck, your nose brushing against his tousled hair, “I-I can’t.”

Javier shakes his head and moves the hand on your shoulder down between your bodies, finding your quivering clit and adding pressure to the small ministrations he starts on. His lips move to your ear, placing a kiss against the outer shell.

“You can,” he demands in a stern tone, his hot pants fanning against your face as his aquiline nose nudges your cheekbone, “you can give me another one, cariño.”

He wants to see your star explode. See you dissolve before him into a million tiny sparks, fizzling into the night sky so he can take your beauty in fully, from inner soul to outer exterior. You were slipping into the void before him like a firework bursting.

“Fuck, I can,” you pant, your head dropping back onto the pillow as heat slips down your spine and your vision goes dark.

You squeeze his cock repeatedly as your orgasm surges through you, back arching off the mattress and your legs tightening around his slim waist. He can feel your pulsing clit against the pad of his thumb, feeling you gush around his dick as his balls slapping against your core grow slick with your arousal.

From below, your vision is hazy, and he looks so fucking handsome. The surgical mask doesn’t do him justice.

“You can come inside me,” you whisper as you lean in and nibble his earlobe, hearing him grunt at your comment.

“Christ,” he mutters, “you have no idea what you do to me.” Javi gently tugs on your lower lip before he distracts himself with your kisses. His snapping hips begin to lose their rhythm, becoming more sloppy and erratic.

He was chasing the feeling, distracted by how perfect you were for him today.

The vein along his temple bulges as his desperate espresso eyes meet yours. All he needs to see is that little smirk of yours, and it sends him over the edge.

His jaw drops, and a silent moan wants to slip out desperately, but somehow, he’s able to conceal it with low grunts of something that resembles your name.

You begin to feel his warmth spread through your core, making your insides fuzzy. He trembles; you both do. It feels like he comes for forever, but frankly, you don’t want it to stop.

This feeling sits still inside you, humbles you, and centers you with the universe. Your life is hectic, and for one hour today, you’re not running around from one room to the next or getting chewed out by the senior doctors. This was the perfect stress relief; Javier Peña was a damn good break.

His strong body collapses over yours, and any residual strength he has left is being held by a tiny string that keeps you from being crushed.

He lays on his side, shoulder blades pressed against the cold cinderblock wall. He buries his hand in his face, and you wonder if he regrets what he’s done.

Did he?

“Thanks,” you whisper, reaching blindly for scrubs and accidentally tossing on his scrub pants in your orgasmic haze.

“For what? And those are mine. You can have them in a few years when you’re an attending.” He hums, smirking as he pulls the sheets up to cover his lower half.

You scoff and pull off the pants, switching out for your own after you clasp your bra behind your back.

“For the lessons.”

He watches you change, slipping your shoes back on and fixing your hair in the mirror. You try to ignore the feeling of his come slipping out of you, your legs as wobbly as a newborn calf.

“Yeah? What did you learn?” He cocks an eyebrow and blindly reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the windowsill, propping open the window a few inches.

Your eyes scan over him slowly as you tighten the tie on your scrub bottoms, a slow smirk gradually growing on your lips.

“I know why you smoke.”

Ignoring his intrigued face, you flip off the lights and leave his on-call room in a midnight blue film. The heavy door inches open, light shedding through and inching into the darkness. It clicks closed behind you just as your pager goes off, seeing that there is a message coming through for your newly reconstructed aortic arch patient.

“Shit,” you mutter.

The door swooshes open behind you, and Peña reappears dressed in his navy scrubs, surging past you. His shoulder knocks yours on the way out, and you can’t help but scoff.

“Let’s go. Pick up the pace,” His voice is raspy and tired, but you keep his stride as you work your way towards the intensive care unit.

Doctor Peña glances back over his shoulder, his smirk mirroring your own.

Even a shark has its vices. Perhaps after tonight, you’re Javi’s.

main masterlist | notifications blog if you enjoyed the read, commets and reblogs are super appreciated!

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xoxoladyaz · 10 months ago

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locked in lowercase (inside a vault)

For @steddie-week Day 3: Longing (1,032 words)

Tags: Mutual Pining, Unrequited Love, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Light Angst, Hopeful Ending

“Eddie, man. I think you should talk to him.”

Eddie snorts. “Oh, really? What’s with the sudden change of heart, Emerson? That desperate to knock me down a peg?”

“Dude,” Gareth sighs, and the defenses he’d so easily garnered up fall just a little. “Look, I know I wasn’t all that thrilled about Harrington in the first place – ”

“Oh, that’s the understatement of the fucking century, Gare-bear - ”

“ – but,” Gareth ignores Eddie’s attempts at cutting him off, “that was before I saw how miserable you are without him. Like, dude. We made it. We’re on tour right now, and all you wanna do when we’re not on stage is sit on the bus and play Patsy Cline. You,” Gareth taps Eddie on the chest, “you should be having the time of your fucking life right now, but it’s like you’re not really here with us, man.”

Eddie lets Gareth’s words sink in for a moment. The kid’s not wrong, of course, but he doesn’t get it. He can’t. Eddie barely has the words to describe how the feelings started or what his feelings even are, but any time he bumps into anyone that has that look in their eye, that whole I wanna take an up-and-coming rock star for a ride shine, Eddie turns tail and practically runs the other way. It’s not to say that he hasn’t tried – oh, he tried, especially in those first few cities after first leaving Indiana – but it either didn’t happen or it didn’t end well for either party and eventually he just stopped trying.

Because none of them were Steve.

And the worst part is, it’s fucking hopeless. The King never, ever gave Eddie even the slightest inclination that it wasn’t just “babes” for him. (Although, to be fair to Steve, Eddie himself didn’t really know until he was too far away to do anything about it, and that’s assuming Eddie’s balls got big enough to even fucking try something.) Steve was kind to Eddie, sure; hell, he was even calling Harrington his best friend at the end, before they left for tour. But then Eddie started wanting and, even worse, started knowing that he wanted any eyes that looked at him in pleasure to be big and brown and belong to Steve and – well, he hasn’t been playing on this side of the field for long, but even a newbie like him knows just how this is going to play out.

(Which translates to: he slowly stops calling Steve until he isn’t calling him at all. He takes “Head Over Heels” off the set list. He puts the swim team sweater he stole from Steve’s closet at the bottom of the “extra clothes” pile in the back of the bus. And instead of going out after every show, instead of trying and failing to find some peace in the bottom of a bottle like his dad, he sits in the tour bus and plays Patsy Cline on his acoustic under his fingers bleed.)

“It’ll only make things worse, Gare,” Eddie replies, fishing aimlessly in his pockets for the last of his Camels. “I’ll get over it. Eventually.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you will, but he won’t.”

Eddie’s fingers still in his pocket. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me. You don’t think Robin chews my head off every time I call to check in?”

(It’s just Eddie’s luck, of course, that Gareth’s first-cousin-and-childhood-best-friend happens to be Steve’s other half.)

“Then why don’t you stop calling?” Eddie finally finds a cig and pulls it out of his pocket, only for it to get snatched out of his fingers.

“Because I’m not an asshole, asshole,” Gareth snaps. “And I’m getting really sick and tired of getting yelled at every time I call home because somebody refuses to man up and deal with his feelings.”

Eddie turns in place, glaring at Gareth. “I am dealing with my feelings!”

“By not dealing with them, dumbass! And for the record, you’re making it even more noticeable by notdealing with them! Hell, even Byers asked me about it the last time he called, because why else would you just drop Harrington all together? It’s been like a year, man, you have to deal with this at some point.”

“I – I didn’t know until a month and a half ago, Gareth, what the hell do you mean by the last year?”

Gareth snorts. “Seriously? Seriously. Holy shit, you’re serious. Fucking – really, man? Now I owe Jeff money.”

“GARETH!” Eddie snaps. “What do you mean, the last year?”

Something is on Eddie’s face, some expression that he can’t control, because Gareth’s eyes soften and grow sad. “Eds, man, you wear your heart on your fuckin’ sleeve and your feelings all over your face. All anyone gotta do is see you look at Steve and know.”

“Know? Know what?”

Gareth’s voice is almost a whisper now. “Do I really need to say it?”

The wounded beast in Eddie’s chest shudders. “No.” He pulls his eyes away from Gareth, refocuses on the rings on his hands – and more specifically, the ring made from an antique spoon that Steve had made him when they were going through his parents’ shit.

(It was the only piece of Steve he couldn’t bear to hide away these last six weeks.)

“Does – does he?”

(Eddie can’t finish the question; hell, Eddie doesn’t even know what he’s asking.

Thankfully, somehow Gareth does.)

“Go call him, Eds,” Gareth says. He squeezes Eddie’s shoulder, a benediction for courage, and then leaves the tour bus, leaving Eddie alone and staring at the phone at the end of the bus.

(Maybe there’s a world where Steve feels, can feel, has felt the same. Maybe there’s a world where, when he told Eddie that he’s taking a break from dating that it meant taking a break from dating someone who wasn’t Eddie. Maybe Steve’s been trying and failing to get past this too, and is spending his nights by the phone like Eddie, waiting for someone to call.)

The phone only rings twice.

“This is Steve.”

(And maybe that world is this one.

But he won’t know until he tries.)

“Hey, Stevie. Got a minute?”

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #rock star eddie munson #steddie angst #steddie week #guilty as sin?

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rotagnus · 8 days ago

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who is this person? ---<3

first pac reading in a long while. a lot of things have happened in my life recently, but it should stop being hectic soon. i hope all of you have been well, make sure you rest and drink water on this soft sunday.

choose intuitively. if none of these speak to you, do not force a connection with any pile. your message will come to you regardless, in another shape or form. you can ask this for any person; it doesn't speak about their feelings for you. you can even ask this about yourself. this may not resonate. this is a vulnerable reading.

pile 1.

right of the bat, this person is one that can't really go with the flow. they're overly controlling--not of people necessarily, but of the process of life. distrusting, and they try to make sure that nothing can go wrong due to anxiety, fear of being embarrassed, etc. this is a strong energy and most likely stemmed from their childhood or a singular event in which they lost complete control of things. they're used to being alone and don't really make place for a lot of relationships in their lives. they're also kind of scared of growing close to people, and they've been misunderstood very often, especially as a kid. cast into the spotlight only to be made fun of. i think they present themselves as cool, nonchalant, but deep inside? they're still the kid who ate lunch alone.

despite everything, they still ache for the ability to just...let loose, stop caring. they may have had to grow up fast, and all they want is to be vulnerable. but they're also terrified, so this person can be a bit rude and cold for some of you. they have a sharp tongue, and they know how to use it to twist words so they can hurt. not manipulative, per se, but when they feel attacked their words are their weapons. but all they want is to just fall back and be caught in someone's arms. a very tender energy. they never really got to relax, and they seek this comfort from older figures in their life; they live life outside of themselves, trying to decenter themselves from their own life. they're very observant and don't talk too much, i think. they have a bleeding heart, though, and would do anything for the small circle of people that they have. they may have feline features, sleek and sinewy with angular faces or piercing eyes.

song: white ferrari by frank ocean.

pile 2.

this person has duality. they can be a bit mercurial at times, but i'm not getting that these sides are bad. they have strong attachments to the things that they hold dear to their heart; they invest themselves very deeply in hobbies, in people, in passion projects they start at the oddest times. very artistically oriented--they view themselves as their creations or accomplishments, completely detaching oneself from other aspects in order to see themselves as what they're proud of. they're a very bright person; i think they're the center of attention very easily, they have a very commanding presence and can be addictive because they give attention to people in a very genuine manner. they also don't stand for bullying and things like that--they have strong opinions and won't change them for anyone. they're really sensitive about what their interests are, and are prone to lashing out at anyone who insults them. a negative aspect of them is that they have to relearn lessons, like a LOT. they are stuck in the past very often and they feel like the parts of them that have died are the most beautiful ones (spoiler alert?!?! WRONG!!!).

they have a lot of dark energy; might present themselves in a darker manner, be interested in the occult or alternative scene, for example. i think for most of you this person is the youngest/middle sibling. once again, the sun comes out; before the star did. so i would definitely say that this person shines very brightly. they're the type of person you see in a gas station and can't stop thinking about. they're endearing in a very down-to-earth way; very human, and i think that their authenticity kind of makes them meet people who either leech off of them or protect them. they have a good heart and genuinely want the best for the world, but the problem is that they can be misguided and completely defend the wrong cause because they have a deep belief that it is the right one. they're very obsessive with parts of their life, and their lesson is to be able to search for peace instead of killing themselves with overfilling things with their energy.

song: all i need by radiohead.

pile 3.

this person has seen their fair share of lessons, and they've recently obtained the ability to go through them smoothly (cough cough unlike pile 2...). they're a very youthful energy; they have this young pride, but at the same time they've seen so many things and don't carry this blindly. they're also humble, but at the same time--when they do something right, they know to carry it on their sleeve. they're good at orchestrating things to happen; good at manifesting, and they're kind of the leader of their own life. they can be a bit...intimidating? they don't water themselves down easily and this can be a bit offputting for people who aren't used to realness. they have a deep loyalty for their family, their friends, even though some of those people have done them dirty. but they carry a certain tenderness to them that makes them a sweetheart; kind of a dumbass, but a sweetheart.

i got the moon, so they may be a bit on the quieter side of this reading. they're very in tune with their emotions and feelings, but they can struggle to FEEL these things instead of analyzing them. but because they're kind of comforting, they get a lot of people sticking closely to them. you can learn from them and teach them things. they have dreams, a lot of them; for the future. they wanna help people deeply but can be misguided. they're a very playful energy. people are a big part of their lives. most of the comfort that they give, and the observance that they have, comes from hard events they've faced. they have a lot of guilt, but i think that at this moment they're in a position that makes them want to amend for everything they've done. overall--they're the warmest pile out of these.

song: not a lot, just forever by adrianne lenker.

#pick a card #pick a pile #tarot reading #pac reading #tarotblr #divine guidance #rotagnus #intuitive reading #love reading #pick a picture

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nimbusclan · 2 months ago

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Moon 5 Part 2

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Moonstar gasps awake, sitting up so fast she rams her head into the thick underside of a low-hanging branch that she and her brother had spent the night taking turns sleeping under. They’ve been doing that, taking turns – who knows what things are lurking out here in the dark, so far from home.

If they can't go back, does it still count as home?

“Ow…” Moonstar groans, a sharp throb pounding against her skull. What a way to start the morning.

Fogfreckle ducks his head underneath one of the branches, sweeping past the leaves to gaze curiously at his sister. He tilts his head questioningly, mouth open to ask what’s wrong, when the words die on his tongue and his eyes widen.

“Fogfreckle!” Moonstar mews excitedly, leaping to her paws. “You’ll never guess what happened!”

“Your– your forehead,” Fogfreckle croaks. “You… were visited by StarClan?”

“What about my forehead?” Moonstar asks, confused and distracted. She presses a paw against her head to see if perhaps she’s bleeding, but her paw doesn’t come away warm or wet. The rest of her brother’s words filter to her slowly through the dull throb of pain and the fog of the early hour. She pouts. “Yeah, Star– how did you guess so quick?”

“There’s– your forehead. You have a star. A leader’s star.”

Moonstar’s pout deepens. “Well. That kind of steals my thunder.”

“Moonpool, what happened?”

“Moonstar now, actually.” Moonstar grins. “StarClan visited me in my dreams and granted me my nine lives. Isn’t that crazy? I didn’t even have to– there was no–” Moonstar’s tongue can hardly keep up with everything that’s swirling in her brain, the experience of her leader’s ceremony playing back to her as if memory and not just dream. “NimbusClan lives on, Fogfreckle. In us, just like you said. We’re to lead NimbusClan into its new future.”

“‘We’?” Fogfreckle asks weakly, jaw slack with disbelief.

“Of course, ‘we’!” Moonstar laughs, bounding closer to her brother. She feels so full of life, coursing through her like the widest, wildest river. “I wouldn’t be here if not for you, you know that. Besides, what’s a leader without her deputy?”

“Deputy?” Fogfreckle repeats, dumbstruck.

“What are you, a raven?” Moonstar laughs. “Yes, deputy! As leader, I’m appointing you as deputy of NimbusClan, Fogfreckle.”

Fogfreckle swells with pride, pale chest fluffed out as he inhales a shaky breath. “I– yes, Moonstar. Thank you.”

“Don’t get all formal on me, now. You’re my brother first, deputy second.”

“So, we really are still a Clan.” He grins, then the expression fades from his face somewhat. His eyes take on an earnest shine. “Did you… I know you’re not supposed to talk about the ceremony, but… when you visited StarClan, did you… did you see our parents?”

Moonstar smiles gently, heart squeezing painfully in her chest. Dad had told her to tell Fogfreckle that their parents miss him, too, so surely StarClan won’t be displeased if she shares just that much? “Yes. I saw them. Mom and Dad. They told me to tell you they miss you.”

Fogfreckle hiccups, stepping close to push his head hard against Moonstar’s.

“I wish you could have seen them too,” She adds in a whisper, nuzzling into his dawn-warmed fur. The sun is just starting to crest the side of the mountain on its way up, crawling lazily into the sky. Greenleaf heat creeps on silent, soft paws across her pelt. It’ll be humid later, but for now, it’s pleasant.

“Maybe they’ll walk in my dreams one day, too.”

“I hope so.” Moonstar presses one more smile into his fur and then pulls back, squaring her shoulders in what she hopes is a leaderly fashion. It’s only her brother, but she may as well start getting used to playing the role. “Alright, deputy. What’s our first order of business?”

Fogfreckle grins. “How about breakfast? I could go for some eggs.”

“Perfect idea.”

Both cats stretch out their paws and take off, bounding up the mountain.

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#once again i am fussing about with the backgrounds #will i ever be satisfied?#tune in next moon to find out!#clangen #warrior cats #wc #waca #moonstar #fogfreckle #i like how a lot of these expressions turned out #moon 5 #nimbusmoon

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prentissluvr · 8 months ago

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abstract (psychopomp) — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, idk just like a lot of feelings, animal death, some descriptions of injury, blood, crying, mention of character death, 1.9K words. listen to abstract (psychopomp) by hozier.

summary : sam realizes that he loves you as you hold a dying cat in your arms and cry over its loss.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

your gasp startles sam. all had been quiet after the hunt, the cruel, clawed monster killed and the rumble of the impala filling the space in the silent air. the street is slick with fresh rain and clouds block the moon and stars.

“pull over,” you insist suddenly. sam glances over at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. you’re very serious.

“what is it?” he asks, tearing his eyes from you to focus on the road. he’s already easing up on the gas.

“pull over, sam,” you repeat with more strength, voice imploring. he obliges, expression concerned as he swiftly brings the car to a stop on the side of the road. the tires screech from the effort because sam thinks something is horribly wrong. he’s worried about you, and that feeling only increases when you rush out from the car, leaving the door open as you run down the empty street back the way you came. it’s lit solely by a single flickering street lamp and the impala’s headlights.

“wait, hey, what are you–” he can’t get in a whole sentence before you’re gone. he puts the car in park and follows after you. greeted by the sight of you kneeling on the side of the road, back facing him, his frown deepens and he breaks into a jog. his long legs get him to your side in moments. you sit right underneath the orange light of the street lamp, your form illuminated by the gold of october leaves.

there’s something in your arms. something small and shaking and reflecting the light of the lamp. the smell of rain and grass is heady and delicate all at once.

your eyes are shadowed until you look up at him. then they’re shining with the threat of tears. sam crouches next to you and places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

it’s a cat, its tabby brown fur marred with blood and these deep, horrible gashes. its blood stains the road and mixes with newly fallen rain. it shines in orange light above you. the cat's eye glistens, and it’s still alive, barely, moving in your arms. clearly, the monster you just killed got to it, before you even arrived, and the poor creature’s been bleeding out slowly on the side of the road.

sam imagines that its body isn’t as warm in your arms as it should be. you hold it so gently, your hands so delicate and full of intention. with a pang to his heart, sam realizes that you just want to hold it as it passes. its eyes must’ve held fear as you gingerly lifted it into your arms. but that fear is gone as you softly, so softly, brush your fingers over the fur of its tiny head.

“shhh,” you hush sweetly, quietly. sam wonders how everything could be this silent. sam knows it would be wrong if it weren’t, though. “it’s okay. i’ve got you now. you’re alright.” your voice is lulling and murmuring and trembling.

it slows in your arms. it stills. sam puts a hand over yours and he feels where its fur is soft and silky, untainted by blood. the cat doesn’t breathe in again.

sam looks at your face, and as a tear rolls down your cheek, past the shadow over your eyes, it catches the light. his heart aches. it aches and it aches and it aches.

for the sweet, small creature, innocent and swept aside by unnatural claws. discarded and truly nothing more than collateral damage. its tiny paws and darling brown ears and its good-natured animal heart which all deserved nothing but soft and unconditional love. cat hearts are small, sam recalls. about fifteen times smaller than a human heart. he doesn’t remember where he read that.

he doesn’t even realize that he’s begun to rub small circles over your back. while he has a soul full of compassion for the pretty tabby cat, his heart aches for you the most.

you look so distraught. you’re still crying. there’s a dead animal in your arms.

the way that you hurt makes him feel it too, makes him desperate to fix it for you. he wonders if the tip of your nose is starting to get cold like it always does when it’s windy outside.

and there’s just… your humanity. all he can see in this moment is how it shines. how you’re better than anything he’s ever known.

he thinks that sometimes it feels like the two of you choose what you’re doing. and then he realizes that it’s tearing at your hearts. he remembers that he’d choose anything but this if he could.

he knows you would too. you’d always choose a home and a purring brown tabby cat and house plants over this view; mangled bodies of the innocent, blood in the road, and weeds through the concrete. then again, it’s that humanity of yours that keeps you going. you can’t just leave it all, knowing you could save even one life with the knowledge that you have. you keep him going too.

sam wishes more than anything that this wasn’t it for you. sam knows better than anything now that he loves you. and this is the moment he realizes it. in orange light and a dark blue sky. in a haunting shadow and a soft brilliance.

you are the soft brilliance. in all of your pain and weariness and honest devastation over the loss of a small animal you never knew. that’s what makes him love you, so fully and truly and with no room for a drop of doubt.

he’ll remember this view. it’s fucked up and horrible. it’s the most genuine display of unconditional love and humanity that he’s ever seen. it makes him wonder if someday he’ll be you, and you’ll be the cat, curled up and cold in his lap. the blood drains from his face and he almost starts to cry with you.

but he loves you too much now to go back. it’s strange, he’s loved you a long time. a long time, and now he finally knows it. and he loves all of you. his love for you just rushes through his veins, it overwhelms his senses, it multiplies the aching of his heart.

he sits all the way down, pressed close against you as he wraps his arm around your shoulder and draws you to his chest. the cold wet of rain that’s stuck between the grooves and bumps of the asphalt soaks up into the thick fabric of his jeans. his warm hand smooths up and down your arm. the other stays splayed over yours and the poor cat, like he can somehow protect you both. that hurts him because one of you is already gone.

sam doesn’t just let you take the time to mourn. he mourns with you. he lets go of the part of him that fights to push it all away, to pretend it isn’t there, to just play through the pain. instead, he lets himself feel it. the loss and the sadness and all the wishing that this never happened. that so many things never happened. you always bring sam back to himself.

eventually, sam realizes you need a bit of help with moving on. as soft and quiet as he can, he peels off his jacket to wrap the cat in. you shouldn’t have to keep staring at its bloody wounds. the cat shouldn’t have to be so cold. he lays the jacket on the ground in front of you.

“here,” he murmurs. you inhale sharply, like you’re coming out of a daze. when you look up at him, your eyes still shine. ever so gently, you place the poor thing over the fabric of his jacket. sam wraps it up, safe and warm for you. he tucks it carefully into one arm, silently and sadly marveling at how small it is. then he holds out his other hand for you.

he exhales softly through his lips when your trembling hand meets his. you look so tired, so worn as he pulls you to your feet. but a bit of burden has been lifted since he took the cat from your lap. there’s streaks of blood on your clothes, smothered over your gentle, calloused hands.

your hand doesn’t slip from his as you walk back to the car. you open the trunk and pull out salt, gasoline, and matches. sam locks the car and you walk out into the grass until you can barely see the road. the lump of sam’s jacket, with the cat’s sweet head and closed eyes framed by the fabric and the rest of its body hidden away, is set gently on the ground. it’s silent as the two of you build up a tiny pyre of sticks and dried leaves.

sam softly covers the animal’s face when he sets it over the sticks. the cat receives a proper hunter’s funeral. sam lights the match and sprinkles the salt. he doesn’t want you to have be the one to set it alight.

you sit on the dewy grass and watch, rather than stand so you can be closer to the small thing. sam sits beside you and wraps an arm around your shoulders. he’s a bit cold without his jacket, but he doesn’t care. the heat from the fire reaches him, though it's mostly swallowed up by the wind.

he looks at you, quiet and subtle in his movements. your features are lit up by orange light for the second time tonight. the fire flickers in your eyes and the shadows cast a haunted look over your face.

sam is afraid of losing you. he’s terrified. and he’s still glad he met you. all of his love and terror is poured into you. he won’t tell you that he loves you today. he’s unlikely to tell you tomorrow. he wonders if he’ll tell you the next day, or the next month or year. he will tell you. and before that, he’ll show you.

every moment from now, he’s utterly dedicated to you. to your humanity, love, passion, kindness, and soft, immovable goodness. he’ll hold you close and kiss that goodness and make sure that no one can touch it. he’ll make sure you know that it is seen and loved and honored so that you don’t ever feel that you have to tuck it away for the sake of looking strong. really, your strength is undeniable.

maybe any other day, you’d take a long, deep breath, then stand and walk back to the car before the fire flickers out. but sam’s understanding and willingness to do all of this for you is so unwavering and true that you don’t do anything at all. instead, you let yourself be.

the night is so slow. the clouds in the sky shift and swirl and reveal the stars sometimes. the moon shines bright and clear in the a.m.s once the storm clouds clear. tonight’s fire is stubborn and long lasting. it still sparks and crackles as the sky ever so slowly lightens. deep and heavy blue turns to soft purples and baby blue. the straggling clouds are wispy and sweet cotton candy pink as the sun touches the horizon. sam notices the lingering tears in your eyes as you gaze up at the honeyed tenderness of the morning.

the earth from a distance. see how it shines.

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fawnforevergone · 2 years ago

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The Ultimate List of Dante References in Hozier's "Unreal Unearth" !!

Hello and welcome to my new-and-updated ultimate compilation of all 'Inferno' references I found in Hozier's new album! If I think of anything else, or if anyone else suggests something, I will be sure to add it, but, for now, enjoy this ridiculously long (you've been warned) list I made!

Since I didn't wanna make a post for every individual song and spam you all, the songs are separated by their respective circles! I hope that organises stuff a bit more :]

Usual disclaimer: I could be wrong about some stuff! I've read 'Inferno' and try to stick to the objective references, but sometimes I let subjective interpretation bleed through. If anyone has any corrections for anything, just lmk!! Okay, cool <3

DESCENT:

"De Selby (Part 1)"

We start the album not in the circles, but instead at the Gates of Hell. One of the main themes of Inferno is darkness, and these first two songs are embodiments of that.

The lyrics mention the idea of this being a "new empty space", suggesting that Hozier is being introduced to the feeling of Inferno through the relationship he's singing about, and, so, we begin the descent.

"The likes of a darkness so deep that God at the start couldn't bear." God is obviously a large theme of Inferno and is, biblically, the creator of light, hence the absence of it in Inferno. In fact, the first three stanzas all reference the heavy darkness of the threshold and its estrangement from God.

The Irish/Gaeilge lyrics roughly translate to: "Although you're bright and light, you arrive to me like night fall. You and I, together. You and I, metamorphized. Although you're bright and light, you arrive to me like night fall. The art of transformation is a dark art." The imagery of light and dark mixing together mimics the idea of walking from the brightness of Earth into the darkness of Inferno.

This entire album appears to be the recounting of a relationship and how it feels like walking through Inferno. Here we see the beginning of this relationship, of Hozier losing himself to the threshold.

"De Selby (Part 2)"

Part one appeared to be the step through the gates, whereas part two seems to be Hozier being enveloped by the threshold. In 'Inferno', Dante says the entrance to Hell is a darkness that no stars could shine in. We hear this shift from Earth to Unearth through the production alone; the weightlessness of part one falling into the heavy grunge of part two.

"Your heart, love, has such darkness, I feel it in the corners of the room." The theme of dark continues, as it will through the entire album, but, this time, Hozier feels it radiating from within his lover rather than the space around them. Though, him saying his lover carries darkness is not an insult. This extra depth to his lover is something more to know, something more to love. This idea actually differs from Dante, who sees the darkness as deceitful.

"I want to be so far from sight and mind." Inferno is a lawless place. He would be far from sight due to the darkness, and far from mind due to the insanity that persists within the circles.

"Let all time slow, let all light go." This lyric shows me that he has been submerged in the threshold. Again, the lack of light, but also the slowing of time. Punishment after death is eternal, something that time has no grasp on. Hozier is willing to let these aspects take a hold of him.

"I'd still know you not being shown you, I'd only need the workin' of my hands." Christianity is a heavy theme of Inferno, and this lyric plays on the proverb 'Idle hands are the devil's workshop', a proverb Hozier also hinted at in his song "No Plan" (from 'Wasteland, Baby!') - "My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand."

Now, though, Hozier's hands aren't idle, instead the opposite, his hands are working as God intended. Drawing us back to that idea we were given at the end of part one, we get the feeling that Hozier is bringing something light/Godly to Inferno, and he and his lover are fusing the ideas of Heaven/Earth and Hell.

FIRST (LIMBO):

"First Time"

We now enter circle number one, 'Limbo'. Limbo is an uneventful circle for those not worthy of punishment but also not fit for Heaven. It is mainly for those who do not believe in God, the unbaptised.

Firstly, to get to circles, Dante and his guide, Virgil, must be chaperoned by the Greek Psychopomp Charon down the river Acheron, and we see that in Hozier's first couple stanzas.

"And the soul - if that's what you'd call it, uneasy ally of the body - felt nameless as a river, undiscovered underground." This appears to be Hozier mentioning the river Acheron, one of the five rivers of the Underworld that surround Hades, and, in 'Inferno', are used to transport the souls of the dead to their respective circles.

"The first time that you kissed me, I drank dry the river Lethe." The river Lethe is another one of the five rivers, and is one that causes anyone who drinks from it to forget everything they know. Hozier is simply saying that kissing this person wiped his mind clean, similar to the end of "De Selby (Part 1)" where he mentions partaking in a transformation.

"Some part of me died / Some part of me came alive the first time that you called me 'Baby'." Relating to the previous quote, souls that drink from the river Lethe usually do so before being reincarnated, so they forget their past life. Hozier seems to experiment with the idea of being reborn by his partner's love for him - an idea prevalent throughout his entire discography.

"To share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering, but fighting off - like all creation - the absence of itself." This lyric tells us that we should not ignore the privilege of living just out of the fear of dying. This lyric is reminiscent of "All Things End" and the circle of Heresy. Since Limbo is home to those who don't believe in God, the theme of Heresy is a very fitting one.

SECOND (LUST):

"When I was young, I used to guess 'Are there limits to any emptiness?'" The punishment for those in Limbo is to exist eternally with the curse of a hollow, empty feeling meant to represent the lack of God in their lives. This punishment seems referenced in this lyric.

[ i ended up thinking about this song more so if you want even more "first time" content, here ya go: "first time dante references." ]

"Francesca"

Into circle number two, 'Lust', we have the story of Francesca Da Rimini, a woman Dante spoke to during his visit to circle two. Francesca fell in love with her husband's brother, Paolo, and when her husband discovered the affair he murdered them both.

Hozier seems to be singing from the perspective of Francesca/Paolo but throughout the album we see Hozier liken his lover to aspects of Inferno - darkness in "De Selby (Part 2)" or Lucifer in "Unknown / Nth" - so the story of Francesca and Paolo is fitting as another metaphor here.

"Do you think I'd give up? That this might've shook the love from me?" Even in Hell, Paolo and Francesca physically cling onto another. They do not let their death affect their love.

"My life was a storm since I was born. How could I fear any hurricane?" The punishment in Lust is an eternal storm meant to replicate the throws of passionate love - a storm also depicted in the production of the end of this song. Hozier/Francesca/Paolo says that it's impossible for them to care about this punishment when life was already as treacherous as it was.

The whole chorus emphasises the imagery of Francesca and Paolo not being able to let go of each other.

"When the heart would cease, ours never knew peace. What good what it be on the far side of things?" Francesca and Paolo lived their love secretly and anxiously, so what good would peace be in the afterlife when they've already become accustomed to difficulty?

"Heaven is not fit to house a love like you and I." In the opening songs of the album, Hozier describes his lover as darkness, akin to something God cannot bear. Due to the depth of his lover, the mix of light and dark they've made, he believes Heaven would crumble beneath the weight of their relationship. That something as corrupt as Inferno is the only place suitable for them to live.

"I, Carrion (Icarian)"

Still in circle two, Hozier plays on Dante's own metaphor. In Canto 17, Dante refers to his own dread of descending Inferno to the same dread that the 'ill-fated Icarus' must've felt on his fall from the sky.

Hozier twists this, instead comparing his love to the hope Icarus must've felt as he flew towards the sun. He said, during a live show, this song is based on the idea hat Icarus never realised he fell, and woke up dead, too clouded by joy to realise what had happened.

"If the wind turns, if i hit a squall, allow the ground to find its brutal way to me." Again, we mention the storm of circle two. Lust is also said to have treacherous terrain - sharp rocks and jagged stone - that seems to be hinted at in the second half of this lyric.

"While you're as heavy as the world that you hold your hands beneath." This imagery seems reminiscent of the Greek Titan, Atlas, who holds up the Earth on his back. Dante talks about seeing Titans and Biblical Giants at the transition point of circle eight to circle nine, 'Fraud' to 'Treachery', which makes this lyric a sad hint to where Hozier will end up finding his lover; Taking the place of Lucifer in the deepest part of Inferno.

THIRD (GLUTTONY):

"Eat Your Young"

We enter the third circle of Inferno, 'Gluttony'. There are no specific references to Inferno, but the concept of gluttony is apparent. Hozier does what he frequently does throughout this album; He refuses to see the sin as "right or wrong" as Dante so stubbornly implies.

Hozier often divulges in a grey area, a spectrum or sale of severity, when it comes to the sin. Hozier's perspective seems more nuanced than Dante's, seeing sin as layered rather than objectively bad. In this specific song, he displays the different sources of hunger in humans, and where the line should be drawn.

"I'm starvin', darlin', let me put my lips to something, let me wrap my teeth around the world." We start, and reference back to in verse two, a sexual hunger, a harmless passion between two people. This is an innocent side of the sin, not deserving of the punishment of Lust which is to be ripped apart by Cerberus (the three-headed dog from Greek mythology) for all eternity.

However, Hozier moves onto the hunger of politics.

"Pull up the ladder when the flood comes." The government refusing to help the people when the sea levels rise.

"Throw enough rope until the legs have swung." When you don't have a ladder, you use a rope. This lyric plays on the notion of when governments give the impression they are helping, but are only making things worse - a take on the saying 'Give someone enough rope and they'll hang themselves', since what else are they meant to do with it?

"Skinnin' the children for a war drum, puttin' food on the table selling bombs and guns." The hunger for power manifests in war.

"It's quicker and easier to eat your young." Here, Hozier uses the common saying in a more literal sense, saying that if these politicians are hungry enough to destroy the world, they may as well physically eat their young, since it'll have the same effect.

FOURTH (GREED):

"Damage Gets Done"

This song takes place in circle four, 'Greed'! The title of the song alone is already very meaningful. In circle four, the main punishment is that the inhabitants are split into two groups and are forever forced to charged into each other and fight. Dante describes them are being so injured and damaged that they have become 'unrecognisable'.

The song is about greed within the changing of the world. It's about growing up and losing the naivety and innocence you once had, no longer able to ignore the burden of politics and money. Hozier and Brandi sing about the excitement of being young and in love, but, with the rise of inflation, it's hard to exist like that anymore - You need greed to survive.

"Wish I had known it was just our turn being blamed for a world we had no power in." This seems to be a reference to two things. One, the idea that governments blame the people for their own poverty, and Two, the idea of arriving in circle four by no fault of your own. It's not their fault they wanted more money with the world being how it is, but, nevertheless, they're being punished for it.

"I haven't felt it since then. I don't know when the feeling ended, but I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done." They talk about the enjoyment of the love they're singing about fading, and how they miss that, but they know that, again, this is not their fault. They know they didn't change, the world did, and they won't take responsibility for their 'sin' when all they did was adapt.

As aforementioned, the inhabitants of the fourth circle suffer extreme injuries, so Hozier saying "I know being reckless and young is not how the damage gets done" is him saying "I know that we are not at fault for being served the punishment of Greed."

FIFTH (WRATH / ANGER):

"Who We Are"

We enter the fifth circle, 'Wrath', where the inhabitants spend their time fighting to stay at the surface of the river Styx, another one of the five rivers of the underworld.

"Falling from you drop by drop." / "To hold me like water." These lyrics obviously give the idea of water, representing the river Styx.

"Or, Christ, hold me like a knife." This lyric comes in quite loudly, Hozier's voice strengthening with it. The subtle blasphemy of "Christ" and the violent imagery of "knife" comes across as a sort of anger. Being held "like a knife" is representative of how those is Wrath must feel - like they are something particularly dangerous, but still desperate to be held.

"We're born at night, so much of our lives is just carving through the dark to get so far." Again, this theme of darkness that is so frequently displayed in Inferno is mentioned again. After this song comes "Son Of Nyx", which Hozier said was the transition into the darker half of the album, and Nyx is the Goddess of the Night. Being "born at night" would make Hozier the son of the night, the son of Nyx. This gives the impression that, if the album is following on chronologically, this is the point where the relationship portrayed in the album begins to fray as Hozier starts to be consumed by the darkness.

"And the hardest part is who we are." Those in the circle of Wrath possess a 'savage self-frustration' that Hozier seems to represent throughout this whole song - A fierce annoyance with the way he and his lover let things go: "We sacrificed, we gave our time to something undefined", "Chasing someone else's dream", Etc.

SIXTH (HERESY):

"Son Of Nyx"

We have no lyrics for this song (though you can hear him faintly saying some things, one of which is him saying "who we are...") but we know it takes place in circle six, 'Heresy'. Heresy is a belief or opinion that is contradictory to religious doctrine, especially Christianity. As aforementioned, Hozier said this track is a transition song meant to replicate a descent into the darker half of the album.

Nyx is a Greek Goddess and is often known as the personification of night. She had many children all representing different things but the title would essentially mean 'The Son Of Night', and, as dissected in the previous song, we can see that Hozier sees himself as reborn into the darkness.

Once again, darkness is a large theme of Inferno, but Hozier saying in circle six that he is the Son of Night is particularly meaningful due to the association of light with God. He has been reborn as something that could not be further from God, something that opposes the idea of God, something of a Heretic.

Nyx was feared and respected by all, including Zeus, and, though I believe there is no reference to her in Inferno, she was described as residing in the dark recesses of the Underworld, which is heavily incorporated into Inferno.

"All Things End"

This song does not have many overt references to circle six but definitely incorporates the idea of heresy. As mentioned, heresy is an idea that contradicts (especially, but not always) Christianity. In this song, Hozier talks about the ephemeral nature of all things, particularly romance.

"When people say that something is forever, either way it ends." Whether it be death or a break-up, God doesn't plan for you to be able to spend eternity with your lover.

"Movin' on in time and taking more from everything that ends." Hozier, however, argues that things still have meaning beyond their end. That, even after moving on, we will remember and learn from the things we have lost.

"Just knowin' that everything will end should not change our plans." Throws back to the idea of the second verse of "First Time". If you avoided something just because it was going to end eventually, you would never achieve anything. That's like refusing to finish a movie just because you don't want to get to the credits.

When this concept of ignoring the end comes to death, we ultimately cross the concept of God. There are many rules people follow in religion, avoiding certain things because they are against 'God's Will'. Although this practice can be kept in moderation, it can quickly become self-imprisoning.

Not living your present life out of fear for an unproven afterlife can be limiting, especially if you dictate who you love due to what supernatural punishment may or may not follow. Hozier sings that we should not let God's plan interfere with what we need from life, allowing ourselves to indulge in love even if it will end - ultimately, Heresy.

SEVENTH (VIOLENCE):

"To Someone From A Warm Climate (Uiscefhuaraithe)"

This song places in circle seven, 'Violence'. Violence is split into three subcategories, or 'rings'; Violence against others, violence against self, and violence against God. I believe this song gives an overview of all three.

With this song, we recognise that the title says "To someone..." and Hozier said this song was a gift to someone who was from a geographical warm climate, but there is also a lot of heat in circle seven.

"A joy, hard learned in winter, was the warming of the bed." Throughout this song, Hozier describes himself as cold, and his lover as warm. The idea of warming the bed is a concept Hozier mentioned in his song "Nobody" (From 'Wasteland, Baby!') where he sings that, if he had a choice between the warm bed of his lover or performing on stage, he'd go home to the bed. Since this song comes after "All Things End" (the break-up song), this call back to "Nobody" could be instead referencing a permanent distance, rather than a temporary one (like the temporary distance in "Nobody").

"And, darlin', all my dreaming has only been put to shame." This could have two meanings. One, Hozier waking from a dream about his lover to find them not here. Or, two, Hozier's expectations of his lover falling short as their relationship has finally fallen through. These expectations could be a form of violence against self, the second ring, as he set himself up for heartbreak.

"And I wish that I could say that the river of my arms have found the ocean. I wish I could say the cold lake water of my heart- Christ, it's boilin' over." As mentioned, Hozier is cold, his lover is warm. His wishes he could find something to to fill the loss of his relationship, but he still feels the heat from his lover in every part of him.

"It's boilin' over." References the river of boiling blood in the first ring, violence against others, Hozier could be talking about the way his partner loved him, how that was almost an act of violence with how hard it is to now let go.

"Butchered Tongue"

This song has less references to 'Inferno', and is more of a commentary on the act of violence itself. Hozier sings of places and cultures lost to the violence of man, and he mourns this deeply.

"To say 'Appalacicola' or 'Hushpukena', like 'Gweebara'. A promise softly sung of somewhere else." This grieving for a time when native land wasn't colonised and culture wasn't violently erased is prevalent throughout the song.

In the second verse, he sings very strongly of the brutal acts inflicted upon Irish rebels by the British forces in the Wexford Rebellion of 1789. As we know, Hozier is from Ireland, and he incorporates both the Irish language and history into this album, and recounting such violent acts for this song feeds into the grieving of what has been lost: "Between what is lost forever and what can still be known."

In the context of 'Inferno', it feels as though Hozier is listing the sort of actions that would land someone within the circle of Violence whilst also appreciating the efforts those above ground take to preserve erased culture. Altogether, the song is a very moving commentary on modern violence.

EIGHTH (FRAUD):

"Anything But"

The eighth circle is 'Fraud', split into ten subcategories that are positioned around the circle in trench-like ditches, known as 'Bolgia'.

"I wanna be loud, so loud, I'm talking seismic," follows up with, "I want to be as soft as a single rock in a rain stick." Who he wants to be fluctuates between moderation and severity. He is changing, unreliable, possibly referring to bolgia one, Panders and Seducers. Seducers tend to 'lead astray', as Hozier's unreliable narration does.

The punishment of bolgia one is to be marched backwards and forwards rapidly whilst being whipped, very much evoking the imagery of a stampede: "If I were a stampede, you wouldn't get a kick." This alludes to the fact that if Hozier were sent to hell for the various sins he commits for his lover, he wouldn't resent them for it at all.

"If I was a riptide, I wouldn't take you out." The second bolgia of Fraud is for Flatterers, 'the act of giving excessive compliments, sometimes for romantic courtship'. Obviously, the song is filled with these compliments.

"I hear He touches your hand and then you fly away together. If I had his job, you'd live forever." The imagery of "fly away" gives the idea of ascending, perhaps to Heaven, as hinted at again by the idea of the longevity of living. Bolgia three is for Simoniacs, those who would sell church roles, offices, or sacred things. This seems to fit with Hozier saying that if he had a divine role, he wouldn't follow protocol, he would allow his lover immortality.

Simoniacs were sinners because they were disobeying God's trust, because the selling of divine roles would lead to corruption in the Church. Hozier is using this hyperbolically, saying that if someone were to sell him the role of God, he would most definitely be a corrupt power.

"I'd lower the world in a flood, or better yet I'd cause a drought." In bolgia four we have Sorcerers. Although Dante used this term in a more logical sense for fraudulent sorcerers - false prophets, fortune tellers, those who lied about the plans of God - Hozier uses the term in a supernatural sense. Sorcerers were punished for trying to interrupt God's prerogative, whereas Hozier is blatantly saying he would summon another flood, usurping God's plan overtly.

"I'm talking seismic." The bridge that leads to bolgia seven was collapsed by the great earthquake and, as we know, seismic activity leads to earthquakes.

"Worry the cliff side top as a wave crashing over." There happens to be a cliff near the entrance of circle eight that a large waterfall plunges over.

"Abstract (Psychopomp)"

This song appears to be the crossover point from circle eight to circle nine that I mentioned when discussing "I, Carrion (Icarian)". Before we get to that, the title itself is significant.

A psychopomp is a chaperon of death; Someone like the Grim Reaper, or Charon from "First Time", or Dante's guide through Inferno, Virgil. Here, Hozier is describing the act of hitting an animal with your car as taking on the role of a psychopomp, whilst also relating this idea to the act of letting a relationship die, leading it from life to death.

In the crossover point from eight to nine, Dante and Virgil stand and look at the large well that leads down to circle nine, 'Treachery'. The Titians and Giants burst out of the well, to big to fit, but their feet stand stubbornly in Treachery. I believe that, at this point in the album, Hozier stands here, too. He's visited all eight circles, and has one last place to go before he leaves Inferno, and ultimately his lover, behind. This song is him realising he has to let his relationship end, he has to act as a psychopomp for his love.

"Sometimes it returns like rain that you've slept through." Circle nine, 'Treachery', is a frozen over lake, aka a memory of water, similar to the residue of rain. With viewing this song as the predecessor to "Unknown / Nth", we can take this as a hint of what's to come.

"The Earth from a distance." Since Inferno is arranged in rings (like a circular staircase), Dante could feasibly look up and still see where he started his journey. The same way Hozier could look up and see where his relationship began, "De Selby (Part 1)", The Gates.

"Streetlights in the dark blue." We have the mix of light and dark again, as mentioned in the opening track, referencing back to Hozier and his partner falling in love.

"Darling, there's a part of me I'm afraid will always be trapped within an abstract of my life." Of course, Hozier is talking about the memory of the animal hit with the car here, but the way this relates to circle nine is beautiful. As we'll properly dissect with "Unknown / Nth", sat within the most central point of circle nine, the deepest part of Inferno, is Lucifer, the fallen angel. Lucifer was thrown down to Hell from Heaven, and found himself trapped in Treachery, his body too big to escape. Dante says that the more he struggles, the more stuck he becomes.

That moment he was struck down to hell is a moment he finds himself forever stuck in, just as Hozier is saying here. In the next song, Hozier relates his lover to Lucifer, but these lyrics are a gorgeous mirroring of Lucifer's experience, and another hint at the final circle we will now head to.

NINTH (TREACHERY):

"Unknown / Nth"

Okay, buckle in.

The ninth circle, 'Treachery', is also one split into subcategories, yet Hozier appears to be singing about the centre. The frozen over lake of Treachery gets more frozen the closer you get to the centre. The inhabitants start half-submerged in ice to fully plastered in it. Throughout Inferno, and the deeper we descend, a soft breeze becomes a strong wind, that, as we reach the centre, we find is caused by the violent flapping of Lucifer's wings. Here he sits, stuck and chewing on Judas, another one of God's biggest betrayers.

After "Abstract (Psychopomp)" Hozier is now exploring the final stage of his relationship. The circles of Hell had mirrored the love he once had, and Treachery is where it shall be buried. He also represents his lover as Lucifer, though not maliciously. In interviews, Hozier spoke about the song being about a heavy betrayal he suffered from someone he truly loved, and likening this to God and Lucifer is just heartbreaking.

"You know the distance never made a difference to me." The song is about knowing someone in their entirety, discovering their best and worst parts. Hozier uses Inferno to talk about the tiresome journey of finally knowing someone. He says he would've made the trip all the same, that he would've walked this far for his lover no matter what.

"I swam a lake of fire, I'd have walked across the floor of any sea." This mirrors the previous lyric, but also references specific parts of Inferno. The are many fires in Inferno, particularly in circle seven, 'Violence'. The sea floor lyric reminds me of the lake of Treachery. Though a surface, not a floor, the lake would still be below any seabed, since Inferno is geographically below the Earth.

"Funny how true colours shine in darkness and in secrecy." You guys are probably sick of hearing me say it but... Darkness is a big theme in Dante's Inferno. It is meant to represent the deceiving nature of humans when light is not being shone. Secrecy is a running thread through 'Inferno', too, as Dante finds many people he thought had done no wrong residing there. Hozier is simply saying how (sarcastically) funny it is that he only truly knows his lover in the remains of their relationship; How he only knows them after seeing them in their cruellest form.

"Where you were held frozen like an angel to me." There are many angel lyrics, but this one specifically references the ice of Treachery. The fallen angel is indicative of Hozier's experience: Seeing someone he regarded highly, even heavenly, falling from that pedestal and turning into something that couldn't be further from God's work.

"You called me angel for the first time, my heart leapt from me. You smile, now, I can see its pieces still stuck in your teeth, and, what's left of it, I listen to it tick. Every tedious beat going unknown as any angel to me." Hozier references his ex-lover chewing on his heart the way Lucifer chews on Judas. He listens to it somehow still ticking, however slowly, and at the end of the song we hear something akin to a heartbeat. The beats are "going unknown as any angel to me" since he can no longer recognise his own heartbeat after it has been mangled by another, and, since he mistook someone alike Lucifer to an angel, the idea of angels must be "unknown" to him.

"Do you know I could break beneath the weight of the goodness, love, I still carry for you? That I'd walk so far just to take the injury of finally knowing you?" We again have this imagery of walking far, referencing the journey of Inferno, and, even though he's aching with the realisation of who his lover truly is, he can't help but be grateful that he does now know them, no matter how painful that may be. That he would do this all again if it meant he at least got to the answer of who they are.

His weak heartbeat follows him through to final track as we begin the Ascent.

ASCENT:

"First Light"

The title is very meaningful for the Ascent. The song references both Dante and Virgil's ascent and the creation of light by God himself. Dante and Virgil leave Inferno through a tunnel that Lucifer left in the Earth as he was thrown down to Hell, and they emerge on the other side of the hemisphere. This song signifies Hozier stepping away from the relationship as he also makes that journey out.

"One bright morning changes all things." Dante is disorientated when he exits Inferno. He'd become so accustomed to the darkness that he asks Virgil, 'How is it that the sun progressed so rapidly from evening to day?' Hozier seems to recognise here that his relationship is no longer fit for him, that the darkness has become too encompassing, just as Dante realises on his ascent.

"The sky set to burst, the gold and the rust, the colour erupts...the sun coming up." Not only does this give the imagery of the birth of light, but it also represents Dante's view on his exit: 'Until...I saw the lovely things the sky above us bears. Now we came out, and once more saw the stars.'

"Like I lived my whole life before the first light." Hozier says that the darkness from his lover was so overbearing that it was hard to believe he'd ever felt light before - that light could not have exists with a darkness this heavy alongside it. It is a call back to "De Selby (Part 1)" - "A darkness so deep that God at the start couldn't bear."

"One bright morning comes. Darkness always finds you either way, it creeps into the corners as the moment fades." He speaks of bringing light to a moment between them, but has it quickly smothered by the darkness inherent in his partner. Another call back, this time to "De Selby (Part 2)" - "And your heart, love, has such darkness, I feel it in the corners of the room."

"After this I'm never going to be the same, and I am never going back again." This lyric is heart-breaking. Hozier states that Inferno has changed him, but he has no wishes to re-enter it. At the beginning of this album, he was begging for the likes of Inferno - "De Selby (Part 2)": "Let all time slow, let all light go." - and now he is desperate to get away from it. In "Francesca", he said, "At the end, I'd tell them, 'Put me back in it.'", yet, now, he's at the end, he's ascended, and he has no desire to go back at all.

He is letting go of his lover because he recognises that this pain was not worth it, that this love was not worth the punishment he received, so he leaves.

---

That was Hozier's Inferno !! I hope this was helpful to some people since it was very fun to make (I'm exhausted) and it's very enlightening to see how these lyrics relate to Inferno (I'm heart-broken) !! Okay, wooooo !! Enjoy !!!

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verinarin · 11 months ago

Text

𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞.

𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞.

cw // contains 2.2 penacony quest spoilers

Angst | years after he vanished, you found solace in the path of trailblaze. the day you departed from the astral express, however was the day another version of him greets you.

Traversing through the stars as a nameless was never something you see for yourself, but alas after years of escaping the pain of loosing you have found peace.

You boarded the express with a bleeding wound, yet departed with a new sense of self. Blazing the path of traiblaze has given you precious memories.

Memories that have become the solace you yearn for and now you reside on a planet far away from your hometown, Penacony.

Your heart still burns for the spirit of trailblazing, spreading the tales you’ve theard upon these past years was your way of keeping the spirit of trailblazing alive.

There’s hundreds of letters you have sent to the nameless who still traverse the sky full of stars, while you blaze paths for the younger generations to yearn to reach the glimmering stars above.

“Miss, is it true that the astral express has two conductors?,” a young boy that perched up to your lap asked.

“Well now we only have one conductor which is pom-pom and a navigator ! The astral express’ current navigator is Miss Himeko,” you smiled softly as you stroked the boy’s hair.

This is a glimpse of your life now, as the local’s beloved storyteller. You could be easily found reading a book or writing at a cafe near your house.

You heard a motherly voice searching for her son, “Now young man it seems that you mother is searching for you, better to go back to her alright,” you pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Alright ! Bye bye Miss Nameless,” he waved as he ran back towards his mother who offered you a thank you smile from afar.

Now you reside back at your table, a letter has found its way to you. Perhaps it was friends from the astral express, but there’s the ‘pom-pom’s signature’ stamp to be found after all.

With a smile you pressed the rim of your coffee filled cup to your lips, it’s been a while since you talked to them. As you place down your cup, a tinge of amberwood lingers in the air.

It was a scent that you found alluring years ago, it made you feel a little bit nostalgic. You close your eyes and let the tale of the past play inside your mind like a movie.

“Excuse me, Miss. Is this seat taken ?,” a voice greeted you, his voice has successfully awaken you from your daydream.

“The seat in front of me ?,” he asked as you flutter your eyes open, to reveal a man dressed in a white shirt.

The collar was unbuttoned slightly revealing a chest that harbours scars across the body, it took you seconds to tilt your head up.

You can’t really make out the man’s face, the sun that shines warmly behind him hinders you from doing so, “Yeah, the seat on your table” he chuckled, as he folded his arms.

His arms were proudly displayed against his chest, his sleeves were rolled up to display his strong arms, clean from any scars. In contrast with his chest.

“Well I’m not meeting anyone, so feel free,” you extend your hand towards the seat in front of you, letting him know that it’s alright for him to sit in front of you.

And so he did, now you could clearly study his face. He has kind eyes, rich brown in colour. His features were strong and rugged yet somehow gentle in nature. His face was decorated with salt and pepper stubble, signifying his old age.

His hair was parted in the middle, it was as long as his neck. You could tell that he cared a lot for his hair, it was well groomed, “Are you not going to ask who I am ?” he smiled as he saw you gazing through himself.

“Ah sorry for staring, you just feel familiar,” you stated honestly before brushing your hair back.

“How so ?” his eyes lingers at you, coaxing you to question more and more about him.

“Can’t tell really,” you’re not going to blabber upon the past that haunts you for so long now, would you ?

Not when you’ve grown this far.

“Heh, such a shame then,” the cadence of his voice, irks your mind. Scratches your heart in some way….

“A shame indeed,” you nodded, your fingers circling the rim of your cup as you await his reply.

“I heard you were once a nameless,” that’s a well known fact by now, at least in the area you live in.

“It was years ago but I'm glad my name still holds some fame, so do you need something from the astral express?” he will not be the first person who makes use of your past to contact the express.

“Nah, I’m just here for your audience,” he spoke, the tone was light yet somehow deep in context, shrouded in mystery.

“Who are you?” you asked the question he yearned the most, his face reflects it perfectly.

“Care to take an educated guess, Miss ?” he cocked his eyebrows as you ruminated through the possibilities.

“You still do the thing huh ?” he chuckled, his face now rested against his palm as he watches you picking apart the past and the future.

“What thing ?” you asked, he spoke those words like he knew you for years, which was odd. He’s a stranger after all.

“The thing where you’ll pout your lips slightly when you’re drowned by your thoughts,” he knew you, knew you well enough and long enough to notice these things.

“Let’s cut to the chase, don’t play games with me old man. Who are you ?” your eyes bore deep into his own, trying to pry the truth out of him.

“Funny, you used to call me that too,” he chuckles, his eyes bore no malice, just a sense of long and yearning.

You only called ‘old man' to a handful of people, but one strikes the most in this case, but it can’t be him.

You refuse it to be him.

You merely stared at him, not wanting to entertain his statement, “Fine, I’ll give out a little tip. I tend to amend things, which is why I am here now, sitting idly in front of you,”

“Amend things ? How could you amend things that are not broken ?” you questioned, the man before you was too relaxed and aloof to be talking in riddles.

“Well you’re not broken per say, but well I am,” the man merely chuckled as he looked down towards the concrete floor.

“So you want me to fix you ?” you ask, your endless pond of patience grew dry by the second.

“Close, but no,” you could see the evident smirk as he kept his gaze down.

“You’re speaking in riddles here sir, some might mistake you as a follower of the enigmata if you keep this up,” this time his eyes trained itself back to yours.

“Well aren’t you still sharp,” he mused, clearly happy that he didn’t need to elaborate on more.

“You’re not him, you can’t be him anymore,” this is a fact, even if this being was him, it is not him.

“Can’t be who ? I’ve been living countless lives before. Be specific would ya ?” the man now let his back rest against the chair, ain’t he comfortable now ?

“You know very well the life I’m talking about,” you sighed, he could be him or even a part of masked fools really.

The masked fools that’s notorious for transforming themselves into one’s beloved.

“Well say that name for old time’s sake, humour this ol’ hound,” never mind, it is him. A masked fool won’t replicate this current body that he made, he’s a stranger to you.

A foreign being.

“You’re not Gallagher, never will be him again as a matter of fact,” that type of wording was not your style to use, you felt bad for speaking those truths.

“Ouch that stings, I was him y’know,” he lips pouted, while his arms are folded against his chest. Yet his gaze still placed snugly into you.

“Past tense,” you quipped, well you felt bad about the cold demeanour, but still how would someone act in this situation ?

“Touché,” he laughed, now from his mannerisms. It reminds you of Gallagher, but he’s not him.

This man is well put, smells expensive, and it seems like he does not drink that much. When you think about it, the man before you resembles the qualities that you find attractive in a man.

As wouldn’t you know it, you told this list to Gallagher over a drink years ago.

“Let me ask you this once more, who are you ?” your stern voice was something he never listened to, but he welcomed it warmly.

“Whoever you want me to be,” he smiles, his voice sounds like he was teasing, but you know deep down that it is true.

“Why are you here ?” the question that has been clouding your mind since the reveal.

“To see through another fiction with you as my main muse,” his voice draws deeper than before.

The gravity of his statement was heavy, it made your heart stop for a mere second just to make sense of it all.

His eyes softened as he saw your shock ridden expression, your hands trembled, unsure with what to answer. He finds his way to hold them gently.

It felt nostalgic, even though the hand that held yours was not the same as before, it felt like home.

“To fabricate a new page in history, to make amends for the past, to see through another life. I’m here to live another life with you, to grow old by your side,” he continues, somehow the display of loyalty soothed your trembling hands.

“And even after death, I’ll wait for you to be reborn back into my arms, forever more,” his warmth left your hand as he stood up from his chair.

He walked towards your side, your hands now placed perfectly against your lap as he kneels before you.

“That is my reason,” he leaned down, bringing your fingertips towards his lips.

“Own my heart once more, dearest,” he begged.

The man begged for a chance once more.

#☆彡veririnwrites #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #gallagher hsr #gallagher x reader #gallagher angst

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naffeclipse · 5 months ago

Text

Bloody Mess

Reader x Sebastian Solace

Commission Info

I'm rattling @o-cinnamonstickz so hard right now for requesting Sebastian with an injured reader! This is my jam, and I'm eating it up! The hot fish continues to plague us both. After an unfortunate turret encounter, the reader requires serious medical attention. It's a good thing Sebastian's shop isn't too far. A medkit or a helping hand could do the trick.

Content Warnings: Injury, blood, and stitches.

———

You hobble down the hallway with a hand pressed to your side. Sanguine oozes between your fingers, shining in the harsh light of the Hadal Blacksite. Every breath draws out a searing shot through your ribs. Every exhale teases your vision with blots of black.

A mindless urge draws you forward. The room spins and dips as if rocked by waves. Another ribbon of agony cuts deep through your side, lacing through your rib cage and back to the bloody hole taking up your jumpsuit. Dark crimson freely soaks into the fabric.

Turrets. Why did it have to be turrets in the other room?

You heard the mechanical whir as it trained its barrel on you, the red dot marking its target. The split moment you had to run and escape the line of sight was followed by several ear-drum-shattering discharges.

The soft metallic fall of shell casings echoed like the drizzle of rain.

Lacking a medkit on hand, you do, however, have dozens of flash drives and a few thick documents tucked into the pocket opposite your wound. What little good it does you now.

You stumble, almost dropping to your knees but you grit your teeth. A locker brushes your shoulder as you titter dangerously close to collapse. Your hand clenches over your slick and hot injury, wondering how much blood loss is too much.

If you go down now, you’re not getting back up.

You attempt to push your hair out of your face but only succeed in smearing blood along your temple. Growling quietly, you endure another searing strike. It radiates through your torso as if the bullet had a fine time ping-ponging off of your internal organs.

The tremors working down your limbs spell an inevitable outcome. You force yourself to straighten. A dollop of blood falls to the floor by your feet and you stare down at the splatter for a moment too long.

You are not expected to return. The sharp and constant legal print pierces you with a narrow-straight tip.

A loud, high-pitched sound echoes distantly. Your heart stalls, caught between reserves of adrenaline and what pulsing fear assaults your waning consciousness.

Pinkie.

The screaming grows. Surging with the last of your strength, you drop your hand from your bleeding side. One step after the other, you throw yourself into forward momentum, fueled only by the absolute terror locked in your veins. Your boot almost catches on your other in your dizzying dash.

Your eyes land upon a vent. The opening emits a light and muscle memory takes hold.

The wail climbs until a ringing in your eardrums. The world whirls between red and gray and pink. Throwing yourself to the floor, you dive headfirst into the ventilation shaft. Knocking your injured side, a wretched gasp leaves you as stars burst across your vision. Pain roars and gouges at your bullet wound in time with Pinkie’s scream. The lockers lining the hall rattle with the angler fish's force before you scramble the last of the distance into Sebastian’s shop.

Dropping to the cold, gray floor, you sprawl out much in the way a chalk outline of a murder victim would be drawn. The pain rolls over you, pushing you deeper and deeper down. The heat of fresh blood spills over your side and onto the floor, freely flowing into a slowly expanding puddle. Your lungs heave to catch your breath. The darkness spreading around your vision threatens to take you completely under.

You can’t pay the ferryman again. There are only so many coins you can find in this abysmal place. Your life is worth only how much jingles in your pocket, and you’re starting to become dirt cheap.

A deep snort echoes. Using the last of your strength, you turn your head to the one responsible for the sound, and glower.

Sebastian Solace stands tall in the corner of his shop. His anglerfish lure brightens the gray and gloom with a warm flare. His hands clasped together in front of him. His third waves his claws in a flippant greeting.

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not much safer here with me.” He surveys you, his teal eyes glowing sharp. They upturn with equal disgust and amusement. “Nice diving technique. Ten outta ten.”

If it were any other moment, you would be roiling with anger and offer a rebuttal of preparing him to be made into a fillet. Furious, you have no energy to give to his usual taunts and threats.

The floor is the most gracious safe haven you have known. The hot spread of blood along your ribcage continues to grow. Deep gulps fill you, but every motion of taking in air tears at the pain digging between your ribs. Silently, you lie in your own crimson.

A mighty shift of Sebastian’s tail slips along the wall. He peers closer, his third eye crinkling while he regards you like a toad that happened to get run over in the street. Repulsion sweeps across his features.

“You’re bleeding in my shop,” he growls low in his throat. “Do you mind?”

Exhaustion clings heavy to your skull. The weight of your eyelids grows tenfold. The wound racks your body until a groan threatens to slip past your lips.

A scoff of abhorrence leaves him. The heavy thump of a trail begins to drag over the floor. The light shifts, and you stare upwards. Sebastian looms over you, his hands pressing in on either side of you, carefully avoiding the pool of blood your body is making on the floor of his shop.

Good. If nothing else, he’ll remember you by the stains you left behind. You’ll win by being the final nuisance. Hah.

You tense with a tsunami-level crash of agony against your nerves. Everything burns every last sensation. The heat and sear go on endlessly through your bones and along your flesh.

“Hey, are you going to buy a medkit and fix up the mess you’re making?” his voice comes from far away and all too close as if your head is submerged in water. The tip of a large finger prods at your jumpsuit. “You’re making me hungry.”

Your fuzzy brain finds it funny how the anglerfish lure upon his head douses him in a halo-like glow. As if he’s anything less than a devilish fish coming to torment you in your personal purgatory.

Not that even angelic light could wash out his disgust with you.

You try to speak. A faint moan trickles from your lips, “You’re… not gonna… eat me.”

A chuckle echoes, raspy and mischievous. The urge to smack him sends tingles down your hand, but no strength.

“You’re looking pretty tasty.” Sebastian, however, grunts a noise of aversion.

If you had the strength to laugh derisively, you would.

Flukes swish just in the corner of your dark vision.

“What happened?” Sebastians’ gaze turns downward. You become aware of more hands roaming your jumpsuit. A large, slick palm presses to your wound. The pressure ignites every pain factor you thought might have settled with rest, and you flail fruitlessly before weakness pins you in place.

“Turret,” you utter, barely coherent.

“Idiot.” He rolls his tongue. “Should I put you out of your misery? I will charge you for the bullet.”

You groan again. Your hands, slick with red and cold, try reaching for the arms moving you from the floor.

“Bite… me,” you utter. Your head grows heavy with fog. The fish merchant falls farther away from you as your vision becomes long tunnels.

Light touches you. Warm and yellow, then teal of an unnatural glow.

“On second thought,” Sebastian declares mockingly, “shooting you would make a bigger mess. I have a well-reputed establishment to run.”

The gurgles of disagreement flowing from you are met with a dismissive wave of claws. His hands, however, fall underneath you. Keeping away from the gaping hole in your body, he secures you in his grasp. In a haze of agony, you float, lighter than air as Sebastian lifts you off the floor.

“This costs extra,” he mutters.

Your fingers weakly slip off of his arms. The argument in your mouth stays behind your teeth as you watch the shop bleed into grays and slants of light. The blots of warm yellow grow bigger and bigger until darkness inflicts the center. Then, all you understand is a black hole eating all.

Consciousness is fickle. It visits you only to slip out the door just when you think you are now well acquainted.

You hear movement, heavy and slow. The briefest breaths. You even feel a sigh against your temple as someone rubs away dry blood from your face.

Occasionally, you hear yourself. Pained moans fill the room like the hauntings of a ghost. An answering voice shushes you gently. You’re being too loud. Someone thinks so, anyway.

The hands upon your body never leave. They shift, lifting away from the injury that has sent you on this downward spiral into a black nightmare or drawing over your rib cage to secure something tight around you.

Two small pills are pressed to your lips. A voice urges you to be good and take it. You struggle, your eyelids too heavy as if drizzled in sticky sap to open, but your defiance is useless. Claw-tipped fingers clamp your nostrils shut. The immediate need for air answers, and someone shoves the medicine into your open mouth. Despite your incoherent panic, you swallow and gasp.

In a blissful immersion of relief, whatever it was takes hold. You dream of blood and Pinkie’s screaming face, intermingling into one, brightly hued nightmare. Then a void takes its place, and you drift endlessly in a dark sea.

For one brief moment, you truly wake.

Your eyes hardly open. Peering between your eyelashes, you find the light. The warm glow of Sebastian’s anglerfish lure, and his eyes. The teal pierces the darkness beyond where he and you are. He’s bowed low, tucked close to your torso. You lie flat on a cool surface.

In half-consciousness, you find where his hands touch your side, prodding delicately with a thread and needle at your torn-apart flesh. You don’t feel a thing. Most of the blood is cleared away with an ever-attentive third hand clutching a rag now smeared in crimson. His gaze locks onto your bullet wound. A few mutters fall from his mouth. Curses, you think, for you.

Why would he bother with this charade? He should have left you to die for the simple fact of bleeding all over his shop.

You can come back. You’ve done it before: died, that is. You have been torn apart and chewed up and drowned. Each time didn’t take anything less than a ferryman coin. But each time, you awoke with a dread deep in your chest and a heaviness in your middle.

Does death linger? Sebastian didn’t say either way, but he frowned when you did manage to reach his shop again, and you mentioned how wrong it feels to remember dying.

This must be another dream. Strange but not so horrifying, if not a touch too raw for your heart.

Whatever exhaustion holds you down is back once again, and you slip away without a sound.

The next time your eyelids flutter open, you’re strangely still in Sebastian’s shop. You are curled into the coil of his tail, leaning on your uninjured side. The smooth, blue-gray scales touch you with a warmth you didn’t think the experimented fish guy was capable of giving.

Groggy and slow, you come to in the soft light. You squint up at the shopkeeper. He casually flips through a document, but a flick of his finned ear gives away his awareness of you. A low hum rolls in his chest. The faintest vibrations slip down his serpentine body and touch you.

A needy want infiltrates you. How long could you stay here, pretending to rest? Maybe it’s not safe here, but it’s safer. You could sleep for a few more minutes.

The dull ache in your side gradually sharpens to a piercing, acute point. Less so than before. It's more contained, and less frightening to feel the hole in your side.

Slowly, you draw your hand down to your jumpsuit. To your amazement, your jumpsuit is still bloody and torn through with a bullet, but through the hole in the fabric is a white bandage. Your fingers roam in a crawl. Bandages wrap over your chest, concentrating on a thick wad pressed directly against your wound.

You turn a squinted gaze upon Sebastian. He lowers the document with a huff. Faintly, you can smell iron and a strange cleaner. A disinfectant maybe. A glance down to the floor where you previously laid and let your blood spill everywhere is now spotless.

“Welcome back,” Sebastian cocks his head in your direction. Teal eyes search your expression in a lingering look. “I thought you would never wake up. The sweet sound of your insults was beginning to fade in my memory.”

Your answering groan is all you can give. Stretching your arms slowly and wiggling your toes, you realize you are, in fact, alive.

And not one ferryman coin is lost from your pocket. A strange concoction of relief and confusion pools into your middle.

Sebastian’s third arm unfurls its claws. The bandages wrapped around the appendage are fresh and less bloody. You suppose he must know a thing or two about medical procedures.

“What did you do?” you ask, less accusatory than perhaps you intended, but all the same, curious.

“Let’s not worry your pretty head about what I did,” Sebastian growls low. A warning sits in between his teeth. “Next time, don’t get shot.”

You glare up at him. “Not even gonna charge me, huh?”

A wicked grin crosses his mouth, set like a shark about to catch a minnow in its mouth. You stiffen, then cringe at the slight pain. You look down to find a medkit tucked into the waistband of your jumpsuit. Interesting. You haven’t bought one recently. There must be a painkiller or two in there, right? You’re starting to mercilessly spin with pain.

Popping open the lid, you find just what you hoped for—worth far more than buried treasure. You quickly pop two pills into your mouth and swallow them dry. The weight of Sebastian’s eyes is inescapable. He follows the gulp down your throat.

“Unless you're going to buy anything else, you should get going, sweetheart. Shop’s closed.” His flukes slowly slip along the floor, unwinding his tail from where it keeps you secure in his grasp.

“Right.” A weariness clings to your edges, but your mind is aware. How long have you been resting?

Before you can truly pick yourself off the ground, Sebastian uses the flat of his flukes to scoot you across the floor and into the vent—all without aggravating your bandaged wound.

You don’t offer resistance, too bewildered by how he all but tosses you out. You scurry through the vent and out into the hallway. For one moment, almost breathlessly, you smile smugly.

What a soft-hearted bastard.

You straighten and take a step down the hallway, patting your pockets. Perhaps you’ll give him a few extra documents as a thank you—

But your pockets are empty, and your documents and every single last USB drive are gone.

#naff's writing commissions #sebastian solace x reader #don't look at me i'm normal about him #he's so augh ya know?#naff writing

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